#look may i be frank with you all. he was utterly serving here.

[baalzebufo]

THE WEIRD AL-CANA - 15. THE DEVIL- GERMS

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aww yeah baby germs fanart time!! so, if you are looking at this post and somehow havent heard this song. or more specifically seen the 1999 live recording of it. well. do yourself a favour and watch that for me. do this for me. okay?

okay welcome back. hopefully you understand how I feel now. the devil is a card all about 'darker urges' and that can include addictions or compulsions, which feels fairly apt for this song tbh. also its the sexuality card and the NiN pastiche is a perfect choice for that.. honestly. i was just so excited to draw germs fanart again :')

[Prev Card]

[rosyfingereddawnn]

heart of gold (chapter four)

pairing: robert plant x florence bennett (oc)

warnings: allen being a weirdo as usual, fluff, angst and friendship :’)

words: 4.3k

summary: trapped in a loveless marriage to a powerful man, florence bennett lives every day in despair. after a chance encounter with a golden-haired actor, florence finds that her life will never be the same again.

author’s note: folks!! this took a lot longer to write for a number of different reasons but hey!! it’s here now :) not much to say in this one cause i don’t wanna spoil, but if anyone has any theories, feedback or suggestions please let me know! hope you enjoy <333

chapters: 1 | 2 | 3

masterlist

playlist

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“Dear angel, I hope you are faring well. This note, unlike the rest, is rather short. I felt I should be quick, and frank, too. If you happen to find yourself at the Bennett manor for the upcoming ball, I will be present as well. Perhaps, if fate allows it, we may meet, finally. I will be wearing a silver gown, with chiffon detailing. Look for me, and I will do the same. Forever yours, stranger.”

Stunned silence fills the elegant dressing room as Robert reads the short letter over once more, his fingers tracing the letters as though the action would reveal a devastating brand of trickery. For all intents and purposes, however, the letter seemed to be perfectly earnest; a fact that Bonzo, sitting next to him with a cigarette dangling from his lips, enjoyed reminding him of.

“Robert, she wants to meet with you. You want to meet with her. We must go to the ball. I’ll even help you pick out a suit,” he drawls, lazily throwing his head back against the plush cushioned chair as he gazes over at Robert. “I am convinced this is the longest you’ve gone without talking, to be quite honest.”

The blond sat unmoving, eyes never straying from the slip of paper clenched in his hands. He hasn’t spoken a word since reading it, and his eyes roam over each line as though he was unable to fully take in the words that flow across the page. Slowly, the man's eyes raise from the letter, meeting Bonzo’s as shock swims in the cerulean pools.

“Bonzo.”

“Ah, he speaks!”

“She wants to…”

“Meet you? Yes, she does,” Bonzo finishes the man’s sentence with a hearty chuckle, and his arm raises to pat Robert on the arm. The chestnut-haired man continues, shaking his head at the blond’s nervous antics. “We need to find you a suit; an expensive one, at that. The Bennett’s are just short of nobility after all. We might have to cut your hair, too.”

“What? Why would we do that?” The blond’s hands fly towards the tips of his golden ringlets almost unconsciously, and he cards long fingers through them. Uncertainty is painted upon his handsome face, and Bonzo smirks, a chuckle leaving his mouth.

“Just because you’re an actor, Robert, does not mean you need to look like one. Long hair signifies that you’re loose. Easy, if you will. Even if it does have a kernel of truth to it…”

“And you’re definitely sought after, are you not, Bonzo? Quite suave, if memory serves.”

Bonzo huffs out a laugh, and gazes over at Robert, as he blows a gauzy cloud of smoke into the air. A smirk graces his features as his lips twitch in an attempt to hide it, and he shoves Robert’s arm amicably. “All in due time, my friend. All in due time.”

“I’m sure.”

“Regardless of how I am faring in that particular department, we were talking about you, were we not?” Bonzo replies, locking eyes with Robert, earnest now, as he searches the man’s face. Seemingly not finding what he was looking for, his dark brows furrow. “Why are you so nervous in the first place? Women almost flock to you, yet you’re quivering at the possibility of meeting this one.”

Robert sighs, shifting uncomfortably under Bonzo’s penetrating gaze. He was as nervous as he is, because this woman… it’s as if she had known him all his life. She was charming, and intelligent, talking of wonderful novels and intricate poems. To Robert, whenever he read a letter she had written, he could almost hear her twinkling laughter, and see her smile that sparkled in his mind. Her soul was utterly beautiful, and it seemed to have entwined with his. Robert can only hope, however, that she feels the same.

“I… I do not know what she looks like, or how she is in person. That’s all,” Unable to let those thoughts linger in the tense air of the dressing room, Robert comes up with the best excuse he could muster under the circumstances. “I do think it is a cause for concern, is it not?”

“Well, Plant,” Stilling the shaking of one hand with the other, Robert returns Bonzo’s stare, until the moustachioed man smirks once more. He had obviously seen through the ruse, and it was only a matter of time before Robert became the laughing stock of the entire theatre. The two are locked still in a staring match, without a single movement from either. Oddly enough, though, Bonzo looks away first. The smirk still dangling from his lips proves that the conversation will be continued eventually. “I wish you luck, then. Truly, I do hope it goes well tonight.”

“Thank you, Bonzo. I appreciate your support. Truly I do.”

“I’m sure. Now,” Bonzo stands with a huff, stretching an arm out towards Robert. The blond takes it and raises from the comfortable chaise, and the two friends saunter out of the room, laughter following them. “How about we get ready for the ball? You must look put-together, and oftentimes, you’re not exactly the picture of elegance…”  Bonzo’s voice trickles out past the crack left in the door, and Robert’s squawk of offense rings across the empty room.

-----

Florence steps in front of the floor-length mirror that decorates her room, and she feels beautiful, for what may very well be the first time in years. In the beginning, Allen had showered her with compliments, and made her feel truly loved. His words soured, eventually, and she bore the brunt of his treatment ever since. Finally, though, she was doing something for herself. To make herself happy. If you ask anyone that truly knows her, they would point out that Florence was altruistic, almost to the point of self-effacement. She had lived much of her adult life playing an impossible role. Tonight, she meets her beloved actor.

Appearing suddenly behind her in the mirror, almost like a mirage, Emma takes in the way her friend is fiddling with the dress they had picked out together. It was a beautiful silver that gleamed in the dusky moonlight, with accents of soft chiffon that could only add to the ethereal quality. Dressed in her own gown, a canary yellow that made her eyes gleam like gemstones, Emma dares a smile of her own.

“Florence, you look lovely. Are you excited?”

“Oh!” Florence turns, dress swaying with the motion, as she finally notices Emma standing behind her. A fair blush rises on her freckled cheeks, and a carefree giggle leaves her cherry-red lips. “You look wonderful, Emma! James will not be able to tear his eyes away, I reckon. As for your question, I’m… incredibly nervous. I will be honest with you.”

“Nervous? Florence, this could be an incredible night. It will work out.” says Emma, purposefully not touching on the first half of Florence’s sentence. She didn’t want to think about James at the moment, or she would get distracted.

“I can’t help my nerves, because… what if this is all for nothing? What if he isn’t nearly as kind as he seems, and I am trapped once more? Emma, I do not know if I could bear it.”

“Ever the pessimist,” Emma sighs, a smile growing on her tanned cheeks. She grasps the other woman’s arm, thumb rubbing circles into covered skin, bringing Florence much-needed comfort. As soon as she lets the arm fall, Florence begins to pace around the room. Emma sighs and moves closer in an attempt to still the woman’s frayed nerves.  “Luckily for us, I am quite the optimist. Florence, he cares for you, and that is plain to see. You proposed that he wouldn't be quite what you imagined, but what if he’s more? In addition, if he is treating you unkindly at any point, you have the right to leave.”

“I… suppose you are right, Emma.”

“As always,” Emma scoffs jokingly, as she saunters closer. Her hand brushes a tendril of hair, which had fallen in Florence’s face in the midst of her panic, back into the sleek bun of golden brown. “Now, as much as I hate to subject you to this, Allen is waiting in the main hall. He needs you for the grand entrance, after all.”

“Oh, goody.”

“Ah, some sarcasm to start off the night.”

The women chuckle softly as they make last-minute adjustments in the clear surface of the mirror. Satisfied, they lock eyes, and arm in arm, they walk out the door and down the winding staircase to the main floor. Allen is leaning against a carved column, and, detecting the disruption, he scoffs and pushes to stand straight.

“Finally. I thought you would never be finished. Come, Florence,” Allen, seemingly for the first time, notices his wife’s companion, and the sneer that was almost permanently etched onto his face appears yet again. “Always a pleasure, Ms. Weston.”

“Likewise, Mr, Bennett.”

A tense silence permeates the room, until Allen clears his throat rather impolitely, and whisks Florence away with a final smrk drowning derision, and they’re gone. In the stillness of the room, Emma whispers, “Good luck, Florence.”

The woman reckons that she’ll need it.

-------

As Florence steps into the ballroom, her mouth falls open, a gasp tumbling past her lips. Flowers of every shape and tint decorate the gold-gilded walls, and lanterns pour faint yellow light across the room. The magnificent chandelier, crystals twinkling like stars, casts faint shadows across the faces of the guests, who promenade across the dance floor, mingling and laughing. Sets of double doors lead out onto a beautiful, moonlit balcony, the glow of bright starlight filtering in through the windows.

Stopping at the entrance, arm in arm with Allen and Emma at her side, she marvels as she takes in the sights. The ballroom, of course, was always as elegant and luxurious without the celebrations taking place, yet it seemed that Allen had wanted to go the extra mile. For what he lacked in kindness, Florence thinks, he makes up for in his apparent prowess regarding interior design. A quiet laugh flutters involuntarily past her lips, and Allen looks down at her, confusion drawing his dark eyebrows together.

“Florence, dear, what is it now?”

Caught, she shakes her head, a pliant smile gracing her features. Apparently satisfied, Allen looks back to the crowd that had gathered to celebrate him, propelling her forward with a hand that sits dangerously low on her lower back. Disgust souring her expression for a split second, she recovers, and plasters on that ever-present smile that feels like a lie.

“Welcome all. I am truly grateful that we could all gather, to celebrate…” Allen’s words seem to simply evaporate before they could reach Florence’s ear, as the woman’s gaze roams around the ballroom, searching for a head of perfect golden curls. Unable to spot the man she’s been writing to for the better part of a month, she sighs quietly, holding onto the sliver of hope that he had really come. Wrenched out of her thoughts by the hand at her back slipping perilously lower, she registers how Allen coaxes her to move, and she steps forward, staring at the scowl full of irritation on his lips. Locking eyes with Emma, who had moved further into the crowd, she is greeted by a comforting smile, and Florence nods her head in gratitude.

Allen, his hold firm, almost bruising on her arm, leads her around the room. She greets guests, many immersed in the same secret lifestyle as Allen, and Florence knows that she will forget their names completely come morning. Their smiles always seem to be too wide, and their eyes hold an intense look that Florence has spent years trying to decipher. She’s used to her role by now, pasting on a beaming grin that almost hurts the longer she holds it, and curtsying at every man they greet. Oftentimes they are ‘dear’ friends of Allen’s, no doubt just as sycophantic as her husband.

An hour or so passes, though it feels like an eternity to Florence, as Allen pulls her off to an unoccupied corner of the room. His hand slithers to land at her shoulder in what was possibly meant to be a loving gesture, though it sends chills down her back. Tilting her head up with a thick finger, Allen leans closer to her, his hot breath fanning across her face.

“I must go speak to a very important friend of mine. Roam around the ball, if you wish, but Florence, dear?”

“Y-yes, dear?”

“One wrong move, and this night could be ruined. Do try and be careful. I do hope you haven’t forgotten our previous conversation.”

With the thinly veiled threat hanging heavy in the air, he is gone, navy waistcoat fluttering behind him. Florence, shoulders falling from their tensed position around her ears, gazes out at the sea of faces, amusement and glee etched onto their features as they twirl around the room. The atmosphere is suffocating, and the woman glances back at the festivities, shaking her head solemnly as she slips out of the ornate French doors. Safe under the soft, starry cover of moonlight, Florence allows herself a deep, almost world-weary sigh, as her eyes sweep across the immaculately-tended gardens that decorate the back of the manor.

She’d lost Emma around the time Allen had paraded her around like a prize, and, come to think of it, she hadn’t seen James for quite some time, as well. He and John had busied themselves with serving beverages and appetizers on shining silver trays, but it seemed as though James had slipped away. She hopes Emma and James are together, finally working out the feelings they so clearly have for each other.

The clipped sound of footsteps against the cobbled floor of the balcony brings Florence out of her thoughts, and with another heavy sigh, she addresses the intruder, face still turned upwards to gaze at the glowing crescent moon.

“I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid that I am simply not in the mood to—” The sentence trails off, words dying in her throat as she finally turns around. Familiar golden curls sway in the light evening breeze, and cerulean eyes send ice water pooling in her veins. The slight smirk that sits elegantly on thin lips seems to waver slightly, as though the man was nervous, though he seems to recover quickly. He takes a step closer, and Florence can smell the soft, irresistible scent of sandalwood.

“I’m… It’s… It’s you.”

“Astute observation, love. You did tell me to look for a certain silver gown, did you not?” The smirk that her actor is sporting only serves to set every nerve on fire, and Florence sputters, all semblance of confidence leaving her, already lacking as it was. Her indignant expression only serves to make the man chuckle and shake his head fondly, silken ringlets swaying with the movement. His hair is much, much longer than what was thought to be socially appropriate, yet the man does not seem to care. He looks comfortable, rather easy-going, and his relaxed smile sends her stomach aflutter.

“It seems you take instruction well. That is certainly good to know.” Florence recovers enough to reply, her smile growing as she takes in the amused look on the tanned, handsome face of the man in front of her. Somehow, he was even more attractive, almost magnetic, to her the closer she looked.

“One of my many talents, I assure you,” Robert chuckles, eyes gleaming like jewels in the dim evening light. The stars were reflected in those deep blue depths, and if Florence stepped any closer, she swore that she would drown. “That is a lovely gown you’re wearing. The colour, especially, is remarkable. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from you, inside.”

“You… noticed me?”

“You act as if that is difficult to do. If I’m honest, I was waiting for the right moment to steal you away. When you stepped out, I knew it was my only chance.”

“I-I must say,” Florence starts, chancing a look up at him through her eyelashes. She, hesitance clear on her face, steps closer to him, finally, and the beaming grin that lights up his face is the reward. “I’m glad you took that chance, then.”

The music that filtered, muffled as it was, through the doors seemed to swell and grow louder. Robert’s hand raises, ghosting his knuckles across her cheek as though he were afraid of breaking her, and he smiles, charming as ever.

“May I have this dance, love?”

Florence can only nod, as her hands slip into his, the friction caused by the warm, calloused feel of his palm somehow exhilarating to the young woman. He pulls her closer, placing his free hand on her hip. He was tall, much taller than Florence, and he gazes down at her as they sway together. Being here, in the arms of this stranger that she swears she had known her entire life, she feels content.

Hopeful.

Robert, subtle control in the way he leads Florence through the dance, is graceful in his movements, and perfectly respectful. His hand never strays from its place on her hip, and with a light squeeze to the hand in his, he spins her around, perfect synchronicity in their movements.

Florence’s eyes lock on something behind the man, then, and her lips turn up in a subtle smile. From her place on the balcony, Florence could see the staircase in the grand hall, just out of view of the ballroom. Through the window, hidden behind a carefully-carved pillar, she spots Emma and James, locked in a dance of their own. Emma’s hand, resting on James’ shoulder, rises to trail across the man’s cheek. Traces of the bruising that had marred the man’s face still remain, and Emma’s face contorts in a look of sadness at the sight. James shakes his head, lips moving with no sound to follow, and Emma gazes earnestly back at him. Slowly lowering her head onto James’ shoulder, they continue to rock back and forth. A beautiful private moment, for sure.

“What is it, love?”

“It was nothing. You’re quite good at this, aren’t you?”

“This is but a perk of being an actor, I’m afraid,” says Robert, twirling her around once more. Moonbeams dance around them as the light fall wind whistles in harmony with the music. “You know, I must say that I was quite surprised, that a single performance of mine endeared you enough to send me a note. Was it truly that enjoyable?”

“You are a wonderful actor, but that smart mouth of yours might get you into trouble.” Florence replies, a giggle marking the end of her sentence. Her eyes light up in bliss as blue meets muddy hazel, and they are alone, everyone inside fading into the background; simply an array of colours in a painting.

“My smart mouth? You are not exactly innocent in that respect. Speaking of… your letters. They were incredibly poetic. I enjoyed each one, I will admit.”

“A childhood dream of mine, if you can believe it, was to be a poet, or perhaps an author.”

“I would read every volume.”

The blush that blooms on Florence’s freckled cheeks makes Robert smile, and the laugh that tumbles from his lips makes Florence wish she could simply stop time, and live in that moment forever.

“You know what they say, love.” The confusion clear on the woman’s face brings a satisfied smile to Robert’s face, which Florence frowns at. She had never enjoyed not knowing, and the man had taken full advantage of that.

“And what, pray tell, do they say?”

“The shortest poem is a name. May I have yours?”

“I-I don’t simply give my name out to strangers. Perhaps if I knew your name, however…” The smirk that plays across Florence’s rosy lips makes Robert laugh, and unconsciously, he pulls the woman even closer. The music continues, ebbing and flowing, and the couple continue their dance, both physically and verbally.

“Hm, you are very cunning.”

“One of my many talents, I assure you.”

“And witty, too. It’s quite refreshing,” Robert squeezes the woman’s hip lightly, playfully, and she smiles up at him innocently. As beautiful as she was, which, in Robert’s opinion, could not be overstated, the actor detected a hint of sadness that hung around the woman like a shroud. He could see the way her smile never lasted for as long as he’d like, and how her eyes seemed to dim, a faraway look replacing the gleeful expression he had put there. Despite this, she seemed to have an inner strength that often remained under lock and key. She had shown a glimpse tonight, and he longed for another. Shaking his head to rid himself of the thoughts clouding his mind, Robert continues, smiling easily. “My name, love, is Robert. Robert Plant.”

“Robert…” Florence repeats, almost testing the name out on her tongue. “It suits you.”

“Now that we are no longer strangers, may I put a name to that beautiful face?”

“O-okay, I suppose it’s only fair. My name is Florence… Bennett.” The moment of hesitation was long enough that confusion paints Robert’s features, until recognition, and not long after, shock, wipes it away.

“Bennett, as in…”

“Yes.”

The couple had stilled, now, though Robert’s hand still warmed the skin of her hip through the gown. Florence, gaze firmly on the ground, refuses to look at Robert, whose mouth opens and closes, stunned.

