#real harrowing start thus far........

[dimension-20-every-introduction]

Everyone Introduced in Dimension 20′s Burrow's End episode 1

[pochipop]

＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — DON'T WASTE YOUR HEART IN MOURNING ME (MOIRA X READER).

#. synopsis! — left to grapple with moira's sudden departure from your life, you spend a harrowing afternoon reminiscing on the good, the bad, and the deliciously bittersweet . #. characters! — moira .

#. warnings! — angst, liberal use of curse words .

#. word count! — 6.1k .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw), @hhoneypop (moodboards) .

The apartment feels larger now than it did before. It’s quiet in a way it never was when Moira was around, —always with her little tics, tapping her long, ever-manicured nails on the kitchen island or pacing about in one of the rooms. . . She did that latter thing a lot near the end, with more dramatic touslings of her hair than in the time before. For a moment, you fear the downstairs neighbors must be celebrating her departure, and the thought of it almost makes you laugh. The silence is laden with memories in every nook and cranny of this place, and it dawns on you now that it feels much like it did back when she and you were moving the first of many boxes in, ready to start a new life together.

Only this time, there’s no promise of eternal love or any of that other bullshit that she always warned you was a fool’s game to play with. 

Moira, Moira, Moira, ever the pragmatic one. . .

There’s a faint scent of lavender-heavy perfume that lingers throughout, reminding you that she wasn’t just some figment of your imagination. At one time, she’d been the love of your life. Or, she was who you thought would take that title, anyway. Nowadays, you just aren’t so sure, and perhaps that’s been the hardest pill to swallow thus far. The scent reminds you of her, —of the way her brows would furrow deeply when she was displeased, of how she always took her coffee black and poked fun at you for the additives you refused to drink it without. It reminds you of her arms wrapping ever so sweetly around your waist, her chin coming down to rest on the crown of your head.

You blink and try to focus on something —anything— else. It’s hard enough to deal with it all, but you’re just torturing yourself with it at this point. Your eyes sweep the room, the cream-colored walls, landing on a painting you’d created several years ago. It was lackluster now in terms of honed skill, but there was something so endlessly passionate about it, so full of vibrance and promise. Reaching out, your fingertips graze the glazed canvas, and it’s like you’re right back there again. . .

The gallery buzzes with excitement, the sounds of light, casual conversation and clinking wine glasses echoing through the wide halls. You stand before your own work, amazed that it’s hanging here in this exhibit of your prowess, even if this gig had been a long time coming. To see it actually displayed here made your heart soar. It was the biggest step you’d taken in your career since moving to this city and it felt so incredible that your sacrifices were finally paying off.

You’re caught up in the whirlwind of congratulations, thanks, and small talk, —but none of that is enough to keep your eyes from drifting over to her; a tall, ginger-haired, sophisticated woman standing a few feet back from one of your pieces, staring at it intensely enough to feel unnerving and intriguing all in the same breath. Dressed in a finely pressed suit the same color of the wine in her glass, her sharp, calculating gaze turns to you as you approach her nervously, feeling small both physically and metaphorically standing beside her.

“I can’t quite tell if you like it or not,” you muse, trying to sound playful, even if the real intent was just to have her offer her unfiltered opinion so you could stop guessing what she thought of it.

The way she was staring at it made you feel like she thought there was some kind of hidden message carved into the paint strokes. When her eyes flicker to you, you notice that they’re different colors, —one red, one blue, both deeper shades, and you get lost in them for a moment before she laughs softly, and you have something else to fall into. 

“Oh, I like it quite a bit,” she answers.

There’s an accent clinging to her words, but you haven’t quite placed it just yet. That doesn't stop it from making your stomach twist itself into knots though.

“It’s quite captivating.” 

You almost blurt out that you could say the same of her, but you let that sentence die on your tongue before it has the chance to see the light of day.

“I’m glad you think so,” you smile softly, “it was my favorite of the bunch. That’s why I placed it in the center of the exhibit.” 

“I’m inclined to agree,” she nods. “How much would it cost to purchase?”

Your eyes widen. It wasn’t necessarily unusual for paintings to be arranged to be sold during these events, but that tended to come with recognition from the local art collecting scene that you just didn’t have at the moment. For you, this exhibit was more about reaching a wider audience and allowing the public to see your pieces than it was making any kind of profit. . .

“Um. . . I— I don’t know, how much would you be willing to pay?” You swallow, at the risk of sounding unprofessional.

She gives the painting another glance over, then turns back to you.

“Does a grand sound fair?”

Your jaw almost dropped to the floor.

“S-Sorry?”

“Two?”

Holy shit. All of this seemed to have gone from zero to a thousand (or two. . .) in the blink of an eye, and you have to take a second to collect yourself, lest you seem anymore clueless than you’ve probably already come across as.

“Does. . . fifteen hundred work?” You dare.

“Certainly,” Moira nods decisively.

You give her your information so she can send the money your way in a few days time when she comes to pick the painting up at the end of the exhibition. And when the time comes, you walk away with one less painting to lug back to your apartment, fifteen hundred dollars richer, and with a new phone number added to your contacts with her name attached.

It was almost funny. Maybe you’d have laughed if you weren’t already on the verge of tears. All of this has really come full circle, and you’re just not sure you appreciate the irony of it all in the moment. Here you are, standing in front of this goddamn painting, the one that had acted as a catalyst to meeting Moira in the first place. . . And it’s back in your possession, because she couldn’t even be bothered to take it with her. As much as you love it for what it represents, there’s a part of you that wants to pluck it off the wall and slam it out the window right about now. Or maybe beating it with a baseball bat or something would feel more satisfying.