“Robert, I-I’m sure this has changed everything, and… maybe it is better if we leave this here. I—”

“Florence, it’s—”

“I should go.” As soon as the words leave Florence’s mouth, she disentangles herself from Robert, and moves to re-enter the ballroom. Almost to the door, she feels a warm hand settle on her wrist. It’s soft; the hold. She could easily slip out of it, if she had wanted to. But she hadn’t.

“What—Where are you going?” Florence is still facing away from him, but she didn’t pull away, and Robert counts this as a good sign. He takes a step closer, the hold on Florence’s hand never wavering, and she winces when she hears the tap of his pointed shoes drawing closer.

“This is not fair to you… I hurt everything I touch, it seems, and… I don’t want you to be caught in the crossfire, Robert. Please understand.”

“I don’t care.”

“Robert, I’m serious.”

“And you believe I’m not?”

“I will break your heart. Don’t do this to yourself… I’m not worth it. Please.”

Robert scoffs, then, and Florence doesn't have to look at him to see the determined line of his lips. She doesn't have to look at him to see how he is shaking his head almost bitterly. His thumb traces over the fine bones of her wrist like a feather, and as much as she wished with all her heart that it hadn’t, it brought her comfort.

“Break my heart, then. It would be worth the pain, being close to you. You, Florence, are worth everything. Anyone that says otherwise is delusional.”

At this, Florence turns around abruptly, and the storm swirling in her dark eyes is clear to see. A droplet of salty water trickles down her red cheeks, flushed with conviction, and she struts closer to Robert.

“You don’t know what Allen Bennett is like, and you do not deserve to. I will beg, if I must. Please, don’t do this.”

“Love, you will not sway me on this. I feel a genuine, special connection to you, and this month of writing to you has been… truly perfect. I am not giving up on you… on us, because I could get hurt.”

Florence knows that if he insists once more, she could not stop him. She wants Robert, and everything that comes with him; of course she does. She would be irrational not to. But she knows how Allen is. How possessive he is, even as he revels in the arms of another. Robert is an amalgamation of everything that is good in the world, it seems to her then, with a heart of gold to drive the point further. She could not forgive herself if anything changed that.

“Robert…”

The man in question slips into her space, a long finger lifting her chin to face him. A traitorous tear trickles down her cheeks, and Robert wipes it away with a thumb, looking into Florence’s eyes all the while. Enraptured with each other, they press closer, and Florence can feel Robert’s breath fan over her face. His hand caresses her cheek lightly, and her eyes flit down to his lips. Their noses touch, and then, as if divine intervention, the door opens. John steps onto the balcony, smirking into his hand as he watches the couple spring apart.

“Terribly sorry to interrupt. Florence, your… husband is looking for you.”

“T-thank you, John. I will be right in.”

John nods, and disappears back into the ballroom, with a private smile directed at the woman. Looking back at Robert, Florence takes in the hint of a flush on his own face, and knows that she must look the same. Tentatively taking his hand in hers, she interlocks their fingers in a loose hold, in case they are forced apart once again. That is as close as she’s willing to get in such a public area, now that she knows Allen is on the prowl, but Robert smiles at her all the same.

“When can I see you again, Florence?”

“Allen is… I believe he is out often, this coming week. I will write to you.”

Robert nods, and squeezes the hand resting in his, a smile playing about his lips. He pulls away, then, and moves to the door, when a hand curls around his once more.

“Robert?”

“Yes, love?”

“Be careful.”

With that, she slips around him, opening the door and stepping through. The scent of her perfume, something light and floral, dances around him as she passes.

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taglist: @jimmys-zeppelin @salixfragilis @timetraveller4 @earthfire-75 @thatiloveyouso @jonesyjonesyjonesy @jimmypages @kyunisixx @sophiazeppelinchick @reincarnated70sbaby @grxtsch @rebel-without-a-zeppelin @thebeatlesuniverse @dreamersdrowse (let me know if you want to be added!)

[orsuliya]

"There is no way this is going to be anything but a hot flaming mess and I'll hold my judgement on hot," I said to myself after the first seven minutes of the first episode of Sky's Domina. And it didn't get better for the next ninety. If anything, my premonitions got progressively worse and worse. Was this short yappy thug with a decidedly unsettling aura and a suspiciously un-Roman hairdo supposed to be Young Augustus? Surely not. Spiteful Young Livia, prematurely hardened into a pragmatic bitch (not yet a magnificent one, but promising nonetheless) made much more sense. Even as her hairdo did not. We have a lot of data on Roman hairstyles in general and Livia's in particular, and let me tell you one thing: Beach Waves on a married lady just ain't right! What's even more puzzling is that Livia is the outlier - both Octavia and Scribonia scrape a pass on their hair.

Not to mention that politics and storytelling weren't exactly good either, not in those first two episodes. And I really do not appreciate such obvious attempts to shock your viewer with unpleasant sexual imagery right from the start. We get it, Livia's first hubby needs to die, there is truly no need to torture us by showing them consummating the marriage. By this point western media have given us so many scenes of this type it has long become trite... so much so that I'm starting to become wary of the fetishization of female suffering, what with filmmakers habitually keeping focus on the woman's face.

I was this close to getting the hell out of Dodge, but then decided to hold off on it until after the actor switch. Which, very conveniently, happens in episode 3. And oh boy, am I ever so glad that I did!

Mind you, I might be shallow as a puddle, but my elation over the next six episodes has little to do with the major, major glow up given to both our leads and everything to do with the admirably tight storytelling. No little detail is wasted, everything neatly slots into place sooner or later and obvious traps are neatly avoided. Traps such as building conflict upon the fact that Livia is clearly the smartest person in any given room at any given time, which should seriously hurt some fragile male egoes. But no! Everyone acknowleges Livia's intellectual superiority and her husband may even get off on it. Okay, there is no "may" about it, he very clearly enjoys having a smart wife. And if he ever stops, she will engineer a sudden crisis that will acutely remind him of that fact. Let's be frank here - this Augustus is utterly pants at crisis management unless it involves murder, bloody murder, political murder and, you guessed it, more murder. Couldn't maneouver his way out of a paper bag without his faithful sword Agrippa or his devilishy smart wife, poor lamb. He's lucky he's so pretty! Okay, I may be exaggerating a bit: they end the season as a pair of perfectly matched magnificent monsters fully cognizant of what and who the other is. But still, if Livia's hubby wasn't so very pretty...

Sure, by the end of the day we're still in Rome and so Livia's interests will never prevail over her husband's, should they ever misalign... but there is something really special and pleasantly refreshing about this political partnership of theirs. I would also like to commend the narrative's treatment of idealism and honour, and how those things may be used to serve as a cover for personal ambitions.

Does it mean that I would recommend everybody to go and watch this thing? Well, not without some warnings. One, I've been told that it's rather hard to follow the who's who of this series without some previous knowledge of Julio-Claudian dynasty, especially since Marital Musical Chairs is something of a family game. Two, politics are greatly simplified. Not so much that it becomes offensive, but if you're an Ancient Roman Purist, this may not be the series for you. Three, there's a surprising amount of coarse language. Practically every episode it's fuck this, fuck that, fuck you, me and/or the Senate. Preferably the Senate! And last, but not least, issue number four: there's a lot of gratituous nudity, especially if someone should happen to be a cdrama watcher living on a steady diet of censorship and Meaningful Looks. But then again... If you have an Agrippa with a six-pack and a Livia with hips that could launch not a thousand but ten thousand ships, flaunt them all you want! I'll just sit back and enjoy, don't mind me.

Oh, and there are some brutally murdered terrapins. Which is Not Okay, okay?

[the-rodent-gentleman]

About Fethry

I may or may not have a galaxy take concerning how the Ducktales reboot could go about with Cousin Fethry in future episodes.

OK, we know that Fethry’s been on his own for a while - 4 years to be precise - but beyond his debut episode, we know little about him. Those asides we get from him, though, do paint potentially interesting possibilities for his character. First, the show never addressed how messed up it was that Scrooge just left him down in that undersea lab for so long. I bet you Della doesn’t know either or else she would have some words (and no doubt will if she ever finds out), especially since she could relate with Fethry on being alone for so long.

Second, bringing back Fethry wouldn’t be out of place for Season 3. Keep in mind how the triplets’ character development has been handled throughout the show. Season 1 focused on Dewey; 2 on Louie; and now 3 is centering around Huey - and the show has made a clear point that the adult he has most in common with is Fethry.

For one, it’s clear by this point that Huey is coded as autistic (Astro BOYD for instance) and Fethry could likely be as well, or at least neurodivergent. Plus, as we can see from certain episodes, especially the “Sword of Swinestatine”, Huey’s got an inner wildness deep down and while Fethry saying stuff like “you’re not going anywhere” in his debut is played off as a joke, I genuinely think he’s got a little darkness of his own hidden inside, too. Speaking of hidden, I’d like to point out this post Frank answered.

‘One dumb secret’ implies whatever Fethry’s got to share won’t be all that important...supposedly. We’ve all seen how deceptive this reboot can be when it comes to giving out details, let alone how easily things can snowball in canon.

In fact, this answer only refers to one action of Fethry, not his entire role - and considering we’ve seen how off-putting he can unintentionally be to his relatives, I bet you letting whatever this secret is slip would not result in pleasant reactions from those around him, let alone Donald or Scrooge - and we’ve already learned their general opinions regarding Fethry.

In which case, perhaps the negative reactions would serve as ‘the straw that broke the camel’s back’. He did say he intended to be a scientist for real at the end of his first appearance, so chances are he’s run into snags with people (employers no less) dismissing him for the same reasons his family has, a struggle neurodivergent adults could identify with.

And so he gets fed up and shows us a side of himself we’re not prepared to see: not raging or screaming, just eerily calm and perhaps a even a touch passive-aggressively sassy. Something small but significant enough to show us this ball of sunshine is not kidding around.

Now where the show could take an episode like this is anyone’s guess.

Regardless, here would be a perfect chance for us to get to know Fethry better as a character. Huey, who’s dealt with similar struggles, could accompany him so we can hear Fethry’s side of the story, see what he’s been up to and going through since we last saw him. Now Fethry is anything but conventional, and since going about things the conventional way didn’t work out, perhaps he’s been doing things his own way to compensate. Maybe he’s even been having his own adventures as a means of supporting himself because would that really be so farfetched? He is a McDuck after all. Not just that but since the tussles with FOWL are becoming more prominent as the season continues, an episode like this would insure we’d be in for some quality interactions between him and characters like Black Heron or Steelbeak. Especially Steelbeak. Now let me make something clear. I am a filthy Fethsteel shipper and would gladly barf rainbows from seeing these two meet, but let’s put that aside and focus on the high potential for not just character building on both characters’ counts but humor as well.

For starters, Steelbeak’s already tussled with Huey before and experienced what this kid is capable of. Imagine Steel’s reaction when he meets this unassuming-looking guy who, even just from appearance alone, has a lot in common with the same kid that whooped his ass, so this big doof will no doubt be expecting some hardened badass only to get an adorkable dweeb...who also happens to be a hardened badass. Keep in mind that in his first episode Fethry talked about pirates like he’d dealt with them before. What if he wasn’t kidding about that and had actually gone toe to toe against such people? What if Steelbeak demands a fight and Fethry keeps politely insisting no and this goes on and on until Steelie gets fed up and tries to go after Huey (he’s dealt with the kid before) only for Fethry to take him down the same way Huey did? This would be a serious wake up call for not just Huey but we the audience as well, not to mention a note of assurance for him. Just because people think he’s ‘weird’ is no reason for him to believe he can’t be happy and fulfilled as an adult - and that would be a wonderful lesson to give us, especially the neurodivergent. In terms of comedy, here we have Steelbeak, a criminal and bully-like figure, who has officially gotten his butt handed to him by two nerds. While his pride would no doubt be hurting, recall that what this guy lacks in technical intellect he makes up for in brawn - and I can see him seeing Fethry in an utterly different light. A respectful light. A rivalry-fueled light.  Yes, Agent-freaking-Steelbeak forging a one-sided rival’s feud with an ocean-obsessed cinnamon roll who is utterly oblivious to it all and just sees a tall guy who really needs to work on his anger issues and thinks could be a good friend if he put in the effort to be. Whether you ship this two or not doesn’t even matter. The hilarity alone would be legendary. No, Steelbeak does want not any of your relaxation music playlists. No, he does not want to ‘hang out’ to discuss the effects of pollution on coral reefs. No he could not care less about what you saw a bunch of glowing shrimp doing the other...wait, are they making shapes? Are they a boxing glove? That’s kinda cool, he guesses. In short, rivals to frenemies. Let this possibility sink in for a moment.

[judylicious]

And When He Smiles I Swear I Can’t Breathe

Alan Rubin x fem!Reader

Word count: 1,445

Fandom: Blues Brothers

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Blues Brothers characters or movies. This refers to Alan Rubin as a character in the movie, not the real Alan (although he obvsly played himself but you know what I mean)

I’d like to add that I made everyone of the band a few years younger (so the age gap between the reader and Alan isn’t that big), so he’s approx. in his early 30s.

Sophia & Lisa are two OCs created by two lovely people within the fandom.

Warnings: swearing, racist remarks !!! (they do NOT reflect my own opinion)

Chapter V

When the trumpet player noticed Charlotte he was speechless with amazement. “Alan?” “Charlotte?” They almost said simultaneously. They both stared into each others faces until both had a smile on their lips. “Wait- Frank Ellington is your father?” “You know him?”, the young woman chuckled. He’s rather present in the newspaper.” And before Charlotte could ask him about his job at the restaurant, they felt the gaze of Charlotte’s family. The were too far away to hear or probably didn’t even notice the two had a chat. They were waiting for Alan to show them to their table. The maître d reacted quickly and did what the guests expected him to do. The handsome man handed the family the menu and couldn’t help himself but steal a few glances from Charlotte, who only managed to smile back sheepishly. She had been so angry the other night, seeing that woman in his lap but as soon as he smiled at her she would forget everything around her again every time.

A few minutes later everyone of the waiters still seemed busy so Alan grasped the opportunity to be near Charlotte and took their orders. Mr. Ellington ordered a bottle of the finest champagne for the family’s celebration and a martini for himself as well. “Dad, do you think this is wise?”, Charlotte asked in a low tone. “Do you think it’s wise to order dessert?”, he said in a strict tone, looking down at her. “Why don’t we let the lady order what she likes, Sir.”, Alan said with a fake smile but Charlotte’s father didn’t spend any attention to his remark. She wanted to cry, that was how embarrassed she felt. Not only that Alan heard the snark about her weight but also that he stood up for her made her feel even worse.

After Alan had left the table the head of the family grabbed his daughter’s arm with a strong grip, pulling her a few inches towards him. “Don’t you embarrass me like this ever again.” He hissed, tightening his grip on her. “Sorry.” “What was that?!” “I’m sorry, father.”, Charlotte repeated a bit louder. Alan turned his back witnessing the situation and wanted to intervene but he also didn’t like to make a scene.

The family enjoyed their first course quietly until they were served the main course. “This Bouillabaisse is a disaster.”, Charlotte’s father nagged, almost spitting it out, flushing away the “horrible” taste by chugging his fourth martini. He looked around to find a waiter and spotted Alan a few tables a way, checking if everything was in order. “Waiter? Sir? Please?” Alan quickly walked over to the family. “Yes, Sir, how are your salads?” “The salads are fine. It’s just that, well this Bouillabaisse, it’s a culinary Hindenburg.” “I’m sincerely sorry, Sir, what seems to be wrong with it?” “The fish is utterly dry, the chilli note is way too strong and frankly I think your chef omitted the saffron.” “Dad, I can see the saffron from over here and I’m sure the fish’s just fine.”, Charlotte rolled her eyes and was about to pick up some of the fish on her father’s plate with her fork but he slashed at her hand. “May I bring you a freshly made one, Sir, or anything else?” “No, I don’t think so.” “How about a drink of your choice to come on the house, Sir?” “Just take this crap away from me, will you!”, he said furiously and handed Alan the plate forceful but rammed it into the maître d, the whole dish spilling on his shirt and suit coat. “Dad what you’re doing?”, Charlotte exclaimed embarrassed. “It’s not my fault this man doesn’t know how to do his bloody job!” “Frank, stop swearing!” But Sylvia turned silent as soon as her husband shot her an angry look. “It’s fine, Sir. Those things happen.” “Of course these things happen to YOU. Don’t even see why you’ve been appointed head waiter.” “DAD!” “No, seriously look at this clown. Trying to hide he’s born in the jewish gutter by working in an upper class restaurant.” Alan swallowed and Charlotte couldn’t even look at him. She felt deeply ashamed of her father’s behaviour. She just sat there, starring apathetically into her lap, praying this would end as soon as possible. “Sir, I will see what I can do about your Bouillabaisse.”, he gave Frank a polite nod and headed with the plate to the kitchen. “Will you excuse me.”, Charlotte said getting up from her chair. “Where do you think you’re you going?!”, her father clutching at her arm again tightly. “I have to powder my nose!”, she said perky and freed herself from her father.

On her way Charlotte past the men’s room and saw Alan inside, standing in front of the mirror, frustrated, rubbing a tissue on his shirt. She assured herself no one saw her when she took a step inside and Alan saw her reflection in the mirror. “I’m awfully sorry for all that. My dad, he’s…” “A very pleasant man.”, Alan chuckled. “Sometimes he is. But as soon as the alcohol gets to him…” “This ain’t your fault.” She smiled in response. “Wait, let me help you with this.”, she said in a soft tone and took one of the cotton towels, soaked it with warm water and carefully dabbed the stain. Both kept quiet for a while as she was taking care of his shirt. She could feel his breath against her skin and it was only now when she realised how close he was. She slowly moved her glance from the stain on his shirt to his beautiful and soothing eyes, which were staring intensely into hers. She could look into them forever, sink into them for the rest of her life. He was about to say something, when his lips moved and caught Charlotte’s eye. They were slightly apart, which enhanced the shape of his luscious lips. In one hand the towel, the other lying on his strong chest, she felt how his hands wandered to her lower back. Both their breathes became more intense, Charlotte felt her chest tightened up and her heart pounding like mad. Alan slowly bringing his face closer to hers, when suddenly a man entered the rest room and Alan and Charlotte instantly lost hold of one another. The man cleared his throat. “I believe this to be the men’s room.” “Sorry.”, Charlotte mumbled embarrassed and left the room, Alan followed her. “I should probably change into a new shirt. I’ll catch you later.” “Alan?”, she grabbed his arm. “The other night when I ran away.”, Charlotte started but Alan interrupted her. “That woman, she was completely drunk, she cringed to me like limpet as soon as we walked in. Jake and the bartender helped to get her off of me and we called a taxi to take her home.” “I’m so sorry I left. I- I don’t have any right, I mean I’m overcautious when it comes to men I like, surrounded by other woman and-“ “Sophia and Lisa told me about your ex.” “But still I don’t have any right to be jealous nor tell you with whom you should surround yourself. We didn’t even went on a date and I totally overreacted-“ “Let’s change that!” “Me overreacting?” “No.”, he scoffed. “Us not being on a date yet. Well, and perhaps we can also change the other thing.”, he grinned sarcastically. “Charlotte Ellington, would you do me the honour to take you out?” “You’re out of your mind.”, she laughed. “It would be my pleasure.”, she replied, trying to talk in posh way. “How about dinner Friday night?” “Sounds lovely.” “Great, I pick you up at 8.” He smiled at her, causing her almost to digress again. “I better go or my parents think I’ve fallen into the loo.”, she joked and got back to her table.

Her sudden change of mood didn’t stay unnoticed by her family. “What are you so chipper about?” “Me? Nothing, got my period.” She knocked on the table. “Not pregnant.” Causing her sister to almost spit out her water laughing. “Yes, very amusing you, two.”, Sylvia shook her head at the girls and before Frank had a chance to raise his voice she laid her hand on his arm. “Why don’t we all get a grip on ourself and try to enjoy what’s left of this evening, shall we?” And it worked surprisingly well, since no one actually talked much and Alan gave their table a wide berth, of course not without eyeing up Charlotte and exchanging a few looks and smiles with her.

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

[flutteringphalanges]

                                   Caught in a Riptide

Summary: After the infamous Count Dracula is discovered and taken into custody by the Jonathan Harker Foundation, former nun and now guardian to her young niece, Zoe, Agatha Van Helsing is tasked with keeping tabs on the vampire after a mishap leads to his release into modern day society. Can Agatha remain levelheaded, or will fate turn her onto a new path?

Pairing: Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing

Rated: M

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: I’m back!! Finally, after dealing with some health issues I managed to get a chapter out! I hope you enjoy! Feedback/Reblogs/Likes are greatly loved and appreciated! -Jen

                                              Chapter Seven

It's funny how just a few seconds can seem like an entire lifetime. At least, in Agatha's case, that's how she felt. Her eyes flickered between the two men, mind reeling as she tried to come to some set conclusion as to why both were present. Or if she should go into the defensive or offensive mode-not that she had much of a weapon on her besides her silly, cheap cross. It took Dracula calmly clearing his throat to snap her back into her senses.

"You look rather alarmed, Agatha." Dracula stated with a smile. "Like you've seen a ghost-or," his smile widened to a grin. "Are witnessing someone committing the act of murder."

She watched with bated breath as he moved to the table. From where she stood, Agatha could just make out a small, square object that rested on the surface. The vampire picked it up and examined it carefully before pulling out a few crisp dollar bills. A wallet. He looked from the still stunned woman to his other guest.

"Jimmy was just here dropping off my meal. Weren't you, Jimmy?" The vampire held out the money towards the young man. "I invited him in seeing as I didn't have the cash on me. I didn't want to be rude." Dracula let out a long exhale. "Keep the change. I know your profession doesn't pay you fairly. It is the least I can do," he paused. "All things considered." And once again that familiar flicker of mischievousness glimmered in his eyes. "If you'd leave now, I'd much appreciate it. I've kept Ms. Van Helsing waiting long enough."

The man-or "Jimmy" as he was so called, managed to stutter out a thank you. He gave Agatha a nod before pushing past her to escape out the door. Whether he knew of Dracula's true origin was unclear, but it was evident enough the vampire gave him some form of uneasy. Though it held no weight, the cross felt oddly heavy in her back pocket as the man motioned for her to step forward.

"I assure you I am very well aware of the terms and conditions involving my freedom." He commented, pulling out a chair for her to sit in. "And while I do have my urges, the idea of not being locked in a cage and used for experimental purposes quells those...desires."

Reluctantly, Agatha took a seat ignoring the Count's smile. She knew he was watching her, observing her every move externally and perhaps even internally. The woman knew she needed to keep her heartbeat steady, pulse regular. Any sign that could be regarded as fear would only play to his amusement. Keeping her guard down, especially now, was the utmost of importance.

"If you don't mind, I'm going to pour myself a drink." Dracula said, grabbing the paper bag and pulling out its contents. A wine bottle shaped flask filled with a dark liquid. Agatha knew what it was, but she didn't like to think about it. After filling his cup, he set it down.

"So," he continued. "Can I get you anything?"

"I'm fine." Agatha said currently, trying to keep her voice level. "I'm not thirsty."

"I thought you'd say that." The vampire exhaled, shaking his head. "But I thought I'd ask to be polite." He took a small sip, the contents lightly sloshing as he did. "I want to apologize about the night before. I acted like…"

"A monster?" The former nun said curtly with a frown. "A mad man?"

Dracule smirked, chuckling at her remarks. "I was going to say rash, but I suppose those would fall under the same category." He left her side once again to retrieve what appeared to be a file folder resting neatly on the table. "Anyway, I'd like to move past it. Put it behind us. Even beasts make mistakes."

"You could've killed me," Agatha replied, eyes following his every move. "Why didn't you?"

"You're right," the Count nodded. "I very well could've. Even with that ridiculously cheap excuse of a cross you have in your pocket." Her eyebrows raised in surprise as he continued. "But having you dead would've served no use to me. I'm a calculated man, Agatha. While your blood is very, very tempting, getting it from a slip up like that would be...undesirable." The Count smiled as he finally took a seat across from her. "And again, we have that contract to think about."

Before she could comment, the vampire slid the collection of papers over to her. Meeting his stare, Agatha hesitantly took the folder and opened it. Though she didn't exactly want to break eye contact, the woman glanced down at the sheets below. Photos. A birth certificate. License. An entire history made up of a made up person-sort of. His new background. A perfect gateway into modern society that was virtually untraceable to who he really was. Renfield had done well.

"Vlad Balaur," she mumbled.

"Dracula seemed to be a stretch unfortunately, so this was the second choice." The Count replied simply. "Do you like it?"

"26 May 1967." Agatha continued, ignoring his question. After a moment, she looked up. "You're lucky you can pull off looking 53 and not 530." Exhaling, Agatha pushed the pile back over to the man. "Your lawyer did well. I certainly hope you are paying him for all of this work."

Dracula merely chuckled as he took the thick folder. "I'm not an unreasonable man. I pay Frank accordingly. Based, of course, on the service he provides." He lifted his glass of blood, the rim stained with dark crimson from where he sipped. "I can have copies for you made, if you so desire. I know how important it is for your precious Foundation to know about my whereabouts." For a brief moment, his dark eyes flickered playfully. "For you to know."

The woman's stomach churned as the vampire took a large swig of his drink. Why did he have to feed in front of her? Probably because he knew it made her squirm. When he set the cup down, he smiled widely, teeth seeming sharper than a moment before. She prayed it was merely a trick of her imagination.

"What are your plans now that you are free to roam around England on your own accord?" Agatha inquired, straightening in her chair. "Surely you must have something in mind?"

"Believe it or not, after being asleep for over a hundred years, there is quite a lot to take in." Dracula nudged his now empty glass aside. "So many advances in technology. Science. History. I've done quite a lot of reading myself, but the modern world is very enriched. However," he held up his index finger. "It's quite hard when you're only limited to the night hours. My body doesn't exactly fair well in the sun. Call it an extreme allergy if you will."

"As I am very well aware," Agatha huffed. "But that doesn't exactly answer my question. What are your plans, Count Dracula?"

"I think you mean our plans," the vampire smirked. The look on the woman's face said it all and his smile only widened. "You honestly didn't think our interactions would just be the two of us discussing our adventures over tea did you?" His fingers laced together, tips ending in sharp, talon line nails. "You, Agatha Van Helsing, are going to be my escort. And what an honor, I might add, that is."

Agatha's jaw dropped. "Your...your what?!"

"Escort, tour guide, chaperone...whatever you wish to call it." He dismissively waved his hand. "In other words, you and I will be spending a lot of nights together under the starry skies of England. Or cloudy? I have reason to believe it rains a lot, or am I mistaken?"

"The only thing you're mistaken of is the preposterous idea of me ever agreeing to this!" The woman snapped. "My understanding was that we would meet face to face occasionally at your flat! Not that I'd spend quality time with you out and about!"

"Well if that's the case, it would seem that our two overseers have decided our fates without consulting us." Dracula smirked as he met Agatha's cold stare. "Both Mr. Renfield and Dr. Bloxham have come to the conclusion that this seems like a fair and fit decision and who am I to argue?"

She'd committed. Told Bloxham she'd do whatever the scientist wanted. But this...this wasn't what she had in mind. Agatha silently cursed at herself, mentally berated her brain for being so stupid. Of course these interactions wouldn't be just mere meetings. No...no the Harker Foundation wanted more than that. Immersing herself was one thing. This was the equivalent of being tied to a stone and thrown into a river like a woman during a witch trial. Count Dracula was to be a part of her life no matter how hard she kicked and screamed to swim back to the surface.

""I will completely and utterly immerse myself into Count Dracula's life…"

Agatha's own words replayed in her mind like a broken record as she sat there grinding her teeth. She could feel the vampire watching her expectantly, waiting to hear what she had to say. He seemed cool. Collected. Of all people, shouldn't he be against the idea of being watched like a hawk? But there he sat seemingly without a care in the world. Secretly, she was sure, reveling in her misfortune.

"I'd say you're rather exhausted, Agatha." Dracula exclaimed, breaking the silence. "Perhaps you should go home and rest. I'd offer up my flat, but I think that little Zoe would worry."

"Don't say her name," the woman muttered. "You don't get to say her name."

The vampire gave a half smile. "Get some rest, Ms. Van Helsing. I have quite the itinerary planned for tomorrow." His movements almost gave off the impression of gliding as he corked the bottle of blood he'd been consuming and strode over to the refrigerator. "Shall I walk you to your car or-"

But Agatha had already snatched up her keys and stormed towards the door before he could finish. Dracula snorted softly, shaking his head. She was certainly turning out to be much more interesting than he had initially suspected. Perhaps whatever the Foundation had planned for him would be more in his favor than they'd ever begin to realize. Games were always more enticing when both sides were competitive. And Agatha Van Helsing was the perfect prize.

                                                           XXX

Agatha didn't even acknowledge the box of biscuits that fell onto the floor as Jack jumped in surprise as she swung the front door wide open. Flinging her semi closed purse onto the counter, she stormed over to the couch and collapsed. She was tired, but not exhausted enough to feel furious.

"How did it go?" There was hesitation in Jack's voice as he asked. A sense of fear that one gets when staring at a poisonous viper head on. "Did he have anything important to say?"

"Did Zoe behave for you?" Agatha replied in a monotone, eyes fixed on the television screen. Some adult cartoon was on that she vaguely recognized but didn't care enough to remember the name. "I hope she didn't give you a hard time."

"She caused absolutely no issues," the doctor assured her. "It was like she wasn't even there. Well," he paused. "I did read her two bedtime stories-her request, but other than that, she went to bed without a fuss. She did want to hang out though so maybe the three of us could go out to do something together sometime to distract your mind from…"

"They have me babysitting him!" The woman declared sharply, finally turning to face her friend. "He's talking like we're going on some date tomorrow. Bloxham has me taking him around wherever he wants to go as it is a part of this bloody contract I didn't read the fine print of!" Agatha groaned, massaging her temples. "When I started...I didn't think…Honestly, I don't know what I thought."

She chewed absentmindedly on her bottom lip as Jack sat beside her. He stared at her with those big blue eyes of his. It was a familiar look. Innocent. Sheltered. The young man had witnessed much in his short life and yet there was an aura of goodness to him. Loyalty. Something Agatha personality believed she didn't deserve. A friend whose companionship she'd never be able to match.

"I don't think any of us knew what to expect when we found him." Jack commented, resting a hand on her knee. "Especially you given your family's...history." He paused only to reach the clicker to turn off the show. "If I'm to be honest, Agatha, at first, I didn't actually think he existed. Maybe some part of me did-I worked at the bloody Harker Foundation. But when he actually showed up...I guess what I'm trying to say is Bloxham has no right to do what she's doing."

"Right or not, I don't exactly have a choice in the matter," Agatha frowned. "When I wanted to study him, learn about who he was and what he was, I didn't exactly think that meant I was going to be forced to spend every waking minute with him-well, every his waking minute. But I have to do this for my sake and Zoe's."

Jack cocked a brow in confusion. "What does this have to do with Zoe?"

"I made a commitment." She admitted, running a hand through her hair. "...Moreso Bloxham has me backed into a corner. If I don't go through with this, then she can make my life a living Hell." Agatha held up her hand as the man tried to interject. "If I could get out of this, I already would've, but I don't have a choice, Jack. It'll be like that movie Interview with a Vampire, but instead of an eager biographer wanting to learn Louis de Pointe du Lac's story, I'm forced to take my vampire on a railway trip."

Jack started to chuckle into his hand earning him a curious look from Agatha. A small smile graced his features as he straightened up, clearing his throat before speaking.

"Sorry," he grinned. "Didn't take you for a movie buff."

"I suppose I can sometimes be unpredictable." Agatha admitted with a small smile. "Anyway, the fact of the matter is, I wanted to learn about Dracula on my terms, not someone else's. Especially since he's a bigger prick than I imagined."

"He murdered people," the man stated. "How big of an ass were you expecting?!"

"Someone whose ego wasn't so large it'd overtake all of Europe and then some." She said folding her arms over her chest. "He's unbearable, Jack, and he knows it. Relishes in it. And I'm stuck with him like gum on the bottom of a shoe." Agatha let out a long exhale. "Curiosity killed the cat, and I already feel like I'm on my eighth life. Why of all things did I have to be a Van Helsing? Smith is a nice last name. Or Wilson. I'd go as far as Bigglesworth."

"You are not a Bigglesworth," Jack laughed. "Besides, Van Helsing is pretty bad ass. It has its perks."

Agatha let out a soft chuckled before her mouth curved into a genuine smile. Gently she rested her head on Jack's shoulder, her eyes fixed on the blank screen of the television.

"What am I going to do, Jack?" She mumbled.

"What you always do," he replied softly. "Take what's thrown at you into your own hands and make it work. At least, that's what the Agatha I know would do."

"I'm taking the window seat," Agatha yawned, closing her eyes.

"The window seat?" The doctor inquired, his brows knitting in confusion. "What window seat?"

"The window seat," she repeated. "If I'm taking that beast on a train, I'm taking the window seat."

Jack grinned over at the former nun as she began to nod off. "Agatha Van Helsing, you never cease to amaze me."

"Good," she answered. "I plan to keep it that way."

And without another word, she drifted off into the dark world of unconsciousness. Far, far away from her worries and troubles that would live to see another day.

[watusichris]

You Oughta “Get Carter”

Another old Night Flight piece, tied to a Turner Classic Movies airing, about a movie I never tire of watching. (Unfortunately, the Krays film “Legend” turned out to be not so good.) ********** The English gangster movie has proven an enduring genre to this day. The 1971 picture that jumpstarted the long-lived cycle, Get Carter, Mike Hodges’ bracing, brutal tale of a mobster’s revenge, screens late Thursday on TCM as part of a day-long tribute to Michael Caine, who stars as the film’s titular anti-hero.

We won’t have to wait long for the next high-profile Brit-mob saga: October will see the premiere of Brian Helgeland’s Legend, a new feature starring Tom Hardy (Mad Max: Fury Road, The Dark Knight Rises, Locke) in a tour de force dual role as Ronnie and Reggie Kray, the legendarily murderous identical twin gangleaders who terrorized London in the ‘60s. The violent exploits of the Krays mesmerized Fleet Street’s journalists and the British populace until the brothers and most of the top members of their “firm” were arrested in 1968.

The siblings both died in prison after receiving life sentences. They’ve been the subjects of several English TV documentaries and a 1990 feature starring Martin and Gary Kemp of Spandau Ballet. However, the Krays and their seamy milieu may have had their greatest impact in fictional form, via the durable figure of Jack Carter, the creation of a shy, alcoholic graphic artist, animator, and fiction writer named Ted Lewis, the man now recognized by many as “the father of British noir.”

Born in 1940 in a Manchester suburb, Lewis was raised in the small town of Barton-upon-Humber in the dank English midlands. A sickly child, he became engrossed with art, the movies, and writing. The product of an English art school in nearby Hull, he wrote his first, unsuccessful novel, a semi-autobiographical piece of “kitchen sink” realism called All the Way Home and All the Night Through, in 1965.

He soon moved sideways into movie animation, serving as clean-up supervisor on George Dunning’s Beatles feature Yellow Submarine (1968). However, now married with a couple of children, he decided to return to writing with an eye to crafting a commercial hit, and in 1970 he published a startling, ultra-hardboiled novel titled Jack’s Return Home.

British fiction had never produced anything quite like the book’s protagonist Jack Carter. He is the enforcer for a pair of London gangsters, Gerald and Les Fletcher, who bear more than a passing resemblance to the Krays. At the outset of the book, recounted in the first person, Carter travels by train to an unnamed city in the British midlands (modeled after the city of Scunthorpe near Lewis’ hometown) to bury his brother Frank, who has died in an alleged drunk driving accident.

Carter instantly susses that his brother was murdered, and he sets about sorting out a hierarchy of low-end midlands criminals (all of whom he knew in his early days as a budding hoodlum) responsible for the crime, investigating the act with a gun in his hand and a heart filled with hate. He’s no Sam Spade or Phillip Marlowe bound by a moral code – in fact, he once bedded Frank’s wife, and is now sleeping with his boss Gerald’s spouse. He’s a sociopathic career criminal and professional killer – a “villain,” in the English term -- who will use any means at his disposal to secure his revenge.

Carter’s pursuit of rough justice for his brother, and for a despoiled niece, attracts the attention of the Fletchers, whose business relationships with the Northern mob are being disrupted by their lieutenant’s campaign of vengeance. As Carter leaves behind a trail of corpses and homes in on the last of his quarry, the hunter has become the hunted, and Jack’s Return Home climaxes with scenes of bloodletting worthy of a Jacobean tragedy, or of Grand Guignol.

Before its publication, Lewis’ grimy, violent book attracted the attention of Michael Klinger, who had produced Roman Polanski’s stunning ‘60s features Repulsion and Cul-de-Sac. Klinger acquired film rights to the novel before its publication in 1970, and sent a galley copy to Mike Hodges, then a U.K. TV director with no feature credits.

Hodges, who immediately signed on as director and screenwriter of Klinger’s feature – which was retitled Get Carter -- was not only drawn to the taut, fierce action, but also by the opportunity to peel away the veneer of propriety that still lingered in British society and culture. As he noted in his 2000 commentary for the U.S. DVD release of the film, “You cannot deny that [in England], like anywhere else, corruption is endemic.”

Casting was key to the potential box office prospects of the feature, and Klinger and Hodges’ masterstroke was securing Michael Caine to play Jack Carter. By 1970, Caine had become an international star, portraying spy novelist Len Deighton’s agent Harry Palmer in three pictures and garnering raves as the eponymous philanderer in Alfie.

Caine had himself known some hard cases in his London neighborhood; in his own DVD commentary, he says that his dead-eyed, terrifyingly reserved Carter was “an amalgam of people I grew up with – I’d known them all my life.” Hodges notes of Caine’s Carter, “There’s a ruthlessness about him, and I would have been foolish not to use it to the advantage of the film.”