Whatever the case, you’re getting tired of looking at it, so you avert your gaze elsewhere and let your back touch the wall beside it. Stupid painting. Stupid apartment. Stupid Moira and her stupid decisions that have plagued your life for the past five years, and those stupidly long nails that traced perfect shapes along your hip at night, and her stupid lips with that goddamn orangeish gloss that always stained yours when she’d kiss you—

“Ugh!” You groan.

All this reminiscing has reminded you of how electric it felt to be in her presence back then, how magnetic she’d been from the start. Those sharp eyes that matched her wit, those clever jokes she’d throw your way (some of which went over your head, admittedly), —and the sweetness of her voice when it came to you. She was kinder with you in subtle way, would place her hands on the small of your back in public, taking care to tuck loose strands of your hair behind your ears if the need arose. You hate that this fallout has left you wondering if it was ever truly affection at all, of if she was simply protecting her own self-image.

You’ve questioned a lot of things about her over the years, but whether or not she was genuine in her love for you had rarely been one. But now, that conversation is back on the table, and it’s woefully one-sided this time. 

One text lead to many. At first, it was hard to tell if she was simply interested in you as an artist or if that interest expanded to you as a person, but she quickly put your worries to rest when she began flirting with you in a way that even you, in all your obliviousness, had to acknowledge was more than playful banter between friends. Slowly, your life became intertwined with hers, and looking back, it seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. One late night date at a fancy bar and you were practically groveling at her feet, so desperate for her to see you as her equal. She spoke with you about science and philosophy, —her words acting as a forewarning for what was inevitably to come, even if you didn’t realize it at the time.

She was very hush-hush about her working endeavors, but you knew she was employed by Overwatch. That alone explained why she couldn’t divulge all the information of her duties to you, and you were okay with that. The secrecy got worse as time went on. Especially after she was publicly shamed for her “poor regard for the ethics of the scientific community” or whatever. The city isn’t small by any means, but it wasn’t large enough to spare you the fate of being tied to her name. You’d been seen attending various events with her, and many of the wealthy clientele that purchased paintings from the local galleries soon put two and two together. At that point, your paintings began selling at a much slower and much less financially liberal rate.

Moira insisted that it was okay. That it would pass eventually as she became involved with a different organization, —or. . . A different branch of the same organization? You weren’t sure. She never explained much, and you didn’t like to pry. If Moira wanted you to know something, she would tell you. Anything beyond that was best left alone.

Equally mesmerizing and maddening all at once, she insists that all is well. That everything will be okay. That all of this heat on her name is a fad, that once she proves herself, the tides will turn in her favor. . . And you believe her. You take smaller, more intimate jobs and refrain from showing your face at the local galleries for a while, waiting for the heat to die down. She talks you into moving in with her, taking you from your one-bedroom studio apartment to the top of the most affluent building in the city. You tell her it doesn’t feel much like anywhere you could call home, and she brushes your concerns away.

“It’s all the empty space,” she says. “We’ll decorate.”

You do, and somewhere along the line this apartment begins to feel exactly like you insisted it couldn’t. You sleep on sheets that smell like her, bury your face into her pillow to breathe her in when she gets up at ungodly hours of the morning to leave for work. She hangs that painting she bought from you about a year ago by now up on the wall near the kitchen and the living room, and she glances at it often when she sits at the counter. When she manages to make it home in time for dinner, you sit together and eat. . . Sometimes she’s just shy of talking your ear off, and others, she doesn’t say much at all.

She cups your cheeks and insists that everything will be okay when you get overwhelmed. She learns how to be gentler with you, learns how to be more sensitive. You learn how to trust her more and how to avoid stepping on her toes when her days are hard. Sometimes, you convince her to turn that magnificent brain of hers off and watch something stupid on the television with you, —trashy reality TV that she doesn’t really get, but likes to watch you giggle at more than anything else. If you’re lucky, she won’t wake you when you doze off in her lap, she’ll just gently massage your scalp and let you rest against her.

Slowly but surely, the apartment is filled with lots of things. Books, trinkets, little pieces of decor. . . Love. She doesn’t declare it often, but every now and again, she’ll get the urge to remind you. Usually it’s just before you fall asleep, her long arms pulling you against her chest, mumbling a confession so quiet only you can hear it above her heartbeat; like it’s a secret she’s keeping from the rest of the world.

You feel bad that sometimes you wish it was.

“Do you even understand what’s happening?” You ask one afternoon, frustrated and angered by her continued neutrality towards it all. “To me?” You add. “To us?” 

Those eyes that you’ve always loved so much flash with anger and a hint of something else, something you don’t really recognize on her. . . Guilt?

“What is there to understand?” She challenges. “My work is important. I thought you understood at least that much.”

“And mine isn’t?” You counter.

“I never said that,” she shakes her head. “I’ve never not supported your career choices, —need I remind you how we met?” 

She says that and gestures to the hung painting on the wall. You nearly scoff.

“It’s one thing to support me, Moira, it’s another to be proactive about it.”

She frowns.

“I’m sorry our relationship has caused you so much distress,” she hisses.

“That isn’t what I’m saying,” you bite back.

“Then what exactly are you saying, y/n?” She questions, but you can tell by the way she says it that she’s not really looking for an answer.

You still offer one anyway.

“I’m asking you when enough is enough, Moira.”

Her expression hardens, a shield silently snapping into place.