Playing what he knew, Caine gave the performance of a lifetime – a study in steely cool, punctuated by sudden outbursts of unfettered fury. The actor summarizes his character on the DVD: “Here was a dastardly man coming as the savior of a lady’s honor. It’s the knight saving the damsel in distress, except this knight is not a very noble or gallant one. It’s the villain as hero.”

The supporting players were cast with equal skill. Ian Hendry, who was originally considered for the role of Carter, ultimately portrayed the hit man’s principal nemesis and target Eric Paice. Caine and Hendry’s first faceoff in the film, an economical conversation at a local racetrack, seethes with unfeigned tension and unease – Caine was wary of Hendry, whose deep alcoholism made the production a difficult one, while Hendry was jealous of the leading man’s greater success.

For Northern mob kingpin Cyril Kinnear, Hodges recruited John Osborne, then best known in Great Britain as the writer of the hugely successfully 1956 play Look Back in Anger, Laurence Olivier’s screen and stage triumph The Entertainer, and Tony Richardson’s period comedy Tom Jones, for which he won an Oscar for best adapted screenplay. Osborne, a skilled actor before he found fame as a writer, brings subdued, purring menace to the part.

Though her part was far smaller than those of such other supporting actresses as Geraldine Moffat, Rosemarie Dunham, and Dorothy White, Brit sex bomb Britt Ekland received third billing as Anna, Gerald Fletcher’s wife and Carter’s mistress. Her marquee prominence is somewhat justified by an eye-popping sequence in which she engages in a few minutes of steamy phone sex with Caine.

Some small roles were populated by real British villains. George Sewell, who plays the Fletchers’ minion Con McCarty, was a familiar of the Krays’ older brother Charlie, and introduced the elder mobster to Carry On comedy series actress Barbara Windsor, who subsequently married another member of the Kray firm. John Bindon, who appears briefly as the younger Fletcher sibling, was a hood and racketeer who later stood trial for murder; a notorious womanizer, he romanced Princess Margaret, whose clandestine relationship with Bindon later became a key plot turn in the 2008 Jason Strathan gangster vehicle The Bank Job.

Verisimilitude was everything for Hodges, who shot nearly all of the film on grimly realistic locations in Newcastle, the down-at-the-heel coal-mining town on England’s northeastern coast. The director vibrantly employs interiors of the city’s seedy pubs, rooming houses, nightclubs and betting parlors. In one inspired bit of local color, he uses an appearance by a local girl’s marching band, the Pelaw Hussars, to drolly enliven a scene in which a nude, shotgun-toting Carter backs down the Fletchers’ gunmen.

The film’s relentless action was perfectly framed by director of photography Wolfgang Suchitzky, whose experience as a cameraman for documentarian Paul Rotha is put to excellent use. Some sequences are masterfully shot with available light; the movie’s most brutal murder plays out at night by a car’s headlights. The breathtakingly staged final showdown between Carter and Paice is shot under lowering skies against the grey backdrop of a North Sea coal slag dump.

Tough, uncompromising, and utterly unprecedented in English cinema, Get Carter was a hit in the U.K. It fared poorly in the U.S., where its distributor Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer dumped it on the market as the lower half of a double bill with the Frank Sinatra Western spoof Dirty Dingus Magee. In his DVD commentary, Caine notes that it was only after Ted Turner acquired MGM’s catalog and broadcast the film on his cable networks that the movie developed a cult audience in the States.

Get Carter has received two American remakes. The first, George Armitage’s oft-risible 1972 blaxploitation adaptation Hit Man, starred Bernie Casey as Carter’s African-American counterpart Tyrone Tackett. It is notable for a spectacularly undraped appearance by Pam Grier, whose character meets a hilarious demise that is somewhat spoiled by the picture’s amusing trailer. (Casey and Keenan Ivory Wayans later lampooned the film in the 1988 blaxploitation parody I’m Gonna Git You Sucka.)

Hodges’ film was drearily Americanized and relocated to Seattle in Stephen Kay’s like-titled 2000 Sylvester Stallone vehicle. It’s a sluggish, misbegotten venture, about which the less that is said the better. Michael Caine’s presence in the cast as villain Cliff Brumby (played in the original by Brian Mosley) only serves to remind viewers that they are watching a vastly inferior rendering of a classic.

Ted Lewis wrote seven more novels after Jack’s Return Home, and returned to Jack Carter for two prequels. The first of them, Jack Carter’s Law (1970), an almost equally intense installment in which Carter ferrets out a “grass” – an informer – in the Fletchers’ organization, is a deep passage through the London underworld of the ‘60s, full of warring gangsters and venal, dishonest coppers.

The final episode in the trilogy, Jack Carter and the Mafia Pigeon (1977), was a sad swan song for British noir’s most memorable bad man. In it, Carter travels to the Mediterranean island of Majorca on a Fletchers-funded “holiday,” only to discover that he has actually been dispatched to guard a jittery American mobster hiding out at the gang’s villa. It’s a flabby, obvious, and needlessly discursive book; Lewis’ exhaustion is apparent in his desperate re-use of a plot point central to the action of the first Carter novel.

Curiously, the locale and setup of Mafia Pigeon appear to be derived from Pulp, the 1975 film that reunited director Hodges and actor Caine. In it, the actor plays a writer of sleazy paperback thrillers who travels to the Mediterranean isle of Malta to pen the memoirs of Preston Gilbert (Mickey Rooney), a Hollywood actor with gangland connections. Hilarity and mayhem ensue.

All of Lewis’ characters consume enough alcohol to put down an elephant, and Lewis himself succumbed to alcoholism in 1982, at the age of 42. Virtually unemployable, he had moved back home to Barton-upon-Humber, where lived with his parents.

He went out with a bang, however: In 1980, he published his final and finest book, the truly explosive mob thriller GBH (the British abbreviation for “grievous bodily harm”). The novel focuses on the last days of vice lord George Fowler, a sadist in the grand Krays manner, whose empire is being toppled by internal treachery. Using a unique time-shifting structure that darts back and forth between “the smoke” (London) and “the sea” (Fowler’s oceanside hideout), it reaches a finale of infernal, hallucinatory intensity.

After Lewis’ death, his work fell into obscurity, and his novels were unavailable in America for decades. Happily, Soho Press reissued the Carter trilogy in paperback in 2014 and republished GBH in hardback earlier this year. Now U.S. readers have the opportunity to read the books that influenced an entire school of English noir writers, including such Lewis disciples and venerators as Derek Raymond, David Peace, and Jake Arnott.

Echoes of GBH can be heard in The Long Good Friday, another esteemed English gangster film starring Bob Hoskins as the arrogant and impetuous chief of a collapsing London firm. Released the same year as Lewis’ last novel, the John Mackenzie-directed feature is only one of a succession of outstanding movies – The Limey, The Hit, Layer Cake, Sexy Beast, and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels among them – that owe a debt to Get Carter, the daddy of them all.

[jasonfry]

With baseball quickly approaching (for who knows how long), time for a pandemic installment of Classic Movies Everyone’s Seen But Me!

Summertime (1955) 

David Lean works small (for him) in terms of both running time and vistas. He does a wonderful job with Venice, making the city practically a character in its own right -- and as someone who knows Venice well and loves it, I only caught Lean cheating on the geography a couple of times.

The real star isn’t the setting but Katherine Hepburn. Hepburn plays Jane Hudson, a middle-aged secretary from Akron, Ohio, who claims to have given up on romance. She hasn’t, of course, but it appears as if romance has given up on her -- Jane is a third wheel for the movie’s other couples and feels left out of even men on the make’s appraisals, spending the early part of the movie bonding with a street kid and the widow who runs her pensione. I’d write that it’s the kind of part that wasn’t written for actresses in the 1950s, but it’s the kind of part that isn’t written for actresses today. Hepburn inhabits the character beautifully, letting you see Jane’s hesitation and heartbreak in piercing scenes that sometimes rely entirely on body language, and Lean gives her the space to work, even when it’s an uncomfortable experience. A near-flawless performance.

The love story feels a little slight at first, but the ambiguity about what you should feel is intriguing. (Apparently this was even more the case in The Time of the Cuckoo, the play upon which Summertime was based.) Extra points for the Code-evading shot that tells us two characters have consummated their relationship. It’s only slightly subtler than the famous conclusion of North by Northwest.

Here Comes Mr. Jordan (1941)

Claude Rains has a marvelous time as the title character, an unruffled bureaucrat in charge of the afterlife who has to fix the case of a boxer taken up to Heaven a bit too soon. (The film was remade in the 70s with Warren Beatty and called Heaven Can Wait, the name used in its first incarnation as a play.) Rains is terrific, but the rest of the movie is pretty forgettable: Robert Montgomery is genial but not particularly memorable as prizefighter Joe Pendleton, and the plot logic breaks down completely in the endgame. 

The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938)

Another Rains vehicle, in he stars as the evil Prince John, scheming brother of Richard the Lionhearted and foe of Robin Hood, played (of course) by Errol Flynn. Rains somehow retains his dignity despite a horrific wig and some astonishing costumes -- there’s one black and silver getup whose shoes have to be seen to be believed.

But all the characters are wearing ridiculous things all the time, shown off via the movie’s thoroughly saturated palette. There are men-at-arms in purple and pink motley, the merry men’s green tights, Flynn’s honest-to-goodness bedazzled emerald top, a lady-in-waiting’s Fancy Shriner fez, and we haven’t even discussed the get-ups Olivia de Havilland sports. The costume designer whizzes past All Too Much before the first reel’s over and just keeps going. And the dialogue keeps up with the costumes. Robin Hood may be the campiest movie I’ve ever seen -- it makes The Birdcage look like Shoah. 

Flynn is capable with a sword and performs his stunts with swashes properly buckling, but man oh man could he not act. He has two basic expressions: fighting and making merry, and looks a little lost when the story requires him to investigate whether a situation requires choosing between the two.

Fortunately that doesn’t happen too often, and you’ll have fun anyway. This is the template for about a billion adventure stories made since then, and it’s entertaining even when you’re not elbowing the other person on the couch to point out what was waiting in Claude Rains’s dressing room this time. Think of it as a live-action cartoon and enjoy the ride.   

Love in the Afternoon (1957)

Audrey Hepburn is the innocent, cello-playing daughter of a Paris private investigator (Maurice Chevalier) who interferes with her father’s work by preventing an American playboy (Gary Cooper) from getting shot by a jealous husband, then pretends to outdo the playboy at his own no-consequences game.

The story is light and amusing, with Chevalier ably serving as the fulcrum who helps it turn into something poignant and more interesting at the end. (The voiceover as coda, by the way, was added for Code reasons.) And Billy Wilder (co-writing and directing) guides the ship with a light, skilled hand -- the scenes between Cooper’s Frank Flanagan and his hired band are particularly fun.

There’s a fatal flaw, though: While Hepburn has never been more luminous, Cooper is too old to be the leading man. Wilder knew this, using soft focus and dim lighting in an effort to be kind that just calls attention to the movie’s fatal flaw. Moreover, Flanagan’s neither particularly interesting nor pleasant, so you never believe Hepburn’s Ariane would actually be interested in him. (He’s rich, granted, but she doesn’t seem to care about that.)

Directors kept doing this to Audrey Hepburn in the 1950s: Three years earlier, Wilder stuck her with a half-rotted Humphrey Bogart in Sabrina; in 1957 she also had to put up with a mummified Fred Astaire in Funny Face. Beyond the fact that it’s creepy, it doesn’t work for those stories. 

I’m going to look on the bright side: Hepburn deserves even more adulation than she gets, since she rises above her AARP romantic leads to carry all three pictures.

The 39 Steps (1935)

A clever early Hitchcock I found intriguing because you can see the visible language of film evolving before your eyes. Some scenes look utterly modern, with intriguing camera angles and blocking, but they’re right next to oddly static compositions, or scenes filled with cuts that cross the line for no apparent reason. But there’s also a justifiably famous transition shot from a cleaning woman’s horrified discovery to a train whistle, a tricky perspective change from inside a car, and some other nice surprises.

The movie is a prototype Hitchcock thriller, with a plot that carries you along provided you don’t ask too many questions. (Or any questions, really.) But the movie hits its stride surprisingly late, coming into focus once Robert Donat’s Richard Hannay winds up manacled to Madeleine Carroll’s Pamela. Hang around that long and you’ll be well entertained.

McCabe & Mrs. Miller (1971)

This one made my list because it was an inspiration for Solo, a Star Wars spinoff movie I think deserved a better reception and suspect will be viewed more fondly in time. Yep, that’s Warren Beatty’s fur coat that Alden Ehrenreich wears, and the bar Beatty visits in the town of Presbyterian Church is a dead ringer for the one where Han and Lando Calrissian meet over cards.

So that was fun. As for the rest, after my usual post-movie reading, I get what Robert Altman was going for. This is an anti-Western that relentlessly inverts the genre’s tropes, with the climactic gunfight happening not in the center of town before all eyes, but scarcely noticed as the townspeople rush to put out a fire.

But I found that more interesting to read about than to watch. I was never invested in Beatty’s McCabe or Julie Christie’s Mrs. Miller, finding them less memorable than a young visitor who runs afoul of trouble (Keith Carradine) or the lead bounty hunter sent after McCabe (Hugh Millais, exuding genial menace).

Still, the movie has a powerful sense of place, I keep finding myself thinking about it, and lots of people whose opinions I respect consider it a classic. So perhaps I’ll revisit this one someday. But for now, my conclusion is that I’m missing whatever gene you need to appreciate chilly, airless Hollywood art-house movies of the 1970s -- a movement, ironically, that screeched to a halt when Jaws and Star Wars introduced the era of the summer blockbuster.

[ninzied]

for @heidiamalia and @ltfrankcastle. because i’ve thought a lot about trish’s guilt, and the ‘justice’ of her serving life in the raft. she’s grieving and she’s lost her way, but where’s the room to find it again when everyone else was so quick to condemn her? i just. i have some feelings about it. she’s operating on principles that are no fundamentally different from frank’s – unless i’m missing something and someone wants to enlighten me. which also got me thinking.

but what if, though. what if erik had met frank castle?

maybe in some seedy hell’s kitchen bar, where the drinks taste vaguely of battery acid, and things run around on too many legs in the shadows. but the people here aren’t giving erik any particularly dark vibes; a touch of grey here, a spot of something murkier there. still, nothing that gives him more than a three-out-of-ten headache.

it’s kind of nice.

once he's stopped a few bad guys the right way, maybe he can even get it down to a two. erik’s not here to see costa this time, but he might be looking forward to it, this strange little partnership they’ve agreed to start up.

it’s jessica, actually. jessica is back in town – not that he knows where she went, or had any idea she was going, but she’s asked to meet him here, and stalks through the door with two large bags in tow. he doesn’t ask, because he honestly hadn’t expected to see her again (at least not anytime soon), and jessica jones does not like to be questioned.

he’d rather not give her a reason to skip out on him again.

for all he knows, she could even be on her way to being gone – except that she thumps down onto the stool next to him and says, “where’s the goddamn bourbon? it’s been a hell of a day.”

erik slides his glass down and orders a second. not that he plans on drinking that either.

“i think there’s something in it,” he says, “like, some kind of film,” and watches her peer down her nose at the glass, give a shrug, and then toss it back whole.

she grimaces only a little, swiping the her hand across her mouth before setting the glass emphatically down.

“hey josie,” she says. “just – give me the freaking bottle.”

“i’d say this sets a new low, even by your standards.” erik shudders to think about what kind of burgers they’d serve in this place.

the woman behind the bar gives him the stink eye before grabbing up a dirty rag to wipe unconvincingly over the edge of the bar counter.

“yeah, well, my standards are, got bourbon?” jessica swipes his second glass, knocking it back with a straight face this time. “makes it easier to avoid disappointment. besides, i’m here to meet a friend.”

erik smiles. “have we officially made it to friend status now?”

she half-smirks, half-rolls her eyes at him. “who said i was talking about you?”

the bell over the door gives a jingle, and erik feels – he’s not sure what he feels, at first.

it’s not darkness, not exactly, not even the customary static or pain. it’s a low hum, strange and sad and entirely unsettling. the closer it gets, the more erik’s eyes feel like they’re burning, and he has to blink several times to clear away any moisture.

“you made it,” says jessica.

erik turns.

it’s a woman, blue-eyed with long blonde hair past her shoulders, who puts out her hand to him and says, “hi. karen page.” she turns to face jessica. “sorry i’m late.”

“you’re not alone, i take it,” jessica says. she jerks her chin past erik’s shoulder.

he turns again.

there’s someone sitting with his face half in shadow, glowing an eerie-deep red under the bar corner’s dark lighting. it’s the guy who’d given erik the grey vibes earlier, but as he stands erik starts to realize there’s something else familiar about him. something he can’t quite put a finger on.

his hair is closely shaved at the sides, eyes glinting almost black. mouth set in a firm line as he strides over to them, and erik hears that same humming sound, though maybe a half-octave lower, filling him from either side now.

“what do you feel?” mutters jessica under her breath at him.

“i…honestly don’t know.” erik frowns in thought, watching as the man approaches. and then he says, even though it makes absolutely no sense, “kind of like my heart is breaking.”

jessica doesn’t have time to do more than look at him strangely, because suddenly the guy is standing right here, and then, as he moves a hand to karen’s back, the humming—

just—

stops.

karen leans into him for a moment, the guy turning around to brush a kiss – maybe more – to her ear. she looks more at ease with him there, and he looks – well – intimidatingly expressionless as ever. but erik feels nothing but silence from them, still and calm and peaceful, and it’s…unlike any aspirin he’s ever taken.

he’s so caught off guard that he almost fails to register more introductions are now being made.

“this is pete,” says karen, at the same time that the guy’s muttering a very gruff “frank,” and jessica, point-blank, is stating to him, “you’re the punisher, aren’t you.”

it’s not even remotely a question.

“oh. shit. that…explains it,” says erik, rubbing his temple. “i think.”

“you ever heard of the raft?” jessica asks abruptly.

karen page swallows, and says, “yeah. yeah, i have. i'm…really sorry to hear about your sister.”

“i’m not,” jessica tells her, voice like cold steel.

“hey,” says erik, going for comforting, but she doesn’t seem to have heard him.

jessica looks at karen and says, “i’m getting her out.”

“you’re what?” says erik, looking to the others for backup, but karen’s not paying attention to him either, and pete – frank – fuck, the fucking punisher – only gives him a semi-irritated glance before looking away.

“and i’m either going to need to help, or i’m going to need a damn good lawyer.”

“both, more than likely,” erik says, disbelieving.

jessica ignores him again. “either way—”

“luckily, i work with two of the best,” karen tells her without missing a beat. “and i may or may not be dating someone who’s had experience breaking out of prison before.”

“pure speculation,” says the punisher, utterly deadpan, and erik nearly chokes on his water.

karen says, “i can’t make any promises on their behalf, but—”

“look, if anyone knows…” jessica pauses. “if anyone knows what it’s like to—” and jessica jones of all people is not one to beg for anything, but there’s a hint of imploring in her tone, a tinge of i’ve-had-it exhaustion.

“i know,” is all karen says, as she takes the punisher’s hand.

“this is absolutely insane,” erik interrupts. “you know it’s insane, right?”

“maybe,” says jessica. “are you in?”

eriks thinks of an ice pick piercing his skull, the warm gush of blood from his eyes. he looks at jessica, grim but with her mind made up, and the thought of everything that she’s lost cuts through him even more.

“all the way.”

the punisher speaks up again, sounding like he has a throat full of gravel. “she capable of being saved, or whatever you want to call it to help yourself sleep better at night?”

“frank,” murmurs karen, and he heaves a deep sigh, looking at her with an expression only she seems to know how to read.

“maybe not.” jessica glares him dead in the eye like a challenge. “it’s either going to be me, or i’m going to die trying. and i can’t not try.”

the punisher’s silent for a second longer, and it’s heavy with a kind of dreadful anticipation, like staring down the barrel of a gun.

he turns to karen. “murdock’s going to take some convincing.”

jessica pours herself another round, flagging down josie for two more glasses. “great. then how about we get started?”

[sabotajuu-a]

                    Out of respect for my fellow roleplayers here, I didn’t want to reblog the original post with all of this so that the images didn’t stretch everyone’s dashboards, and I could put this under a read more.   The posts I’m referring to are @savagedesign‘s HERE, my response HERE, as well as THESE SCREENSHOTS of @discandi‘s post ( since I can’t link the post from the blog itself, nor force it to appear as a dashboard link ).   Apologies for the long post.

                    Regardless, here’s the tea:

                    First and foremost, I want to get the legalities out of the way.   The original poster states that the game’s box rating is M for MATURE, or 17+.   For the sake of posting my own information AS LINKED HERE for collateral’s sake, we can see from GameStop’s official website that the rating is the same where I live, which is in the UNITED STATES.   Other countries have mixed ratings, because other countries have their own laws regarding the proper age group to view said content.   So, while there are countries who say a game is rated 18+, and others state the ratings are 15+, so on and so forth, there are still laws that need to be discussed and taken into account.

                    The problem lies in the complications of differing laws across borders.   Just because you live in a country where the maturity age is considered 15+ to view and participate within certain types of media, doesn’t mean that you aren’t endangering other users across borders by writing the content within said media, where their country’s maturity age is 17+ or 18+.   To put it simply, A 15 YEAR OLD WRITING DEAD BY DAYLIGHT’S CONTENTS WITH SOMEONE IN THE UNITED STATES WHERE THE LAW IS 17+, PUTS THE OLDER INDIVIDUAL IN A POSITION WHERE THEY CAN BE HELD LEGALLY ACCOUNTABLE FOR YOUR DISREGARD TO THEIR COUNTRY’S LAWS.   And that, my friends, is called CORRUPTION OF A MINOR, because as far as the United States is concerned, you, as a person under 17 playing this game and partaking in its contents, are still a minor, regardless of the laws in your country.

                    And want to know why that’s a problem?   Because it can completely and utterly ruin that 17 year old’s life.   NSFW content is an umbrella term for all things considered within gore, smut / sexual themes, intense violence, blood, strong language, and things of the like.   Writing ANY NSFW content with a minor, regardless of any legalities determining age of consent for any and all media, is still illegal.   Allow me to source things that are applicable to this situation from my perspective, meaning me as a writer having to abide by the United States’ laws regarding content that is RATED M FOR MATURE.

                    ENTERTAINMENT SOFTWARE RATING BOARD ( ESRB )   :                                         MATURE RATING DEFINITION

Content is generally suitable for ages 17 and up. May contain intense violence, blood and gore, sexual content and/or strong language.

                    CONTENT DESCRIPTIONS   :

INTENSE VIOLENCE: Graphic and realistic-looking depictions of physical conflict. May involve extreme and/or realistic blood, gore, weapons and depictions of human injury and death.

BLOOD AND GORE: Depictions of blood or the mutilation of body parts.

SEXUAL CONTENT: Non-explicit depictions of sexual behavior, possibly including partial nudity.

STRONG LANGUAGE: Explicit and/or frequent use of profanity.

                    These ratings and descriptions are put in place to protect individuals from exposure to darker and more adult themes.   This is why employees are LEGALLY REQUIRED to ask for identification when a person is purchasing age-restricted media, and why employees are further required to seek consent from a legal adult while mapping out the media’s contents when applicable.

                    The content ratings are meant to protect age groups from content that they are deemed too young to view as mapped out by a chosen government.   This is meant to ensure a person is old enough to handle seeing intense violence, blood and gore, while also hearing strong language or viewing implied sexual themes, and knowing that what’s going on in said media is NOT to blur the lines of real life’s morality.   So in Dead by Daylight’s case, the maturity rating is put in place because we have serial killers running around slaughtering survivors, cannibalizing them, snagging them in bear traps, chainsawing them, poisoning them, and then slapping them onto hooks.   Not to mention that Hag literally has one of her nipples out, which is still considered sexual in some definitions of the law.   We need to ensure that people under the given age aren’t going to go around tossing hatchets at pedestrians on the street, or electrocuting people with tasers or live wires, just because they’ve seen it in a video game.

                    While studies show that video games don’t make people violent, it’s very clear that there are situations where others may commit crimes inspired by the media they’ve digested before the recommended age, with or without parental consent or guidance.   Let’s move on to the legalities.

                    CORRUPTION OF MINORS                                         DEFINITION

Although it’s a pretty loose definition, the Pennsylvania Superior Court defines the phrase as “corrupting the morals of a minor” by explaining that it includes actions that would offend the common sense, sense of decency, propriety, and morality.

                    TITLE 18   SECTION 6301 ( a ) ( 1 ) ( i )   :                                         NON-SEXUAL CORRUPTION OF MINORS

Corruption of Minors is graded as a 1st Degree Misdemeanor punishable by up to 5 years in jail and a $10,000 fine. Since the offense is non-sexual in nature, an offense under Subsection (a)(1)(i) does not trigger sexual offender registration requirements under the Sexual Offender Registration and Notification Act (SORNA).

A person commits an offense under the subsection if he or she is 18 years of age or older, and commits one of the following acts: - The offender commits an act that corrupts or tends to corrupt the morals of any minor less than 18 years of age; OR ( cutting it here since the first one is all that applies here )

                    This literally maps it out right there.   To simplify it, a person who is 18+ engaging in media that is considered mature with someone who is below that age is committing a crime, whether they know it or not.   Because it isn’t SEXUAL CORRUPTION OF MINORS, the older party isn’t being put on the sexual offenders registry, but they do serve jail time, FIVE YEARS OF IT, which may make it difficult for them to find a job in the future, or assimilate within society when they’re out.   It is still damaging to a person’s life.

                    Now yes, a 2011 ruling in the U.S. Supreme Court found that video games are a constitutionally-protected form of expression, and that laws restricting their SALE OR RENTAL based upon violent content are unconstitutional.   However, this is restricted to just that, the sale or rental of violent video games.   If, say, a parent were to find the content you were writing with another person, and they disagreed with it and contacted authorities, the other person could still be charged if their country’s laws differ from your own, and they could serve some serious jail time while paying serious fines to the government, as well as paying for a lawyer to try and fight these accusations placed upon them from your negligence.

                    Therefore, @discandi, your statement     In fact here is the games rating in MY country     holds no validity to the argument because it doesn’t matter when you’re possibly endangering others.   The fandom is so up in arms about individuals under 18 writing in the community because of the content as advertised, because that potential about endangering another’s life in legal terms is a genuine threat.   We’re not completely saying minors can’t write mature content, we’re just asking minors to respect a writer’s individual boundaries without getting pissy about it.

                    Let’s get into the other portions of the debate, shall we?   @discandi‘s post   ( as linked in the first little introduction )   features some points that I have to disagree with, and that I find appalling.   Firstly, calling the community a bunch of freaks is a big assumption, and pinning the whole ra.pe fetishization argument on the entire community is an even bigger assumption.   Not all Dead by Daylight roleplayers are entirely into writing the super dark content, and in truth the community is EXTREMELY against portraying ra.pe, or writing du.bcon.   Take into account the community’s DISTASTE for the Freddy / Quentin ship.   People shipping killers and survivors together is not ra.pe since both parties are ABLE TO CONSENT considering all survivors are confirmed to be 21+, and all killers are confirmed to be 21+ with the exception of Legion’s members.   Frank and Joey are 18 - 19, while Julie and Susie are still in that unconfirmed area of being under, on, or over 18.

                    And now I just have to map out the tags in @discandi‘s post, as screencapped by me:

                    Your logic of equating people who write darker themes to enjoying and justifying ra.pe fetishization is extremely flawed, because generalizing the fandom into this umbrella assumption without any real solid evidence to back it up is quite unfair to those of us who just want to write out the gore, or the murder, or the potential verses and character dynamics to be explored.   Are there people in the Dead by Daylight community who fetishize ra.pe?   Sure, but you will always find people like that in ANY FANDOM.   MLP, League of Legends, Steven Universe, Supernatural, Soulsborne, Red Dead Redemption, Disney, the list could go on and you’ll still find some no.ncon fetishization in the media as produced.   None of us ever said it was okay or valid of them to do that, and we in fact tend to voice our distaste for it.

                    In my time roleplaying on this site, which has been seven, almost eight years now, I have never seen anyone write out ra.pe or no.ncon or du.bcon in roleplay.   Even in a fandom that features a game as horrid as OUTLAST did I never see someone write out or fetishize these aspects in roleplay, even when you have those featured and implied in the actual game itself.

                    So saying that people who write darker themes and are uncomfortable with minors writing with them in similar media are just ra.pe fetishist freaks is a HUGE STRETCH to make.

                    In addition, bringing up @starlyht‘s reply to me, as screencapped HERE:

                    I never said a minors have never played a mature game, nor did I say minors haven’t engaged in material marked as mature.   Hell, I’m sure everyone’s done it.   What I’m saying is that SOME people, not all, are uncomfortable with minors writing mature content because it puts them at risk.   It opens up the possibility of legal troubles, or just doesn’t sit right with their personal morals because they’re 18+ and just writing with minors is uncomfortable.

                    And just when I thought I was done, here we have @hallowkills with their VERY UNINSIGHTFUL POST which I’m so glad to have seen before hitting post.   You’re going to come on here and get involved in this discussion, when you’ve made one of the most hilariously hypocritical posts that counteracts the comment you’ve made pertaining to the argument at hand.

                    On July 24, 2019, you posted:

ok little psa but if you rp a muse that’s like... from disney or any media that’s primarily directed at children (like cartoons, etc) i’m probably going to block you because this is a slasher blog and michael is not compatible with those sort of muses

                                        (   PROOF HERE   )     (   TAG PROOF   )

                    Okay, that’s respectable and understandable.   Personal preference, I get that, but then one of your tags proceeded to state:

                    Which can essentially be taken as your refusal to write with adults who write characters from children’s cartoons because you don’t trust them.   The same can be said about adults who don’t want to write with minors who write adult characters or adult media.   It makes some of us uncomfortable, and in some ways, it’s illegal.   So why are WE being called gatekeepers, or ra.pe fetishists, or harassers when we could just as easily pin the same thing on minors who write adult characters and media?

                    And then you continued to make a post today shown HERE, screencapped just in case you decide to delete it.   How hypocritical do you have to be?   Imagine being a minor and getting mad about adults writing characters that carry nostalgia from their childhood.   God forbid someone enjoys something when it’s harming nobody.   However, minors writing adult content with certain people CAN harm them, punishable by law, and that’s the tea.

                    Checkmate, thank you.   Hope the free educating helps.   Have a wonderful day / evening, I think I’ve made my point and earned my rest before work.   You’re more than welcome to continue the conversation in IMs, as I won’t be clogging my dash up any more than I already have.

                    And before you ask for sources, I’m a criminal justice major.   I will happily post a picture of my degree on request, with personal information blocked out of course, and post proof of my education completion.   Sources regarding the law are from online, some textbooks, and my own knowledge of how the law works.

[juleschurchill]

a letter from the desk of mayor churchill

Dear Ms. Timbers,

 I have spent the last morning watching my daughter get pummeled by the District Ten boy and barely come out alive. I was on a stage in front of the entirety of District Seven as my Jules was thrown into the mud, in both a literal and metaphorical sense. I had to keep my composure as my first-born child was nearly murdered in cold blood.

 Because of my station and my role as a public figure, I do not have the advantage of viewing the brutalization of my oldest child in private, but instead, in the middle of the District center. 

You can imagine the toll this takes on me.

@larktimbers

 I trust that you are doing everything in your power to bring my Jules home, but you’ll forgive me if I push you a little harder on it, as a father. Or, even as a mayor--objectively, Jules would be an excellent Victor by every parameter, and she would be excellent for both the Capitol and for Seven. I truly believe this. 

Ms. Timbers, in these next few paragraphs, I’m going to be frank. I ask that you forgive me later, for it. 

I am aware that more than a few people in this District believe it is a sort of justice, what Jules is going through. The reaping, the violence, they might be taking a certain pleasure out of it. I know that old men with calloused hands and young men with broken backs dislike my family and families like mine, hate everyone who doesn’t toil their time in those damn forests. 

I am a good Mayor to this District. I dislike public whippings and executions, I use them as sparingly as I can. But I realize that the poorer citizens of this District resent those with more. I realize why this is. 

Jules also know this. I explained this to my children once, when I had a little too much whiskey and tonic and my dear wife wasn’t there to shush me. There has to be someone to hate that’s not the Capitol. That is the purposes of mayors and merchants, and to a certain extent, Victors. We both owe the Capitol a debt, and we repay that by turning our backs on the rest of the District, becoming less like our people and more like our masters in the Capitol. 

So, you and I, Ms. Mason, my family, and the others like us are not typical citizens of District Seven. Perhaps we are even traitors to our own kin. I don’t know. 

I have always been friendly with the peacekeepers. I am regularly invited to the Capitol. I have regularly had Capitol citizens in my own home. I am despised for this.  

So, some call it justice that Jules suffers this torture, and that I must watch my own child go through this unfairness. They certainly feel some sort of schadenfreude from it, and perhaps that was purposeful on the part of the Capitol. 

Don’t mistake my meaning, here. I am aware that the reaping is completely, utterly random. I am aware that to suggest otherwise would be considered by some to be treason. But the reaping of Jules serves as a reminder to this District, and perhaps to myself. It is now clear that my family is no no better than anyone else. We might be rich, might be powerful, but my daughter would be killed too, slaughtered in front of the entire world to see. 

I cannot allow that to happen. 

Jules, as you have probably already found, is an exceptional child. She’s bright, incredibly smart, smarter than me by far. She can do things I would only dream of, if given the chance. She has the ambition to achieve any goal she thinks of, and she could think of anything. She deserves to live, deserves to grow old with grandchildren in an old house filled with books. 

I keep thinking of her as a child, as a baby. You have children. You know, or will know this, eventually. 

 She was so tiny, when we took her home from the hospital. I could barely her, it made me too nervous. I thought I might break her, she was so fragile, so precious already. But, fragile. She was sick all the time, that first year. If I were not myself, she would have died. If I was a lumberjack, or anyone else in the District, I never would have been able to afford the medicine I bought to try and fix her coughing, to stop her pink skin from turning blue with her labored breathing. 

She got better, eventually. Of course she did. Jules has always gotten better, always found her way out of binds.

I don’t know what I did to deserve her. I don’t know who to thank for her, because she is so much better than I deserve. She was my little assistant from the time she could walk, always curious about the family business, always wanting to help me. And she actually did, especially as she got older. Smart as a whip, my Jules. She could’ve held her own with the damn President if she had gotten the chance. 

She’s still a little girl, though. She’s tiny, and fragile and skinny and it’s my job to protect her. And I cannot. 

(I’ve ruminated on that, these past few days--I am the most powerful man in Seven. I cannot protect my own daughter. What is the point of power if I cannot protect the ones I love the most? What good is it?) 

I have done what I can to bend the odds in her favor, given my limited position. I have friends in the Capitol, and they’ve invested in her safety, they’re betting on her, sponsoring her. I fear the debts I am incurring on her behalf, and I fear she may have to repay them--but Jules must come home, and I do what I must.

You must do what I cannot. You are her mentor, but now, especially as Arion Barker is dead, you are her sole protector. She is your priority, and she’s had every advantage I could think to give her. The rest is on your shoulders. Whether or not she dies in there is up to you, her future is in your hands. This is, of course, not ideal. But, this is the situation we have been dealt. 

I would do anything for Jules, my little Jules. I would die for her, I would kill for her. She deserves heaven and earth to be moved for her. She deserves to come home, to live longer than eighteen years.

 If you ever require money or anything else that would help in ensuring Jules’ safe return to me, do not hesitate to contact me through the messenger I sent. 

Yours, 

Aaron Churchill

(Mail tended to get “lost” in Panem. At the very least, read by appropriate middle-men. As attempts by the Mayor of District Seven to influence the games in any way was illegal, perhaps downright treasonous, Aaron Churchill wanted to avoid such things. He had to call in favors to get the letter in the right hands, and no one else’s. 

Justinian King was an heir to a Capitol publishing empire, completely in control of every word printed in Panem. Newspapers, novels, textbooks, pamphlets, nearly everything went out of King’s Publishing, a sparkling glass tower in the middle of the downtown Capitol.

The man used a lot of paper.

So, he visited Seven a lot. Aaron knew him well, knew his quirks and his grating way of speaking. He called as soon as the reaping aired in the Capitol, not about shipments of tariffs (what Aaron’s number was supposed to be used for) but to gush about Jules’ chances in the games.

“Oh, she looked so terrified up there, but you could tell she was putting on a brave face, such a good girl. It’s always interesting, when the upper-crust of the districts get reaped, because it’s like, they know more about, like, social situations and they’re clean and everything, but they’re usually not very good at fighting--”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He wanted to curse out Justinian, to threaten murder or destruction, but he was half a world away, and Aaron needed a favor. 

He hated needing favors. But instead of telling to fuck off, he laughed with a good nature. 

“Oh, I think my Jules is a fighter. Wanna hear about that? Or maybe some deals we can make after the games. As long as I’m not planning a, ahem, a funeral.”

By the end of conversation, Jules Churchill had her first sponsor, her first die-hard sycophant. Justinian Kings showered money on the cause of Jules Churchill, pushed for articles to be written, for TV spots to be aired. He hand-delivered the first letter from Aaron Churchill to Lark himself, waltzing past the Peacekeepers and up to Lark’s door in the casual way only Capitolites could, with no fear of their guns or power. 