“Enough is never enough in science,” she says to you, like you’re some underling in her lab she’s giving a lecture to.

There’s a cold, detached sentiment in her tone, —one that makes your heart ache. Because you love her, in spite of all this.

“Progress requires sacrifice.”

You laugh, but it sounds so bitter that you hardly recognize it came from you.

“Sacrifice? You wanna preach to me of all people about sacrifice? —What about us, Moira? What about the sacrifices I’ve made, endless ones, mind you, to be here and stand with you and back the things you do? This kind of mindless complacency because I care, and I only ever want to assume the best of you. But what about me? What about the life we’ve built together? Does that mean nothing to you?”

Moira’s eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place. Regret, maybe, or something like fleeting sorrow.

“Of course it means something to me,” she says softly.

You hurt her, and you can see it on her face. A part of you wants to reach out, take her by the wrist, kiss this better. . . But you don’t. The argument hangs heavy in the air, a chasm widening between the two of you. She turns away and leaves the apartment for a while. It’s nearly midnight when she returns, and she sleeps in the guest room for the next few days. You catch brief glimpses of her every now and again when one of you is coming or going, but there isn’t really anything to say. It’s a stalemate, and you’re both a little too stubborn for you own good.

Moira cracks first after four days, a rare showing of compassion on her part. You come home to a nice, home cooked dinner, and she coaxes you into sitting down and eating with her. It’s not like it takes much convincing. It’s been a while since you’ve seen her cook, but you’re reminded of how much you’ve missed it as you eat what she’s prepared. After some awkward small talk about what you’ve both been up to over the past few days, and you holding your tongue on any snarky quips, she sighs.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she tells you. “About us.”

In the back of your mind, a part of you steels for a breakup. For some dissolution of everything you’ve put your heart into, and somehow. . . It feels like something that was bound to happen. And that’s the worst part. Still, you nod and put your fork down, giving her your full attention as she speaks with careful measure. It’s the first real conversation you’ve had with her in over half a week, and you’re determined to make it count for something. 

“My work is very important to me. You must know as much by now. But I do understand your frustrations, and I’m sorry that my career has interfered with yours. There isn’t much I can do about it, but I acknowledge your frustrations, and if I could make this easier for you, y/n, you know that I. . .”

You sigh.

“I do,” you say softly. “I know.”

She nods.

“I also know that I can be difficult to be with at times. I know that I get so caught up in my experiments that I fail to leave time for anything else, but I try. Because I care for you very deeply, and I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose what we have together, what we’ve built. . .”

“I know,” you repeat. 

Moira sighs.

“You’re still angry with me.”

“I am,” you admit. “But I appreciate that you’re trying to make things right, and I. . . Should apologize to you too. For what I said. I know that you care about me, and about our relationship, and I’m sorry that I questioned that. It was wrong.”

She seems pleased with this, —more than willing to let it be water under the bridge.

Things admittedly don’t get much easier in the fallout. Not in terms of your career, anyway. Your works are tainted by the woman you call a lover, and your name is blackballed across the community. It’s a constant struggle to reconcile your own morality with the dubiousness of her’s, and yet you really can’t imagine life without her. So you stay, and you sleep in her bed; —your bed. The one you’ve built with her. You stuff it down and vent your frustrations to the walls of your painting room.

You glance to the door but make no move to go near it. God, all this shit those walls have heard over the years. . . You don’t even wanna think about what kind of therapy they’d need if they were sentient. It’s almost enough to make you shiver. This entire apartment, for that matter, is like some kind of twisted mausoleum of memories; good and bad. The bed you’ve slept alone in more nights than you can count over the years is the same one she undressed you so many times on, picking you apart like you were perfectly cooked ribs just sliding off the bone, and fuck it makes you so mad that she’s just thrown everything away like this. That couch you’ve cried on out of sheer overwhelming frustration is the one where she urged you onto her lap, the one she covered you up with a blanket on those times she came home to find you napping there.

It’s been three years since that argument was settled at the table. It’s been three days since she sat you down in the same chair, in the same room, at that same goddamn table, to tell you she was leaving. That she didn’t know when or if she’d be coming back. That Overwatch was just too stifling, that she needed to get away, to explore. . . And in the process, she’s left you alone. Again. The echoes of that last conversation haunt the empty space. You’re mad. You’re so, so angry that this is the way she left things, and it’s eating you up like boiling water in your veins.

All that time you’d spent making sacrifices, letting your art be devalued so she could search for some secret key to humanity’s shackles while keeping you chained in this fucking apartment. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling just didn’t fix everything the way it should have for the way it raised the rent of this goddamn place. You check your phone, knowing there won’t be any kind of message or call from her, but silently hoping there might be. That maybe, just this once, she’ll prove you wrong. . . That she’ll just come back and say she’s sorry, that she made a mistake and wants to make it right again.

But there’s nothing.  You choke back a sob and train your eyes on the apartment walls again. They’ve seen nearly everything from start to finish, and yet you just don’t feel like you can let them watch you weep now. They held your back when Moira pressed you against them, her hands traversing you with more muscle memory of you each time, and they held it again the night she said she was departing while you slid down it, heart heavy enough to pull you like gravity itself.

Now, these walls bear silent witness to your grief. The silence wraps around you like a cold, unwelcome blanket, frigid on your skin like her hands tended to be. It amplifies every thought in your head, every memory of her, all the things she’s just left behind now like it was easy. Like it was all meaningless fodder for her when to you, it was just shy of everything. It was what you fought for the hardest, what you sacrificed for the most, what you were willing to crawl on your hands and knees for above anything else. It’s hard to believe that she’s gone, just like that, but the absence of her presence now, the absence of her things, makes it all too real. 