He slipped the note under the door, all ghost-white with a single blood-red wax seal with the old sign of the Churchill’s on it, the old sign of power that meant everything in Seven and N O T H I N G in the Capitol.)

[marginalgloss]

unclean without and within

From time to time while reading Patrick O’Brian’s novels in the Aubrey-Maturin series I stop and search them for signs of late style. By this I mean the sense of an ending, or at least the feeling that there is surely more of them behind me than there is in front. I recently finished The Wine-Dark Sea, which is the sixteenth instalment in a series that began in 1969 and ended with the publication of a final (unfinished) volume in 2004. This one came out in 1993, with the author well into his 70s; almost twenty-five years after the first in the series. 

Yet such a progression of time is scarcely evident from the text: this is unmistakably the same writer who started out with Master and Commander and Post Captain all those years ago. If you were to read them back to back, they’d seem less contiguous than seamlessly continuous. It is not for nothing that some readers describe this series as really being instalments in one vast novel completed over the course of perhaps a third of a man’s lifetime.

This is not to say that there’s no change in style, no progression, no growth. To take an obvious example, by now the author has become much more dextrous when it comes to the handling of the naval jargon for the benefit of the casual reader. The books become more comfortable dwelling in the interiority of their characters, sometimes to unusual and oblique effect. And of course our heroes have aged a bit, but not much; for several books now Jack and Stephen are referred to in ways that suggest the onset of late middle age, but what exactly this means is never quite clear. Age, here, is like a layer of dust that settles quickly but can be blown away at a moment’s notice when required. Much like how the HMS Surprise itself vanished for several books before appearing with most of its old crew again, O’Brian is not above grinding the authorial gears, bending the rules of historical fiction to get what he wants at times. Such is the writer’s prerogative. 

I thought the previous book, Clarissa Oakes, was a rare misfire; by comparison The Wine-Dark Sea is very much a return to form. It finally details the completion of a journey which I think was first mentioned way back in The Letter of Marque. As if to compensate for the relative quietude of its predecessor, this is a story crowded with incident. There’s a couple of great sea-chases, an erupting volcano, a thrilling sequence in an ice floe, and a bigger than usual helping of Napoleonic banter and intrigue by land. We even get a trip way up into the Andes, and a terribly bloody battle with pirates (rarer than you’d think in this series). All of which is to say that at this stage in the books, there is still no sign of the author slowing down.

To detail the story would be somewhat besides the point here. The form of this novel is mostly given over to the picturesque; much like those earliest books in the series, it is a series of events loosely connected by plot but mostly engendered by chance. Perhaps the most interesting character in this instalment is Dutourd, a French captain mentioned briefly in the last book but only met properly here. He is a would-be revolutionary and accidental privateer, an apparently sincere idealist dedicated to setting up a new kind of society in whatever colony will have him and his gunboat. Naturally, Jack is fairly frank in his contempt:

‘From the first Jack Aubrey had disliked all that he had heard of Dutourd: Stephen described him as a good benevolent man who had been misled first by ‘that mumping villain Rousseau’ and later by his passionate belief in his own system, based it was true on a hatred of poverty, war and injustice, but also on the assumption that men were naturally and equally good, needing only a firm, friendly hand to set them on the right path, the path to the realisation of their full potentialities. This of course entailed the abolition of the present order, which had so perverted them, and of the established churches. It was old, old stuff, familiar in all its variations, but Stephen had never heard it expressed with such freshness, fire and conviction. Neither fire nor conviction survived to reach Jack in Stephen’s summary, however, but the doctrine that levelled Nelson with one of his own bargemen was clear enough, and he watched the approaching boat with a cold look in his eye.’

Stephen is a little more nuanced — and sarcastic — in his critique. After being asked what he thinks of democracy, he appears to avoid the question, pleading etiquette:

‘…we nevertheless adhere strictly to the naval tradition which forbids the discussion of religion, women, or politics in our mess. It has been objected that this rule makes for insipidity, which may be so; yet on the other hand it has its uses, since in this case for example it prevents any member from wounding any other gentleman present by saying that he did not think the policy that put Socrates to death and that left Athens prostrate was the highest expression of human wisdom, or by quoting Aristotle’s definition of democracy as mob-rule, the depraved version of a commonwealth.’

Between Aubrey’s stolid conservatism and Maturin’s cynicism, it is difficult to extract much which is admirable about Dutourd from O’Brian’s writing. Perhaps the best we can say for him is that he seems to have a genuine concern for the wellbeing of the men around him. But he is not a leader. Being genuine in this world seems to count for very little unless you have the capability to back it up.

Given the constant level of contempt aimed at Dutourd throughout, I wonder if it’s possible to salvage a consistent political perspective from these books. There’s a gentle but consistent conservatism, of course, that comes from the overwhelming faith throughout in the institution of the navy — a faith only partly related to the actual men who serve in it, and which has little or nothing to do with a sense of Britishness or national identity. The thing above all for O’Brian is the nature of the service, as exemplified by what it takes to operate one of the most complex engines of war ever designed. This, for him, is society; it is not an ideal society, but it is an immensely capable example of one. In Dutourd we see one whose only goal is to undo that society, and replace it with something decentred, nebulous, suspicious.

The pleasing contrast in the series always comes from comparing this conservatism to Maturin’s revolutionary liberalism, itself tempered with doubt towards all institutions. But as the series goes on it seems like Stephen’s most defining characteristic is that he has no faith in anything except himself. His concern for the welfare of his fellow man seems sincere, at least when a scalpel is in his hand, but it isn’t heartfelt; were he living on land, we can’t really imagine him working as a surgeon, either for profit or out of the goodness of his heart. He lives for the moments when he is alone in nature. And in that regard he seems like a figure who exemplifies a certain kind of libertarianism, one which is sometimes associated with the later years of the nineteenth and early twentieth century. Less Rousseau, more Thoreau. 

But Maturin’s gift, and his curse, is that he alone amongst the crew seems to possess a particular sense of aloneness. I love, for example, this little passage, from his trip into the Andes:

‘So it was: yet the western sky was still dark violet at the lower rim and as he looked at it Stephen remembered the words he had intended to write to Diana before he put his letter to the candle: ‘in this still cold air the stars do not twinkle, but hang there like a covey of planets’, for there they were, clear beads of unwinking gold. He could not relish them however; his dream still oppressed him, and he had to force a smile when Eduardo told him he had reserved a piece of bread for their breakfast instead of dried potatoes, a piece of wheaten bread.’

That pretty image followed, by the pang of self-awareness — the memory of a dismal dream, his faraway wife hung for some strange crime — and then that old O’Brian trick of breaking through with indirect discourse that gently mimics speech. ‘A piece of wheaten bread.’ 

One more thing I want to add. There’s something very peculiar about the fate of Martin here. I always found something feminine about his portrayal, perhaps in part because his traditional role in these books is to be Stephen’s conversational partner while Jack is indisposed. Theirs is a friendship in which intimacy seems to have been traded in for constant peaceful companionship. 

Eventually Martin becomes such a constant presence that he seems almost like a chaste spouse to Stephen. I don’t think O’Brian ever explicitly describes him as effeminate; but as a man, he doesn’t quite match up to the capabilities of his shipmates. Jack is perpetually uneasy with him, and I’m not sure it will suffice to say that he’s only suspicious of Martin’s authority on doctrinal matters. But the suspicion is strange, because it seems rootless. Martin isn’t outwardly threatening. He’s sensitive, observant, yet utterly hopeless as a physical presence compared to either of the leads. He’s perfectly pleasant, but not exceptional.

In this book, something odd happens. In Clarissa Oakes, Martin’s role as occasional companion appeared usurped by the titular woman smuggled aboard the ship. Now, it seems like O’Brian was looking for a way to get him out of the way, perhaps in order to set up a situation further down the line in England. Martin’s relationship with Clarissa becomes the instrument for bringing this about. Here is Stephen on the subject:

‘…Whether he has the disease I cannot tell for sure without a proper examination, though I doubt he has it physically: metaphysically however he is in a very bad way. Whether he lay with her or not in fact he certainly wished to do so and he is clerk enough to know that the wish is the sin; and being also persuaded that he is diseased he looks upon himself with horror, unclean without and within…’

Martin becomes desperately ill, and for a while Stephen cannot diagnose his problem. Eventually it turns out that, being tormented with guilt over an affair with Clarissa, he has poisoned himself with a desperately strong treatment for syphilis, derived from mercury. Here, perhaps, is what Jack had to be suspicious about all these years. We see this again and again in certain outlying characters in O’Brian’s world. They are tormented by a certain inner conviction, entirely irrational but thoroughly humane, that becomes not only a personal agony to the individual, but a true risk to the security of that precious narrow society.  

There is something uniquely sinister and sad about Martin’s condition here. It is as though he becomes here the ship’s equivalent of the portrait of Dorian Grey: he has somehow soaked up all the bad feeling, all the wickedness that was spread around during the Oakes incident. Ailments outside the physical have always proved entirely alien to Stephen, and so the only treatment he can conceive of is to send him on the first ship back to England. Instead of sending him to the bottom of the ocean, they send him home. 

[grvybacks-blog]

𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 + 𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘

full name :  FENRIR BJORNOLF GREYBACK. This was not your born name, of course. But you can barely remember the moniker which once defined you, for it seems lifetimes away. This name is self-given, reflective of all you are and all you intend to be. Each name is reflective of the wolf, and not of the name you were given at birth; that boy is dead now, and only the wolf remains. You remember reading of kings eaten by wolves the size of bears when you lived in the mountains, amongst all those young minds who knew no better; when you took your first life, you realized that not only kings were fit for consumption. And so you changed your name. You became.

birth date :  4 April, 1944. A night on which the moon was obscured by clouds. Your mother died before you could take your first breath;  you were cut from her as she faded away, and then… there you were. You know not what the moon looked like on the night that you were born, nor did your father ever care to tell you before he died. Of course, the moon would only matter to you; it has called to you from the start. Were you, perhaps, born an animal?

gender and pronouns : Fenrir identifies as cisgender male, using he/him pronouns.

character traits :

+ (OVER)PROTECTIVE. One step to the left of loyalty, and just short of devotion, Fenrir’s proclivity for fierce protectiveness is, at first glance, uncharacteristic of his true nature. One would not expect him to feel so fiercely for anyone that he might wish to put his own life on the line for them, but he feels that his pack is his family, and he would easily go so far as to die for them. Sure, his nature is one of a bloodthirsty animal, a feral beast with survival as motive and goal; this has never been a question, and there is no doubting that Fenrir’s capacity for pleasantry and interpersonal communication is a nonexistent one, but his devotion to the pack he has created is unmatched. It is undeniably difficult to land a place on his good side - that would usually include succumbing to a bite that not all survive - but once you are there, once you are in the family, the world will need to go through him before touching you.

+ UNRELENTING. A predator never stops, so neither does Fenrir. Though it could brand him as a firebrand entity, living without conscience or empathy by those who are cowed by his intensity, his refusal to bow, to quit, to relent when it truly matters most is what defines him the most. His is an undeniably intense human being – though, of course, he would point out that he has never been quite human – and is not like to give way even under the most intense pressure. In any circumstance, he is utterly intense, overbearing, frightening; once his mind is locked upon an objective, it would take death alone to pry him from it. His entire life has been a wild ‘do or die’, and so his outlook remains a reflection of such. This is his defining trait, for it can manifest in numerous forms and drives him in whichever direction he feels his unrelenting force is needed. It is an intense trait to possess, and an intense mantra to live by; it has gotten him in more trouble than not, but he has survived yet. And he certainly intends to outlast all his newfound “allies.”

+ RESILIENT. He’s survived so much, and surely will have to survive so much more, that there’s no doubt of his resilience and strength. And it’s not just because of physical fortitude – hell, he’s got enough scars as visible, undeniable proof that he’s not indestructible. But he’s got a stalwart mind, an iron cage about his heart, and an undeniable grit that’s not sure to allow him to falter any time soon. He bows and bends knees to no one – this could force him to come across as headstrong, surely, but his survival instinct outguns any seemingly necessary formality; his pelt is made of iron, of steel, of stone, and does not let just anyone see the weak, fickle humanity behind it all. For that would be weakness – and Fenrir would rather die than be weak.

misc. witty, careless, vengeful, fearless, grudging, conflicted, secretive, nurturing

- CALLOUS. I’m going to be totally frank here - Fenrir is not a nice person in any capacity. He’s blunt, brusque and lacks tact. It could be argued that this lack of ‘people skills’ could come from his lack of a proper upbringing, but in truth it is merely attributed to the fact that he rarely cares to put in the effort. He sees no need for the pretense of pleasantry, for he does not feel beholden to anyone in his current circle, and this can undoubtedly rub people the wrong way. In a circle of primped and polished elites, he sticks out like a sore thumb with no intention of healing; as much as defense mechanism as it is first gear, his lack of politesse makes him quite difficult to maintain within the ranks of the Death Eaters - and in the public eye of their association, in general. He cares little for the feelings of others, thinks nothing of those who feign kindness, and does not intend to try any time soon.  

- SELF-SERVING. I’ve elaborated on this a little more below, in the “affiliation” section, but this trait goes far beyond his allegiance within the war. This has always been a necessary trait, a necessary tool used in the grand act of survival. Had he not had his own interests at heart from the onset, Fenrir might not have survived - or perhaps he would have been violently put down, rather than wasting away, for had he not his own preservation in mind, he might have lost himself. He ultimately wants to see himself through the war with his pack at his side; anything that does not further his motives - be it within the grand scheme of the war or in the context of his interpersonal relations - is useless to him, and he will be as underhanded, as devious, as dastardly as he needs to be in order to get ahead. He cares very little for the wants and needs of others - unless, of course, they’re part of his pack.

- EXTREMIST. He is unrelenting, unforgiving, a violent tempest of teeth and anger in equal measure. He is an “all or nothing” sort, with little room for pleasantry or politics. Fenrir is a physical being with animalistic nature and tendencies; there is nothing subtle about him - I mean, he is an infamous murderer after all. It is my job as a writer to understand the complexity of his character, but at the end of a day he is a violent fanatic with no social skills, no remorse, and a nature more animal than man. He was raised feral and wholly stayed that way; predators in the wild don’t know the subtleties and intricacies of the political game - and neither does he. Were this a different universe, “guns blazing” might be an appropriate term. His reputation precedes him, and for good reason; he is a man - an animal - made of violence and selfishness, of hunger and need inhuman, and he has no intention of changing. It has, after all, helped him survive. And he’s not exactly ashamed of his reputation. In fact, the more bloodstained, the better.

affiliation : The Death Eaters. Or, rather, I should be transparent and establish here that Fenrir’s first and strongest loyalty is to his pack. Should it benefit him, he would steer them far from the Death Eaters, for that is what drives his affiliation - benefits. He has no intention of being on the losing side of this war, for his own wellbeing as much as for the longevity of his pack and of his bloodline. At present, it just to happens that the Death Eaters are the most intriguing, the most lucrative, the most attractive offer. The free rein that the Dark Lord offers him, an offer which extends to his created family, is what currently benefits him the most, as it allows him to feed the utmost of his animal desires, to satisfy the bloodlust which drives him and calls him to create. But also, he feels a great deal of responsibility for his pack; his reputation is that of a hot-blooded creator of monsters, one who drinks of the human flesh and leaves it to turn animal - but those who consent to remain by his side are family. He would do anything for his pack, for they are his greatest pride as much as they are his greatest weakness. Should a more conventional member of the Death Eater alliance threaten but a single member of his pack, he would have no qualms with ripping their tongue from within their throat. For now, though, he sees the appeal - and the security - of using his particular talents for the Dark Lord’s cause; no matter how silly he thinks the idol-worship of the group at large truly is, Fenrir is not a stupid man. Fight or flight, survival instinct, whatever you may call it; the pack survives. And no matter which way the war falls, Fenrir and the pack will be in the position required to remain standing.

    plot lines :

[ THE LONE WOLF PERISHES ]: Something I would really like to explore is Fenrir’s relationship with people who have strayed from the pack - the most obvious example is Remus. As his only true loyalty is to his pack, he sees it as the ultimate - and damnable - betrayal, worthy of killing for. At present, he doesn’t want to kill Remus; he still maintains the faint delusion that he can bring him back into the fold, for he is quite proud of his creation. He knows that a wolf on its own is one that is likely to be hunted down and exterminated, for Fenrir is not blind or deaf to the way wizards regard his kind. As much as he wants to ‘save’  Remus from all that, for no matter their conflicting ideologies he is still Fenrir’s creation, he knows that he will not hesitate to snuff him out should he continue to stray too far from the pack. He does not take betrayal lightly - nor does he wish to share his toys. And though Remus has only been amongst the pack for a short time, he considers this a return to his roots, a return to where he is meant to be. He shan’t let him leave unscathed again.

[ BUT THE PACK SURVIVES ]: In that same vein, Fenrir is always wishing to expand his family, to grow his pack. Not only in numbers, but in strength - the pack is the most important thing in his life, the one thing that truly matters to him; he would do anything to keep it together, to keep it safe. He wishes to instill a sense of pride in all of his creations, to teach them the ways of his particular brand of feral nightmare, while preparing them to fight in the war that will earn them a higher station in a world of men. If he accomplishes anything, even if he himself were to perish at the end of the war - though, let’s be honest, he has no plan to fall any time soon - he wishes to leave his pack self-sufficient and prepared to raze the world he left behind. There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for his pack, and this is no secret; as someone who loves to throw wrenches in smooth systems, however, I would love to see that challenged. The pack survives - but not always. Who knows what would happen if one of his number were to fall?

[ A FERAL DARLING ]: Blending in is… largely impossible for someone as ostentatious an unapologetic as Fenrir, and that can create quite a number of problems for him when he is trying to blend in. And, frankly, when he is trying not to get arrested. He and his pack have one hell of a reputation, one which seems to follow him everywhere he goes. And in order to function, he has to take at least some sort of efforts to shirk that reputation. With people like Hestia on his heels, Fenrir needs to blend into society - not high society, of course, because I’m not delusional enough to think that he could be capable of pulling that off (or that he would want to), but a man who lives in the woods, chops his own wood, cooks over a fire most nights, and can often be found picking twigs, grass, and leaves out of his hair is going to take some work when it comes to functioning in common wizarding society. I would really like to explore all the painfully humorous possibilities that come with Fenrir trying to integrate - and everyone who would either call his bluff or help him try.

[ CONSUME OR CREATE ]: Fenrir has, for lack of a better term, a little black book of people he would like to play with; to be frank, they all toe the line between people he’d like to have in the pack, and people he’d like to have for lunch, which is something nonplussing to the pack, but horrifying to anyone looking in. I’d like for him to interact with all the people on the shortlist - Tarquin, Alice, Hestia, and others - and to pursue them in a way befitting his sincere lack of subtlety.