You let your head tilt upward, catching the barest sight of the painting just up and to your left. The thing that started it all, the beginning of the end, and it feels like such a cruel joke now, —like a reminder of everything you’ve come to lose.

More than anything, you want to be angry. You want to tear this place apart with your bare hands, destroy every reminder of her, every piece of her that still lingers in this god forsaken apartment. . . But you can’t. You just can’t bring yourself to do it, and not just for the fact that the costs will be far too much to repay in the aftermath. Instead, you simply slump further against the wall, letting the tension melt into exhaustion, and letting all this weight crush your spirits in way only something uniquely Moira ever could.

The love you held, the love you received, the dreams you shared, —all of it and more is tangled up in this place, in the memories that permeate every room. You’re surrounded by it, but even if you leave, you know all too well that it’ll just travel with you. There’s no escaping this, and that’s the scariest part. Your hand drifts to your phone again, almost involuntarily, as if by some miracle there’ll be a message from her; something to explain that her hand was forced, that she’s sorry, that she didn’t want things to end the way they did either. Maybe there’ll be a goodbye that doesn’t feel so goddamn final, maybe she’ll ask you to wait for her because she knows you would if she requested it.

But there’s nothing.

Just the same void that’s been growing since she walked out the door.

The tears come before you can stop them this time, a pent-up release of all the emotions you’ve been stuffing down for three days. Anger, sorrow, confusion, frustration, all of it and more, mix together and spill out through your eyes as you curl up on the cold floor, folding in on yourself, trying to feel as small as possible in hopes that you might just disappear altogether.

You can almost feel her hand atop your head in a comforting gesture, the way she used to pet you like a cat because she wasn’t sure what else to do when you cried. You can still hear her voice ringing in your ears.

“We should talk,” she says, a sense of hesitation present which was wholly uncharacteristic of her. . . Moira wasn’t the type to hesitate.She never had been. 

Her usual confidence has been replaced by something tentative, and that cut deeper than any words ever could. 

“Is something wrong?” You ask softly, because something surely was, even if you didn’t know what just yet.

“Just sit, please,” she requests, and you do, ignoring the sense of deja vu.

“Moira?” You utter, and she cringes visibly at the desperation on your tongue.

“I’m leaving.”

Your mind stills. There’s no way you heard that correctly, or perhaps you just need to clarify what she means, maybe she’s going somewhere for a time, but surely she’ll return, surely she’ll come back—

“L-Leaving?” You repeat after a few moments of silence. “What do you mean leaving?”

She looks to the floor, like she’s searching the grooves of the tiles for the right way to explain.

“Overwatch. . . Has made a fool of me for too long. And I’ve stupidly allowed it for the sake of access to their equipment and their people, but no longer.”

This wasn’t news to you. She’d always shown a slight disdain for her employers, but her relationship with her superiors had gotten notably more hostile in recent months. She spit more venom when speaking of them now, scowled when she saw anything to do with Overwatch in the media. . . But you never thought it was this bad.

“So you’re leaving your job?” You seek to clarify.

“Yes, but. . .” she pauses. “I’ve been presented with an opportunity that I cannot pass up.”

“A job offer?”

“Something like that.”

You frown.

“This is way too cryptic for my taste, Moira, can you please just—”

“I’m going away.”

Another pause, this time from you as you let her words digest.

“. . . going where?” You ask eventually.

“I cannot tell you,” she replies decisively, and for the first time, you’re tempted to ask why.

For so long, you’d been fine to simply accept what she couldn’t divulge to you. It was what it was. But not this time.

“Don’t you think I deserve some kind of explanation for all of this?” You question, raising your voice slightly. “You can’t just tell me you’re leaving, that’s not how this is supposed to work, Moira, we’re partners—”

Her face tightens, uncertainty morphing into resolve. Her tone is pointed as she cuts you off.

“I know it’s not fair,” she tells you bluntly, voice steadier than before. “But this isn’t about fairness. This is something I need to do for myself.” This only makes you angrier.

“And what about me then? The person you’ve, I don’t know, —built a fucking life with? What about me in all of this, you can’t just throw me away and give me no explanation! If you need space, just say that you need space, you don’t need to play a cryptic game with me, I know you! Why the secrecy with me of all people?”

The woman you’ve always known to be so confident now seems so vulnerable before you, and it almost makes you feel guilty for being upset.

“It’s not about secrecy. It’s about protecting you, protecting myself and my work. . . If I told you everything, it would compromise too much. I will not put you in danger.”

“But putting the woman I love in danger is just fine by you?” You hiss. “Don’t tell me you’re protecting me, don’t make this out to be some noble act on your part. What are you so afraid of telling me?” 

“The information you’re after is something I cannot disclose to you.”

“Don’t speak to me like I’m a stranger meddling in your affairs, we are partners! We’ve been together for half a decade, we share a home, you can’t just leave!” You shout. “Don’t you think I deserve a proper explanation after everything we’ve been through? After everything you’ve put me through?” 

“What you deserve and what I can give you are rarely the same thing, and you know this.”

You scoff.

“This isn’t about you,” she continues. “This is about protecting the things I value, which includes you, whether or not you believe as much right now. If I were to reveal details, it would jeopardize everything: my work, my safety, your safety, and I’m doing what’s necessary to prevent that. I’m not willing to risk it. Because I know you as well, and I know how stubborn you are. I’m doing everything in my power to keep you out of a situation that puts you in harm’s way.”

“And what about the risk of losing me, huh? The risk of losing everything we’ve built together? You’re just walking away without giving me any proper closure, —dropping this bomb on me and expecting me to take it in stride? Just swallow this like it’s not going to turn my world upside down?” 

Tears threaten to spill down your cheeks.

“How is this any better?” You demand.

“It has nothing to do with you,” she retorts. “It has nothing to do with walking away from you.”

“Yes it does, because that’s what you’re doing!” You argue. 

“I am making a choice that I believe is best for my career and for both our safety. I’m ensuring that my choices don’t put you in danger. You of all people must understand that by now.” 

The silence stretches after her words and you feel the weight of them mix with your mounting frustrations. 

“You think you’re protecting me by shutting me out like this?” You question, hurt evident in your voice. “By just up and leaving without giving me any real explanation? How is this supposed to make anything better?” “I never said it was supposed to make anything better.”

You laugh, bitter and sarcastic. Her frown deepens. 

“I’m not doing this to hurt you,” she tells you in earnest, but it’s hard to believe it in the moment.

What do intentions matter in this case if it hurts you all the same?

“What about us?” You question, voice breaking. “What about the life we’ve built together? You can’t just erase it all and pretend like it never happened. You can’t do that.”

Her eyes flicker with a brief flash of something like guilt, but she masks it quickly.

“My decision wasn’t made to erase our past—”

“Our past?” You interrupt.

She runs a hand down her face in frustration.

“My decision is not about erasing you,” she revises. “It’s about ensuring that my actions don’t put you in a position I can’t protect you in. I’m taking the steps to ensure that my choices don’t harm you.”

“You’re harming me right now!”

“And you can heal from this!” She snaps. “But there’s no guarantee you’ll heal from what could happen to you if I don’t make the choice I’m making right now. I’m taking the necessary steps to protect what’s important, and that includes making tough decisions.”

You feel your hands start to tremble. Because of what, you’re not sure. . . Maybe it’s anger, maybe it’s anxiety, maybe it’s grief. 

“Don’t try to justify this to me,” you shake your head. “Don’t try to pretend like you’re doing this for anyone but yourself. After everything I’ve done for you, all the sacrifices I’ve made, you’re throwing everything away like it’s worthless? How is that protection?”

Her gaze hardens.

“You know well and full that I do not make uncalculated decisions. This is no different. I’m making a choice that keeps you safe, even if you don’t recognize that right now.” 

“It’s not about what I do or don’t understand!” You shout. “It’s about trust! It’s about being fucking honest with me! You’re not even giving me a choice in this, and that’s not fair! You’re making choices for the both of us alone that we should have been making together!” 

“I’m not asking you to like or agree with what I’m doing, I am telling you what’s taking place because I care for you, and I believe you deserve that much,” she states. “But this conversation does not change what has to be done.”

“So that’s just it then?” You question in disbelief. “You’re throwing me away and I don’t even get a say? You’re just gonna up and go and leave me to pick up the pieces by myself?” 

The rest is a blur. She gathered her things while you sit around in a daze, pinching yourself every so often, convinced that you’ll wake up and it’ll all just be a nightmare. You’ll tell her about it when you wake up and she’ll tell you you’re ridiculous with a lopsided smile on her face, and she’ll roll her eyes when you wrap your arms around her waist and bury your face in her chest. It’ll all feel better when she kisses the crown of your head and mumbles that she’ll see you when she gets home from work. 

But she doesn’t.

“Moira,” you practically whimper as she emerges from your shared room with items smushed into a travel case. “Don’t. Don’t do this.” 

She pauses, unable to meet your gaze completely. Like she’s ashamed in all of this, as much as she wants to hide that away.

“This isn’t easy for me either,” she tells you.There’s a twisted coolness to her voice, like she’s rehearsed these exact lines so many times before now.

“But I’ve made my decision. There’s nothing more to say.”

“Please,” you choke out, not caring how pathetic or childlike you sound as you beg for this woman not to exit your life and leave you high and dry. “Please don’t do this, don’t leave, please don’t go, we can figure something out—”

“We can’t,” she shakes her head. “I’m leaving, and I don’t know when I’ll return. I don’t even know that I’ll be coming back at all.”

“But I love you,” you utter in desperation. 

“I know,” she says, her voice colder than you ever thought it could be. “But love isn’t enough right now. This is bigger than us, and I can’t ignore that.”

You reach out and grab the sleeve of her button-up shirt.“Don’t do this to me,” you plead.

But when you look into her eyes, all you see is resignation.

“I wish things were different,” she murmurs, her voice softer now, but still laced with that same finality. “But I can’t change what I have to do. This isn’t about us, it’s about something far bigger, and I need you to trust me like you always have.”

“Moira.”

Her thumb strokes your cheek in a tender gesture that feels like a cruel contrast to the words she’s saying. 

“You’re stronger than you think, and you’ll be okay,” she continues. “And maybe there’ll be a day when I can come back. But for now, you have to let me go.”

You feel sick to your stomach, hand clutching so tightly around her’s that it likely hurts, but you can’t help it. You shake your head as your throat squeezes and you open your mouth slightly to speak, but nothing comes out.