[ WILD CARD IN THE HAND ]: He has no interest in purity and domination, but in freedom, and in this, he is a dangerous and unruly member of the Death Eaters. Though he is, at present, an unmarked member of the Death Eaters, he still operates among them and owes his freedom, allegiance, and influence to them. He joined them, after all, to earn freedom for himself and for his pack, and he knows he must work for it. But his mindset and theirs, his upbringing and theirs, are polar opposites, making it rather difficult to operate amongst them. Whenever he can get away with it, he operates on his own, but when it is required of him he makes no real efforts to play nice. He does believe, after all, that he is the superior being. I would love to see Fenrir more deeply embroiled in the affairs of the Death Eaters; just imagine how someone as blunt as he dealing with some sort of scandal. He’s not as brutish and dumb as they think he is, and though he plays that perception to his advantage, he knows that the intricacies of Pureblood society are a dangerous thing. I would love to see him have to navigate that - it’ll be more difficult than the war itself, to be sure.

    biography :

One must always wonder if monsters are born, or if they simply become. If they emerge from the cavernous void of creation with teeth bared and claws sharpened for the ripping, or perhaps if they come about like every other sad child with no mothering touch to teach them what it is to be human. No one really knows where monsters come from, and perhaps that is what makes them so terrifying. Or perhaps it is the inevitability that, no matter what we are inclined to believe about the nature of creation, all monsters were children once.

No one knows where he came from, for he will never tell them. There exists a certain mythos about the wolf, the Greyback wolf, whose reputation precedes him, that he simply appeared in the gutters of London one night, dressed in rags and wielding a thigh bone as a club, blood upon his cheeks as if he had bitten into something far too large to chew. He was a feral child who lived between shadows, inhabiting the old, dilapidated flat that had once belonged to a mother and father who had never truly loved each other, had never truly loved him. They had left him, after all; he’d never even known their names. Beggars, they had been, lowlifes who exposed their child to the worst sort of people - but, perhaps they themselves were the true monsters, packing away their things and leaving him to rot when he came home with empty pockets and a profusely bleeding bite-wound upon his shoulders. They had looked upon it with horror, for it spanned the length of his arm, half his chest, as if he’d been plucked up by the ankles and dipped gently into the jaws of the beast. He knew not what it meant - but his parents certainly did. Perhaps he would have hated them less if they had told him what he would become before leaving him with nothing but the clothes on his back and the mold-touched bread on the table. Perhaps he would have been less frightened had he known, on the following full moon, why it was he lay upon the floor, captured at the base of the window by a single shaft of moonlight, tearing limb from limb and growing upward, outward.

Perhaps he would not hate them so, had they told him that he would feel more himself as the beast, and that they had left him for becoming who he had always meant to be. Perhaps so. Perhaps. Perhaps if he had torn into them with freshly grown fangs, and not the carriage driver in the park he’d have felt their debts paid.

He was a beastly wraith, inhabiting the streets of London, the gutters and sewers, stealing what he could and taking what he must. There were whispers that the old landlord had died, that the dingy one-room flat in which he’d been born was to be abandoned fully, along with the rest of the building. And so he was truly alone, a lonely and feral monster with nothing to lose and everything to gain. Even as a young boy scrounging for scraps and fumbling halfheartedly through the discovery of magic he knew that mortal flesh was not meant for him. He yearned for the change, for the animal that shared space with the scraps of a human soul deep within his chest. His was a lawless upbringing, a ruleless world which belonged to him and only him. He never questioned why he was made this way, nor who it was that made him; as far as Fenrir was concerned, it was the closest thing to a gift from a divine presence that someone so close to Hell as he would ever receive. A divine gift, but not one without its temptations, its pains, its suffering. But is that not the defining quality of all things divine?

But he possessed magic just as greatly as he possessed monstrosity; the magic was much more clumsy in his hands, secondary to the newfound animalism which drove him to hunt, to stray from the city and travel north, to become more nomad than wraith. Far from the city, Fenrir found himself in foreign territories that did not take as kindly, or as nonchalantly, to abandoned adolescents who took their meat raw and slept with one eye open. Those in smaller towns chased him into the wood with angry words and angrier spells, for they who held magic in the palms of their hands wanted not to allow a monster into the fold. It was much harder to steal from these smaller villages, to pillage from the humble houses, and so he learned to hunt - both as man and beast - to fish, to chop wood, to build. He was a man before adolescence, an ancient soul before all else.

At the age of thirteen, he found himself settled quite comfortably just outside Druskininkai; the Lithuanian people, he’d found, seemed more likely to leave him be than most, when encountered in the wood. Perhaps the folk in the city had heard the howls at night, the cries of pain and splendor with each full moon. Perhaps they knew that to leave their chickens in the cool night air and to lock their doors was a safer homage than to try and engage the monster directly. Or perhaps they knew that to offer him still-living stock to drag back to the shed he’d taken to inhabiting in the woods would be better than to allow him to continue to lecherously observe the girls who played in the wheat fields, watching them as if they were his next meal.

He was not ashamed that he had once tried to make a girl - blonde, with pigtails and freckles like full-moon stars - like him, once. But he was too young, and she too frightened. They’d found her arm first, for he’d done his best to bite her in the same pattern that scarred his shoulder; but she’d jerked from him, screaming, howling, and it had all come apart far too easily. He’d not bothered to wash his ragged trousers in the river until the next morning.

It was here, in this village where his reputation was not quite so terrible yet, that a traveling scholar with ties to the Durmstrang Institute dared approach him, dared speak to the feral boy who knew so little of humans, but so much of humanity. At first, Fenrir wished nothing to do with the man, or with the school of which he spoke. After all, Fenrir had known nothing but a self-sufficient life of nomadic survival, living off the land and off the people intelligent enough not to fight back. At first, he thought it frivolous, silly. But then the scholar had produced a wand from within his traveling cloak and had set him ablaze with curiosity.

But the scholar, this man with ties to the school, also made him bitter. You’ll never be like them, he’d said, But you can pretend to be.

He did not want to pretend, to hide, to lessen his monster for the sake of those who did not understand. The way the man spoke, Fenrir thought that perhaps they, wizards, thought him less for his condition. The man had called it an ‘affliction’; Fenrir knew enough of men, however, to disagree. He had never known anything but this life upon the outskirts, but he knew enough of the world to see the opportunity presented to him. The young boy, all rib-bones and dirty feet, knew survival to be paramount. Survival, freedom; acceptance meant nothing, but power was another story.

He lasted but a few years at Durmstrang, but what little education he received was invaluable. They’d cleaned him up, with pity on their faces and determination in their heavy hand, and had taught him - too little too late - all they could about ‘playing nice’ with the others, about becoming a part of a community which required social skills he had thus been lacking. Of course, what need had Fenrir had for the precarious intricacies of social politics? The children in his year had all come from lily-pure stock, and made no secret of looking down their noses at the raggedy boy who disappeared once a month, who was taught to eat with utensils, who ran in his sleep. They looked down upon him, but he cared little for their opinions - only for the practice they gave him. He learned to duel with words just as quickly as with wands, sliding comfortably into a human facade which would be passable at best to most who scrutinized him. He realized that he was quite good at slipping into the facade, at playing into their brutish perception of him, for his greatest power, it seemed, was being underestimated.

After a time, Fenrir felt as if he had exhausted the use of formal education, and left Durmstrang - though some might argue that he was encouraged to leave. At the age of fifteen, he struck out on his own once more, though this time with the skills, mindset, and determination to change the way in which he cut his monster’s path through the world. Where once he had been aimless, his time amongst the Pureblooded wizards - and their talk of purity, and the desire to reign supreme, and a movement in the name of all of it forming to the south - he now quite liked the idea of a superior regime. But, of course, he did not subscribe to the ideal that Pure magic was might, that it was superior, that his own blood was less than those without magic at all; no - he knew better. He almost felt sorry for them, the misinformed bigots who thought of him as an animal to be tamed, to be collared into too-tight robes and taught party tricks.

No - his kind was superior. And they deserved to be free. He deserved to be free.

And so he returned south with the intention of settling near his once-home, to grow his family (family, he called it; this was almost humanity), to mark themselves as a presence worthy of overtaking the lesser witches and wizards who underestimated the vitriol of the truest predator. Fenrir saw the undeniable benefit in doing so on the precipice of a war; it was a war fought by men in studies, haughty chess-makers who thought one spilled blood better than the other. He observed the brewing storm as he roamed about the countryside throughout England, Scotland, Wales; were he to have a stake in the rearranging of the world order, were he to put his hand into the fire that stretched even as far as Durmstrang, he would need not be alone. And besides, what better gift to bestow upon humanity than that of his secret weapon?

With enough of them, with enough numbers behind him, he could eat the men in their studies, and leave the bones with which his children could pick their teeth. It was a lovely thought; it was purpose.

It was not long before Fenrir had cut enough of a path through the community to be considered both a threat and something to be feared; he took children from their homes and brought them into his fold, where they could not be abandoned, where they could not be left to turn feral in the wilds. He thought it a service to them, knew it to be a gift that they could only repay by acting in his service. But he was determined to treat them in a way much different than his own upbringing; they would be an army as much as a community. A presence to be feared - but soon to be respected. He could not deny the thrill, the utterly bloody satisfaction he felt at growing his number, for violence had always been his bread and butter. And soon others saw it his way - and those who did not were quickly eliminated, for monsters of his breed, no matter their beliefs, belonged to him, with him.

Theirs is a lawless existence, this life of the Greyback pack. His body count has a body count of its own; the pack shares his taste for an almost pirate-like lack of regard for the laws of humanity - or of society, for that matter. Fenrir has made it quite clear that he is neither their father nor their master, but that they owe him the debt of their lives. They know all too well that it would have been all too easy to simply destroy them; many are beholden to failed turnings just as often as they are privy to successful ones. They live upon the fringes; rarely do any but Fenrir mingle with the common folk of the wizarding community. They seem to know not, or care not, Fenrir included, that they are uneducated, that they are anomalies, that they are a third horse in a race run by political players, for Fenrir has instilled it in them that they exist here, in this war, in these circles, to accompany the victors to the other side, where freedom awaits. He tells them only enough of his life, of his struggles, of what he has seen to instill in them a confidence that he can, in fact, see the freedom which lies just beyond the horizon of the war. In the service of he who calls himself the Dark Lord - at which Fenrir scoffs, and the pack laughs - they are allowed to indulge in their intrinsic tastes for blood, for violence, for chaos; they are allowed to be themselves where Fenrir was not, at their age. He ushers them into a new age where they will not have to hide, where they will not be forced to live in the hollows and cracks of a society that does not want them - for this is what the world has owed him from the very beginning.

This is not the becoming of a single monster - this is the heralding of their true and deserved age. A dynasty of monstrous creation, a lifetime of retribution. Monsters will be monsters, after all.

And there is no questioning the nature of monsters or men.

iii.

Pinterest - HERE!

[thesummerfox]

let's talk about people (ok, frank) calling micro "spook"

I love this! I actually think it’s a perfect description of Micro altogether. If we look at the meaning of the word, we get two options: ghost, or undercover agent/spy. Micro is both. 

He’s a ghost in this world, thought dead by all who know and love him, and he is the remote watcher who sometimes influences things as though he’s orchestrating something from beyond the grave. Frank may have initially shown up at the Lieberman house to rattle Micro, but it’s clear in the rest of the show that Micro directs Frank into his family’s path as though Frank is a substitute for the role that Micro used to have within that family unit. Frank is almost acting on Micro’s orders at one point, fueled by flat-out “I won’t work with you if you don’t do this for me”-statements, and Micro watches him interact with Sarah and the kids from that safe distance all the while. He only physically lingers in their vicinity himself when he perceives a threat to Sarah and when his son has expressed a degree of suicidal ideation. Even then, he doesn’t interact. He wants to be there for them, but he is nothing more than a ghost in their lives.

He’s a ghost to his own family in a way that makes him tangible and elusive all at once. I was struck by the fact that Sarah has kept all the photos of him out on display and by how vibrantly she defends him to Frank when Frank makes a negative comment about her husband. She breathes life into David, into that life Micro used to have before all of this, and he hears her do it but never steps back into her arms until he has done what he needed to do. I don’t know how many of you have realised yet how utterly ruthless Micro can be, but please watch episode 12 again and focus on him. Focus on how he seems to be a jittery bundle of nerves, but then keeps his cool even when Sarah’s screaming over him and his already troubled son is there to watch him die all over again. Focus on how he lets Homeland put him in a body bag and how in control he remains of the situation within that building at all times. This is the man who faked his own death not once but twice for what he believes is the greater good, no matter how much damage it does to the people he loves, no matter how long it takes until his job is done. This is the man who used to believe in the system and then stepped out of the system to become its vengeful spirit and clear conscience instead. 

Micro is fucking dangerous, and that leads us to the other meaning of ‘spook’. What I love about Marvel is their everlasting attention to detail, and this primarily reflects in their book choices for characters. I noted one book in Iron Fist that served as characterisation for particular characters, and in The Punisher we get more than one. One of the standouts to me is the one we see on the pile next to Frank in Micro’s hideout that’s visible in one of the promo pictures that was released pre-Punisher, which is the book Ghost In The Wires that details a real-life cat-and-mouse game between a hacker and the FBI. It’s such a blatant reference to Micro’s own circumstances and again draws on that ghost-comparison for him. However, Micro’s more than just an elusive hacker who’s on the run and presumed dead. He’s an NSA analist who specialises in reading human behaviour. Look at how he initially plays that cat-and-mouse game with Frank so well that Frank is left admitting to Karen that Micro scares the shit out of him. Look at how he manipulates Frank so skillfully that he’s able to get the upper hand in their interactions despite him being the one who’s naked and tied to a chair. Look at how he doesn’t reciprocate that with Frank by putting Frank in the same position Frank put Micro in, but how he is gentle in his persuasions to get Frank on his side instead. He’s all softness with steel lurking underneath it and he knows precisely what to do and say to manipulate someone into doing things his way. 

While not an undercover agent or spy in the typical sense of the government-sanctioned-and-approved way, Micro utilises a lot of the tactics that are used by spies and agents in deep cover situations. He wields them so expertly that they are second nature to him and he proceeds to scare even the Punisher with how much he sees/knows. Frank comes to know Micro gradually and forms an understanding with him, but in the earliest episodes Frank does still seem pretty rattled about Micro while simultaneously trying to wrap his head around why Micro can just sit there and watch his family go through hell because of him. There’s something very cold about Micro, despite how kind and soft-hearted he can also be, and that is illustrated to perfection in how he maintains ‘being a ghost’ even in the face of grave danger and grief/loss. He eludes Rawlins and his men until the last moment, and even the information they need is kept from them by Micro’s efforts to the point where even another hacker can’t crack what he’s done to his systems. Micro shocks Madani when he types in her password and goes to work, too -- not to mention the way he acted in his interview with her. He really is the perfect spy, the elusive undercover agent, and the word ‘spook’ should be his moniker from here on out. Frank is the first to recognise that, but won’t be the last..

[flutteringphalanges]

                                  Caught in a Riptide

Summary: After the infamous Count Dracula is discovered and taken into custody by the Jonathan Harker Foundation, former nun and now guardian to her young niece, Zoe, Agatha Van Helsing is tasked with keeping tabs on the vampire after a mishap leads to his release into modern day society. Can Agatha remain levelheaded, or will fate turn her onto a new path?

Pairing: Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing

Rated: M

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: Alright, my dear readers, as promised! Thank you so much for your support as usual! Feedback is greatly loved and appreciated whether it be comments/kudos/reblogs/etc... I adore hearing your thoughts! Anyway, onward to chapter four!

                                             Chapter Four

Hawkins and Wentworth Law Firm. Established in the late 1800's, representing Count Dracula since September 12, 1896. A partnership that led to the purchase of some property for the vampire along with an arrangement for his resettlement. The vampire had thought of everything. For well over a century, the man had continuous tricks up his sleeve and today the Foundation had served as his willing assistant. That damn tablet. Whoever gave it to him in the first place should be fired on the spot.

"So you see, by holding him here, you are encroaching on Count Dracula's rights."

Frank Renfield was a rather scrawny man. Nervous, the epitome of someone walking on eggshells. His outfit was rather washed out, almost a little too baggy to fit his body properly. Agatha lost count of how many times he pushed his glasses back up to the brim of his nose. He certainly wasn't the ideal lawyer she would've pictured, but she reluctantly gave him credit for how prepared he was.

"He's a murderer!" She tried to argue, gesturing at Dracula who merely grinned in response. "You do realize what he is?!"

"Oh yes, of course!" Frank nodded vigorously, clearing his throat. "But my point stands. He is being held against his will and if he isn't released by tonight, my client is willing to take legal actions. And," the lawyer gave an awkward smile. "I'm not sure if all of England is ready to learn that a vampire is among the population."

"In other words, we're supposed to set him free and just trust that his actions remain civil?" Bloxham countered, folding her arms. "I think not."

"Actually, we did speak on that over Skype." The attorney responded looking over to the vampire as he spoke. "Based on Dracula's prior cases, there is a deal we are willing to make with you. A compromise if you will."

"What makes you think you have the upper hand in deciding this?!" The scientist frowned, eyes fixated on Frank's. "Why do you get to make the decisions?"

"No matter how you look at it, Dr. Bloxham, Count Dracula will be freed tonight." Renfield said firmly, pushing his glasses up again. "We thought it only fair to make some sort of offer to appease the Foundation. Are you interested in listening?" Neither of the women interjected so he continued. "Count Dracula will be freed but he is more than happy to be occasionally checked in on. Think of it as a parole of sorts."

"He's willing for someone to keep tabs on him? Agatha questioned, finally reentering into the conversation. "What's the catch?"

"There is no catch, I assure you," the lawyer explained. "Well...it's interesting actually." His nervous chuckle didn't settle well with the former nun. "He'll agree to these terms IF you are the one to supervise him."

It only happened every so often, but Agatha Van Helsing found herself at a loss for words. She stared dumbfounded at the lawyer who sheepishly smiled through thin lips. There was no arguing. No chance of being heard. Before she could even utter a single word in, Bloxham answered for her.

"Agatha would be more than happy to accept those terms."

Bloxham stared at her as if almost daring her to say otherwise. Frank beamed, opening up his briefcase. "Brilliant!" He expressed, looking from one woman to the other. "Now that we are all on the same track, if we could just fill out some documents. Just some formalities really. You know, just because this is a legal case and we like to keep records on file."

As the scientist led the lawyer away, Agatha finally turned to meet Dracula's gaze. He was smirking at her, obviously delighted by it all. A part of her wanted to race over and open the ceiling, but somehow she refrained despite how marvelous it sounded. He had played her like a fiddle and he knew it. Oh if she could just stake him in the heart...what a satisfying thought.

"I'd like to think of this as a beautiful start to our friendship," Dracula commented. "I had a feeling the Harker Foundation would be breathing down my back because of this, but what better way to soothe this fine institution's concerns than to allow you to be my figurative probation officer?"

"Just because you like to assume that you're very clever doesn't mean you are all that you give yourself credit for." Agatha countered, folding her arms over her chest. "I'm not playing into your game, Count Dracula."