She pauses in the doorway, her back to you, and for a moment you think she might turn around. But she doesn’t. Instead, she simply says, “Take care of yourself.” The memory fades and you feel hollow. Raw, like the wound has been ripped open all over again. It stings like it’s been covered in salt. You blink, realizing now more than before that you’re alone, on the floor in this cold, empty apartment. The echo of the door as it closed behind her for the last time rings in your ear, over and over, a sound you can’t shake no matter how hard you try. So you don’t. You sit and let it fester. And maybe you’ll wait around for her and she’ll come crawling back some few odd years later. Maybe you’ll move on and search for her in the face of every potential partner you sit across from at warm cafes. As you sit there, the painting looms in your vision, its once comforting brushstrokes now a bittersweet echo of a time when everything felt whole. It’s a reminder of what was and what might never be again and it makes you nauseous just to stare in its tainted direction. But you’ll keep it hung no matter where you go, and you know that. . . Because Moira loved it. And you love her. 

[mephestopheles]

Adding my thoughts to the collective brainrot of the locked tomb fandom. I literally couldn't wait more than a month before diving into the series again, having finished it at the beginning of April. I'm just starting act 3 of Htn and we'll, one thankfully it's much easier to follow now that I can kind of see the path ahead.

What struck me though is, I think I understand why Pal and Cam had to die instead of Magnus and Abigail in the Canaan House Au's. Harrow is healing herself of the damage done by the weird lobotomy she has given herself. I think she really tried to make sure it was permanent, but doesn't realise that as a lyctor all she would need is time, and given that she is in fact like 201 ghosts in one tiny frame, she doesn't even need a lot of time.

So when she's awake, it's the usual go and she's concerned with her physical body and she's dissociated enough from that, that even she can't see her eyes correctly in the mirror anymore. (Side note, I love how often everyone questions Ortus, when she mentions him and how subtle it is at first)

When Harrow's asleep though, she's healing her brain by recreating her memories from the ground up. Now maybe initially the plan was to rewrite all of those memories with Ortus to make sure it's as permanent as the physical tampering. But I don't think she planned or even anticipated that she's powerful enough to drag the actual ghosts back to puppet the story in full.

I believe she's powerful enough to have actually unintentionally brought Wake's ghost back with her through the River. That's why she's getting the bits of memories and notes from Wake (first about the eggs and then about killing the others)

But specifically in the rewrite of the memories, Harrow is trying to justify certain things that can't quite be changed. Gideon was very upset about Magnus and Abigail's death, she took it really hard and Harrow didn't understand it in the first book (now that's Gideon's pov and Gideon is so paranoid that it's possible that Harrow is reckoning with Gideon being treated like shit what a crumb of kindness did). So she transposes that pain and grief to the people who make sense. Thus rewriting their roles to be those who died and that leaves Magnus and Abigail taking over in Cam and Pal's shoes.

Another big reason is that Cam isn't dead and Pal isn't technically in the river so she can't drag them in to inhabit their puppets.

I also love that Gideon was so lovestruck by Dulcinea in Harrow's memories that she can't remove it from Ortus at all, so he's instantly developed feelings for Dulcie and doesn't care for Pro. Since we didn't get much from Pro in the first book (poor dead walking bodyguard) what we get might be real, or it could be Harrow giving Ortus some reason to not like him.

That's what I've pieced together so far, it seems to fit with what I remember, but let's face it the first read of Htn is generally a fever dream.

[paradoxcase]

Harrow the Ninth audiobook, Chapter 1-4

When talking about how Gideon's sword hates her, the narrator says that Harrow "knew it to be real, even then", which is kind of an interesting look back from the end of the book when we find out that the sword was being possessed by Wake, who obviously just hates all necromancers as a matter of course

Stele was not pronounced how I expected, but I've just never heard it pronounced before and it turns out that is the correct pronunciation. Huh

John says of the 500 resurrected people in stasis that he's sending back to the Ninth that "only a third will show necromantic aptitude". Presumably, this must then be the rate of necromantic aptitude that he observed right after the Resurrection, and I guess it increased from there (if there are supposed to be an equal number of necromancers and cavaliers, presumably the rate is now around 50%). I had thought before that necromancy might have just occurred over time as a result of people living on thanergenic planets, and that the OG Lyctors were a special case or something, but it appears that something about either John killing the solar system, or the Resurrection itself, caused necromancy to occur spontaneously in about 1/3 of the people that John resurrected

I am once again wondering why John seemingly can't resurrect anyone anymore, I think it might be that only Alecto can resurrect people, but if Alecto had resurrected the initial population, I wouldn't have thought that necromancy would be a side effect of that, since Alecto's powers, and the powers she gave John, don't seem to have been necromancy specifically, so I suspect that regular humans winding up being necromancers was just an accidental side effect of something

John's discussion of planets having souls reminded me that John also says in Nona that he killed the sun in addition to the planets, and it's been said throughout the books that the sun is also thanergenic and is now powered by John. John says here that planets have souls because they have microbial life; obviously the sun does not have microbial life. But if John killed it, does it have some kind of soul anyway? Or does he just mean that he somehow absorbed all of its power? But previously in the Nona storyline, John only got power from dead things, and presumably could have gotten power from living things as well - he didn't like, photosynthesize. So now I'm wondering what exactly happened to the sun, if it was alive by some metric, and if killing it generated a resurrection beast

I love how John starts out Chapter Two by telling Harrow that her earlier decision to come with him was a decision made when she was in an emotional state and thus wasn't truly voluntary so he's giving her another option to really consider it, and then later he tells her that it's actually false decision and she doesn't have a choice anyway because if she goes back to the Nine Houses it will draw the resurrection beasts there

Harrow says that in her hallucinations after her parent died, Alecto had black eyes, like Harrow's, and it's only starting with her hallucinations now on the Erebos that she has the gold eyes that are actually Alecto's eyes (after being consumed by John). Was she not actually being haunted back then and is only now being really haunted by Alecto starting from this point in the story? This is also where she says she can physically feel Alecto, and where Alecto speaks to her, which lends weight to the "not hallucinating" thing, but if Alecto started haunting her when she breached the Tomb, why is she only properly appearing to Harrow now? And Alecto is also here talking to her and telling her to "turn around" and remember Gideon. I don't think Alecto has any special interest in Gideon. She might just be trying to help Harrow, but like, this is very far from the first time Harrow has needed help and advice

I think Moira Quirk does a different voice for child!Harrow reciting her prayers for the great-aunts, it's very good

Harrow's altered memory of unlocking the Tomb has her having "bloodied fists" when she unlocks the door, but there's nothing in that chapter that says why she had them

Harrow's parents made two nooses for Mortus. I know Mortus was supposed to be a big guy, but I don't think that's how hanging works, where you need extra nooses for bigger people, is it?

In the backstory chapter, Harrow says that there were two "womb-bearing" people on the Ninth who were still young enough to reproduce, but she doesn't say who the second one was. I don't think it can be her mother, since supposedly Harrow was her last shot to have a child. I guess this is more of the "there was another girl who grew up alongside Harrow, but she died before Harrow was born" doublethink

The episode where she is suffocated with a pillow, or maybe it was a hallucination, wasn't ever resolved, was it? It seems like it was a dream at first, but then the nails are actually embedded in the wall, and also Harrow has dried blood under her fingernails during the Ianthe kiss scene. But who would have tried to kill her here?

Harrow's letter to herself says "You owe Ianthe Tridentarius the Favor of the Chain" and I have to wonder what piece of weird Ninth House tradition that is

Harrow also says in the letter that she has withheld information about "the Work" from Ianthe specifically so that she can't undo it. So I guess in the prologue, Ianthe must have genuinely figured it out on her own, and hasn't been specifically prevented from undoing it by Harrow, because she is not supposed to know the details. Was she actually respecting Harrow's autonomy there?

Harrow says in her letter that her choice to remove Gideon was the first choice she felt she was actually able to make freely, which I think says a lot about how damn fatalistic Harrow is

I notice when Gideon has reactions to things in the narrative it does sound a bit like how Moira Quirk was doing Gideon's voice earlier? I guess this is a benefit of Gideon's voice being quite similar to the baseline narrative voice here

[rruhlreviews]

Book Review - The Shining by Stephen King

This is the first Stephen King novel I’ve read, and fittingly, I read it during the largest snowstorm I’ve seen in a few years—though not nearly as severe as the blizzards that entrap the Torrance family in the Overlook. It was an excellent introduction to his body of work. Since I write gothic horror, reading The Shining has helped me to learn more about the broader canon of the subgenre, especially since my experience thus far has primarily been the foundational stories of the nineteenth century, such as Carmilla and the works of Edgar Allan Poe. The Shining, written and set in 1977, enhanced my horror experience as I had a closer cultural connection to the fears explored in the story. Small details down to the sad song Seasons in the Sun on the radio made the threats feel close to home. I believe this is why it had such mass appeal, as a reinvigorated take on a classic subgenre. Divorce, generational trauma, economic depression, and the undercurrent of racial relations are easy for the contemporary reader to connect with, and this is still true almost fifty years later in 2024.

Regardless of the year of setting, The Shining contains the hallmark elements of gothic horror: an isolated location, missed opportunities for escape, loss of sanity, and haunting. The characters not only physically trapped in the Overlook, but emotionally trapped with each other, and it’s the latter that makes the story captivating. Jack fears becoming his father, Wendy fears becoming her mother, and both fear upsetting their son with a divorce, which keep them entangled in their failing marriage. Through the narrative, their resentment for each other is as palpable as the steam building up in the boiler, a ticking time bomb. This is what I consider to be the most masterful element of the novel and the reason it remains so popular: a sense of subtle, creeping dread and psychological tension.

The first 250 pages were difficult for me to remain interested in, if I’ll be honest, but I kept reading because of the little hints. I could not put the book down for the last 200 pages. My own gothic novel has a slower pace, and something I had been recently struggling with was feeling like I needed more glamour and action to convey dread, but The Shining is titillatingly creepy with a thousand little threads that weave together in a web to ensnare the reader’s curiosity. The introduction of the story teases a climax that is paid off in full at the end. In addition to the main suspense around “redrum,” the recurring symbol of the wasps stood out to me. The first major supernatural occurrence at the Overlook was the resurrection of the hive, Jack connects the wasp nest with his abusive father and the cycle of trauma, and the entity dying at the end is compared to a swarm. The novel is neatly bookended, starting with Wendy and Danny together in a normal day, and ending with Wendy and Danny together in a new type of normal. I do personally prefer horror stories with hope at the end.

After gaining experience with formulaic mysteries and thrillers—which I do enjoy, don’t get me wrong—I love a suspenseful novel that is not predictable. Despite knowing nothing was going to allow the family to leave the Overlook, there were times I had hope Jack would snap out of it, and I really thought it wouldn’t be possible—but then he did at the very end to complete his goal of saving his family. I could not predict if Dick was going to make it to Colorado and survive to the end of the novel, and that perilous journey up the Rockies in a blizzard may be one of the most harrowing things I’ve ever read—and he fought not only the winter, but racial profiling. Another touch of realism to bring the fear home. I was convinced Wendy and Jack were going to kill each other, but Jack was the only one not to escape the Overlook. The novel kept me guessing and I felt real fear and disgust, especially when the dead woman in the tub was first revealed and when Jack was hunting Wendy in the scene made famous by the movie. A successful horror story indeed. My hope for my own writing is to make a reader feel such raw emotion and concern for a character.