"Oh, but I think that you already are." And his low tone sent a shiver up her spine. "I know your kind, Agatha Van Helsing. And I may not know you fully yet, but I will. I have my ways. And when I do…" His smirk broadened. "I expect we'll be sharing quite the exhilarating experience."

"Go to Hell." It was the best insult that came into her mind at the time.

"My chariot is a two seater," the Count replied. "I'll make sure to keep a spot open for you."

                                                        XXX

"Eugene says his big brother said that if you make a face long enough, it'll get stuck like that!" Zoe informed her aunt as she kicked her legs, sending her higher on the swing set. "Why do you look so grumpy?"

Agatha looked up from the book she was attempting to read on the bench. After picking Zoe up from school, she took the little girl to the park. At least there maybe she could clear her head. Setting the novel down in her lap, she looked towards the orange horizon. The sun was beginning to set. Only a few hours now.

"First, Eugene's brother is wrong. Faces don't get stuck," she stated. "And I'm not grumpy, I just had a hard day at work. I'm a little tired, that's all."

"Oh." And Zoe fell silent for a moment, still pumping her legs hard. She was flying so high, Agatha was beginning to grow concern about the chains breaking. "Was Dracula there? Did you talk to him?" The woman visibly stiffened at the name but the girl didn't seem to notice. "I told my friends I met a real vampire, but they didn't believe me. Evan said I was a liar. But I'm not lying, am I?"

Thank God Zoe was only seven with a wild imagination. No one took kids really seriously at that age. Still, perhaps it wasn't good for her to mention him. Quite frankly, she didn't even want to hear his name right now. Grabbing her book, she stood up. It was getting late anyway.

"Let's not talk about him anymore, Zoe." Agatha replied. "How about we finish up here and get some ice cream, hm? I'm in the mood for some." It wasn't exactly the truth, but she knew how to quickly change her niece's train of thought. "What do you say?"

"Two scoops?!" The girl asked with excitement, leaping off the swing.

"One, and you can get it with sprinkles." Agatha said, reaching to take a hold of the little girl's hand. "I think both need it after today." Though a tall glass of something alcohol sounded more appealing. "Let's go."

It wasn't a long drive to the parlor and after getting their cones, they were back on the road. Through the rear view mirror, Agatha watched in dismay as vanilla ice cream dribbled down Zoe's coated mouth onto her shirt and seat belt. Perhaps she should've grabbed a handful of napkins when she had the chance.

"Can we watch a movie tonight?" The little girl asked in between licks. "I promise I'll go to bed right afterwards!"

Well, considering she was already hyped up on sugar, getting her to sleep now would be near impossible. Agatha looked through the mirror again and towards the sky. Nearly dark. His freedom was drawing nearer. Trying not to think about it, she gave into Zoe's demand.

"We can watch a movie," she agreed. "But then you have to go to sleep without arguing."

"Yes, ma'am!" Zoe exclaimed, giving her aunt a salute. "I promise!"

Agatha made a point of locking the door as she and a very sticky Zoe entered the house. As her niece went to wash up, the former nun retrieved her phone from her purse. She hadn't exactly discussed what had happened with Jack. When their lunch was interrupted earlier, Bloxham seemed more concerned with her than the doctor. Dialing his number, she held the device to her ear. It immediately went to voicemail. Frowning, she set it down. She'd try again later when Zoe was asleep.

"All clean!" The little girl called out causing Agatha to snap back into reality. "And in my jammies! C'mon, Aunt Aggie, let's watch something…" She seemed to think about it. "How about something spooky?!"

"How about something that doesn't give you nightmares?" Her aunt chuckled, moving over to sit beside the little girl. "How about one of those princess movies you like?"

"Princesses are boring." Zoe exclaimed, rolling her eyes.

"But you love princesses," Agatha said with a small frown. "You wanted one for your birthday this year."

"I like vampires now." The young girl proclaimed.

Her aunt was about to interject when the sound of her doorbell going off stopped her. Furrowing her brow, Agatha rose from the couch and made her way towards the door. Was it Jack? An odd hour to be making a house call. As she turned the knob to open it, she immediately regretted her decision. For there, standing nonchalantly in front of her was none other than the Devil himself. Count Dracula.

Speechless. Completely, utterly dumbfounded. She must've looked ridiculous, standing there gawking at the man she'd seen locked up only hours before. Agatha's mouth was so dry that even if she wanted to say something, she couldn't. Silence.

"Well? You know how this works, don't you?" The moonlight glinted off of Dracula's smile as he stood at Agatha's doorstep patiently. "Are you going to invite me in?"

So many questions. An entire novel's worth. She began to rifle through them, trying to decide which of the several were the most important to bring up first. Agatha blocked the doorway, her eyes narrowing as she stared daggers at the vampire.

"How the Hell did you find my house?!" It seemed like a logical inquiry all things considered.

"Googled it." He shrugged, looking as if he was very proud of himself. "You'd be surprised by the lack of Van Helsings in the area. Oh." He held up one finger before shoving a hand into his pocket. "And this helped too." It was Jack's phone.

"You..." Agatha stumbled, struggling between insulting or going off completely. "You stole Jack's phone and then decided it was okay to stalk me to my home?!" "I didn't stalk you." The vampire corrected. "I merely followed your address." He inhaled, still seeming unfazed by Agatha's aggravation. "Are you going to let me in?" "I..." She began before the sound of small feet came bounding in her direction. Zoe. Christ.

"Aunt Aggie!" The girl chirped. "You gotta put a movie in! You're..." Her blue eyes widen at the sight of Dracula. "Mr. Dracula!"

"Zoe, go to your room." Agatha said coolly, trying to block the little girl's view. "Dracula was just leaving-"

"Wanna come in and watch the movie with us?!"

Agatha was unsure whether to face palm, cry out in frustration, or just go dig a hole and bury herself in it as Dracula grinned widely and stepped into her home. All thanks to Zoe's innocent invitation inside. How thoughtful.

"Thank you for the generous offer, Zoe." Dracula said kneeling down to the girl's eye level. "But I'm here to actually talk to your Aunt Aggie."

Agatha swept in front of the two glowering at the vampire as he straightened up. Zoe peered from behind her aunt, looking curiously at the towering Count. His expression, still friendly, was no longer focused on her, but now met her aunt's gaze.

"Get out," Agatha growled. "I rescind your invitation."

"Ah, as much as I'm sure you'd like that, it doesn't work that way." His smile turned into a smirk as he leaned against the wall. "You see, it was dear Zoe who invited me in. Not you. And while this is your house, she lives here too. So unless your niece wants me to leave, I think I'll stay for a bit." His eyes flickered down to the little girl again. "Can I stay, Zoe?"

"Zoe," Agatha said through her teeth. "Tell him to leave. Now."

"How about a little incentive. Say...five pounds?" Dracula whipped the money from his pocket and dangled it in front of her like a dog. "It's yours if I can stay."

The little girl smiled and, without a word, snatched the money and hurried off to put it in her piggy bank. Dracula grinned, delighted by his accomplishment as he turned back to face an enraged Agatha. What a cheat. The woman's arms folded tightly over her chest as she watched with fury as he made his way over to the kitchen table.

"You're a real prick." She hissed as he sat down. "You have no right to even talk to her-or bribe her for that matter! She's seven!"

"She's smart," Dracula sighed contentedly, leaning back. "Won't you join me? Take a seat, Agatha, I merely came here to talk." He laced his fingers together, hands resting on the table. "We've both had quite a day today, haven't we?"

Agatha didn't sit down. Instead, she just stared at him. Hard. As if maybe, if she concentrated hard enough, he'd just poof away. Or explode. That would've been better. He, of course, waited patiently for her reply and soon the former nun realized that, unless she addressed him, he wouldn't be leaving any time soon.

"Why are you here?" It was a repetitive question and she knew it.

"To talk," he replied. "You practically stormed out the moment my dear lawyer and that boss of yours discussed everything over with you. You can be quite difficult, I'm learning. But we can work on that," he smiled. "Could I trouble you for a piece of paper and a pen?"

"Why?" Agatha asked curtly.

"So I can write down my address for you," the Count rolled his eyes. "Goodness, Agatha, for a Van Helsing, I thought you would be more dedicated in wanting to locate me. Do you know how hard your grandfather tried? I am literally giving you directions to my home. You should be more appreciative."

Offering his address. Such a cordial act. What his motive was behind it, she wasn't sure. But Agatha remembered Bloxham's request-or rather, mandatory instructions, and she begrudgingly got what he asked for. Tossing them roughly onto the table, the former nun watched as he scribbled his information down in a surprising elegant font.

"I included my number as well." Dracula exclaimed, holding the paper out to her. "Go on, take it. I don't bite." And there was a glint of mischievousness in his eyes as he spoke the last bit. "I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of copying down your own cell number from your friend's phone." With that, he neatly slid Jack's device across the table. "Apologize to him, will you? I'm sure he's frantically looking for it."

Agatha immediately snatched it up and shoved it into her pocket. Hopefully he hadn't tampered with it to the point of it being useless. As for the paper, she hesitantly took it, eyes studying the words scrawled across. Almost instantly she recognized the street. Even the name of the complex. Nostrils flared, she gazed up at the Count wide eyed.

"There must be some mistake." She snapped, looking from him back down to the paper. "This is only a few blocks from where I live!"

"It seemed only appropriate seeing as you are supposed to be keeping an eye on me." Dracula said in a hair tearingly calm voice. "It was an added bonus that it sits at the perfect location. How coincidences can be rather humorous." He continued to smile, the same look that had yet to leave his face. "You should come by some time. Perhaps for dinner?"

If she was to kill him now, right on the spot, would anyone really mind? Jack certainly wouldn't tell. Bloxham might be rather annoyed, but all things considered, she could kiss Agatha's ass. Then there was his lawyer-Frank. She could figure something out. But then deep down, way deep down at this point, the Van Helsing side of her wanted to learn more. Desired to know more. And by destroying the vampire where he currently stood would take away from that.

"I prefer not to partake in the slaughtering of innocent human life." The woman replied coldly. "And I intend to make sure you do the same." For a brief moment, the amusement faltered from Dracula's face. "You're in the modern world, Count Dracula. Drinking people dry is frowned upon by society. I assure you, whatever it takes, your last victim will have been in 1897. I swear upon my great, great grandfather's name."

"He's dead," the vampire said with a cocked eyebrow. "I believe you are supposed to swear on the live's of the living…say that darling Zoe of yours?"

He struck a major pressure point and Dracula very well knew it. Agatha's gaze darkened and she leaned dangerous close to his face. If he wanted, the Count could've easily snapped her neck within a second. Instead, he merely eyed her with curiosity.

"If you ever lay one of your clawed fingers on a single hair on her head, I will destroy you where you stand." Agatha hissed with such ferocity even she was a little taken aback. "Don't threaten my child."

"I have no intention to," Dracula said, holding up a hand. "But your aggressive protectiveness is a rather charming quality if I do say so myself."

"As charming as a crucifix burned into your bare flesh," she shot back.

"Kinky," Dracula chuckled. "My, you are quite an anomaly, Agatha Van Helsing."

"What's kinky?"

Both adults turned to see Zoe standing there eyeing them with great interest. Her head was tilted ever so slightly and in her arms she hugged one of her stuffed animals. Jesus Christ, not again. He'd been awake for a day. ONE day. And he already was corrupting her niece's mind with such vulgar language.

"Nothing." She said, eyes locked on Dracula's as she spoke. "And I don't want to hear you repeating it."

"Oh, a bad word." Zoe nodded thoughtfully. "Are we going to watch a movie now?"

"Actually," Dracula began as he stood up. "I suppose I should be leaving now. It's getting rather late-or, I should say, becoming too close to early for my comfort." He strode towards the door as Agatha remained at the table, Zoe by her side. "I'll be seeing you soon, Agatha." He grinned, his eyes flickering down to the little girl. "And thank you for inviting me in, Zoe. I much appreciated that."

Agatha said nothing as the vampire opened the door and slipped outside. After she was sure he was gone, she hurried over and locked the dead bolt. Running a hand through her hair, she let out a long, hard exhale. Zoe walked over to her, an ever present happy expression on her young face.

"I like him!" She stated cheerfully.

That only made one of them.

[the-desolated-quill]

Mummy On The Orient Express - Doctor Who blog

(SPOILER WARNING: The following is an in-depth critical analysis. If you haven’t seen this episode yet, you may want to before reading this review)

Here I go, stepping into the unknown. I’ve never seen any episodes past Kill The Moon and I really didn’t know what to expect. It couldn’t possibly get any worse than that surely?

So this came as a rather pleasant surprise.

You’d think an episode titled Mummy On The Orient Express would be destined for failure. It just sounds too gimmicky for words. There’s a mummy on the Orient Express... in space! And yet somehow it works. It fact it works better than the majority of Series 8 has done until now. So kudos to Jamie Mathieson for doing such a stellar job.

Okay, so it’s set on the Orient Express... in space, and there’s a mummy onboard called the Foretold that only certain people can see, and when you clap eyes on it, you only have 66 seconds left to live. That’s an immensely creepy idea and they use it to great effect. Whoever designed that mummy deserves a fucking pay rise. It’s without a doubt the scariest thing ever to come out of New Who. When it first showed up, I actually screamed! The attention to detail is extraordinary, from the old bandages to the rotting, decomposing flesh. The gangly height of the actor playing him helps too. A lot of the shots are from a first person perspective, so when it reached out to the camera, I found myself instinctively leaning away from my TV. Even the Orient Express setting contributes to the horror. The tight, claustrophobic corridors of the train really bumps up the fear factor even further.

A lot of Mummy On The Orient Express has quite a classic series vibe to it. Obviously there’s the whole base under siege stuff, which has been a staple of Doctor Who since the beginning of recorded time, but there’s other things too like the mystery angle, the Doctor and the companion splitting up so that the story ends up becoming a two pronged narrative, the Doctor being suspected of being behind the killings (although thankfully it doesn’t last long), and the episode actually jumping straight to the heart of the action rather than wasting time on angsty ruminating like previous episode have done this series. There’s even a moment where the Doctor offers jelly babies. There are a few elements of New Who in here too, most notably the Evil Capitalist villain who wants to control the monster, but this really feels like a well executed homage to Classic Who. I could imagine Tom Baker’s Doctor and Sarah Jane Smith feeling right at home here.

But we don’t have Tom Baker. We have Peter Capaldi. How does he do?

I feel what’s really been letting Capaldi down is the scripts. The writers just can’t seem to make up their minds what direction they want to take this Doctor. Moffat keeps saying he’s darker and more serious, but then we get episodes like Robot Of Sherwood and The Caretaker where they try to incorporate quirky humour that just doesn’t suit this type of Doctor at all. It’s like putting a party hat on top of a skeleton. Thankfully Jamie Mathieson seems to have a better grip on what kind of Doctor he’s writing for here. The humour is a lot better here and while the Doctor is still eccentric, it’s been toned down quite a bit. For instance the way he offers the jelly babies is more casual and nonchalant. It’s noticeably strange, but at the same time it’s not so goofy it’s distracting. And there are some genuinely funny lines, which Capaldi delivers perfectly. My favourite is probably when he confronts the mummy at the end:

“Hello! I’m the Doctor and I’ll be your victim for this evening. Are you my mummy?”

I also got a kick out of the whole mystery shopper scene:

“I could do with an extra pillow and I’m very disappointed with your breakfast bar, and all the dying.”

It’s quirky, but it’s not too quirky. It’s pitched at just the right level so that it works for this particular Doctor.

But what I especially like is the callousness of this Doctor. When characters are being picked off one by one by the mummy, the Doctor is more concerned with getting more information about the Foretold rather than helping or comforting the victims. He’s not in the least bit apologetic like Nine or Ten would be. He just wants to find out as much about the mummy as he can from this death in the hopes that he can prevent the next one. At one point he even goes as far as to get Clara to trick Maisie into coming to the carriage so that he can seemingly sacrifice her to the mummy for more information (later we learn this was just a ruse, but it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. I could imagine this Doctor doing something like that). It’s very dark indeed and Clara is clearly appalled by this, accusing him of being heartless, but that’s not really true. If the Doctor really was heartless and uncaring, then yeah, this would just be horrible, but the reason it works is because of Peter Capaldi’s performance. Just look at the scene where the kitchen staff are flushed out into space by GUS. The subtle frown on Capaldi’s face speaks volumes I think. The Doctor does care about the deaths. He’s just internalising it, choosing instead to focus on the problem at hand, which comes off as callousness, but as the Doctor himself says, there’s no time to mourn. Standing there wringing your hands isn’t going to do any good. So the Doctor just gets on with what he has to do rather than get bogged down in sentimentality.

Are there any problems with the episode? Well... the ending is a bit of an anti-climax. I suppose it can’t be helped really, but the mummy is sort of thrown away at the end (I read some reviews and people seemed really confused by the ending. Why did the mummy salute the Doctor if he surrendered? How did it die? It seemed perfectly clear to me. The alien tech was controlling the mummy, absorbing the life force of people to keep it alive, the Doctor’s surrender deactivated it and the mummy saluted the Doctor as a way of expressing gratitude before collapsing into dust). The characters are a bit limp too. They’re not bad. They serve their purpose and the actors give decent performances. They’re just not very interesting. The engineer Perkins is probably the weakest. He just felt a bit bland and nothing-y to me and I’ve never been particularly fond of Frank Skinner.

And then there’s Clara. It was a little bit jarring seeing her again and seemingly getting on with the Doctor after Kill The Moon, but the episode quickly explains this is their ‘last hurrah.’ I really have mixed feelings about all of this. I had no problem with Clara calling the Doctor out for his supposed callousness, but it’s the context that bothers me. Clearly she’s still reacting to what happened at the end of Kill The Moon, which as I’ve said before is utter bollocks because the Doctor didn’t actually do anything wrong, and yet Moffat clearly expects you to be on her side... which I’m not... because she’s chatting shit. Later she realises, in a very clunky exchange with Maisie, that she’s not ready to give up her adventures with the Doctor and is prepared to overlook his faults (which begs the question what was the fucking point of the last episode then). But then it gets even weirder toward the end when she not only lies to Danny about ending her travels with the Doctor, but also lies to the Doctor, saying that Danny was the one that said she should give it all up. I’ve never liked Clara and I’ve completely resisted any attempt of Moffat’s to convince me she’s somehow the perfect companion, but here I’m utterly confused by what I’m supposed to think of her at this point. Why is she lying? She’s got no reason to lie as far as I can see. Why can’t she just be upfront and say she wants to keep travelling? It certainly demonstrates how fucking dysfunctional her relationship with Danny is, but is that intentional or is Moffat once again being an utter twit?

Nevertheless, I really enjoyed Mummy On The Orient Express. It’s a great throwback to the classic series with a truly creepy monster at its centre. I’d say this is my favourite episode of the series so far. Please let the rest of Series 8 be as good as this.