As for criticism, I’m unsure how I felt about the third person omniscient point of view. I believe we needed all the viewpoints offered to get a full picture of the story told, but at times, the perspective seemed to shift midsentence and the style wasn’t the most readable. From a gender lens, something I could’ve gone without was how the novel paused to mention what every woman’s chest felt or looked like. It’s not unexpected for a male author in the seventies but it did take me out of the narrative. If I had a shot every time the word “nipple” appeared, I probably would have about five shots, which is, in my humble opinion, too many for a story without a romantic focus.

If The Shining was written by an unknown author in 2024, I feel like it wouldn’t have been allowed to have such a slow start or have a length of 500 pages. The market has changed since 1977 for an audience with a much shorter attention span. The first page is Jack’s dislike for his new boss. It doesn’t have the hook demanded by modern readers. Yet the first chapter foreshadows the rest of the novel, and right away, we know Jack will try to kill his family like the former caretaker. The narrative may meander at times like a mountain road, but it delivers. King keeps his promises to the audience in The Shining, which is what makes the book and him as an author so successful.

[elliaze]

GODS WARRIOR - CHAPTER TWELVE

Pairings: Steven Grant x fem!reader x Marc Spector

Warnings: age gape and my english as i’m not a native speaker, fighting, blood, death, curses

Italics are reader thoughts.

Words Count: 3600+

MASTERLIST

BAD IDEA, GOOD IDEA

MARC AND Y/N BURST INTO THE FLAT. 

It was early morning, the sun was blazing mercilessly and her dream was that finding the informant would go, as simply as possible. 

Of course, simple at most could be making tea, not finding someone who might know Harrow's location. 

The flat they found themselves in was empty and looked as if someone had already preceded them. All belongings were scattered about, the sofa had been cut so that a filling was coming out of the hole, and there were fresh traces of blood on the floor. 

“Marc, look,” she called out and pointed her finger at the scarlet stains that led to the window. “Do you think someone caught him?” 

“Then I'll kill him too,” he said through clenched teeth, and then stood on the windowsill and leaned out of the window. He looked around to the side and when he came back into the room he looked at Y/N. “There are more footprints on the building. Come on, it's not high.” 

Marc gave her a hand and she took it. She jumped onto the parapet and then onto the roof of the lower building. Someone had decided to use it as a cluster of rupees, but she didn't think anything of it when she saw another trail of blood leading further down towards the further. Marc was immediately next to her and stepped forward.

“He shouldn't be far away. If we hurry, we can still find him.” 

And without a word he took off running across the roofs of the next buildings. She had no choice but to follow him. She'd never been a fan of sports, her fitness was in a state of disrepair, but training on the Olympus gave her a real workout. There no one gave her a head start, and thus no one treated her favourably. That was the only reason why, until now, she had now been able to take part without any problems in a race she would never have signed up for herself. She dodged the laundry that hung on the ropes mounted against the roof walls, jumped over to the other building and continued running. Marc was a few steps ahead of her and, with a run, jumped up to the upper floor. 

“You fucking kidding me,” she muttered to herself, but she didn't stop for a moment. She bounced off the edge of the lower building, jumped upwards and grabbed the higher roof at the last moment. She struggled to pull herself up, first to steady one elbow, then the other, and finally, as she stood on her own two feet, she saw that they were too late. The man they were looking for was kneeling surrounded by three others, and one of them had plunged a knife into his body. The man dropped dead almost instantly. 

“Oh, shit,” Marc cursed loudly, drawing the attention of the other men. “You kill him? We needed to talk to that guy. About the dig site. Guess we're gonna have to talk to you instead.” 

One of them snorted, looking straight at Y/N. She knew that ironic look perfectly well. She saw it every time someone disrespected her and thought that, as a woman, she couldn't do anything and was completely defenceless. She hated the fact that she constantly had to prove to everyone that this wasn’t true. Sometimes even to herself. 

“You're too late,” one of them announced and raised the knife he had used to murder the man earlier. “You'll never gonna find Harrow.”

The man tossed the blade up into the air, it did a spin in the air, and when it landed back in his hand, he redrew a semi-circle on the roof of the building with it. Y/N watched this in surprise, and when the other man also pulled out a knife and together they began to do dance-like movements, she wondered if this was some new martial art. Or maybe it was just that she was so backward that she much preferred ordinary, traditional fighting. Although out of all this, she preferred the third option the most: they were the ones who were just crazy. She unbuckled the waist belt that held her new beige shawl and pulled it from her neck. She tied one end around her wrist, so that when she lowered her hand down, the material trailed along the ground. 

“Oh. What, are we dancin'? We fightin'? What are we gonna do?” Marc asked, and she giggled quietly. She thought it was an extremely funny text for Spector. 

“I'd prefer dancing, but fighting would be okay,” she said with amusement, and didn't wait until they were the ones being attacked, but provoked the attack herself. She threw her shawl up in the air so that it landed on the head of one of the men, and then she pulled the material towards her and smiled innocently at the confused guy. “Hi.” 

“Fucking bitch,” he growled in her direction and stabbed forward. 

Y/N quickly did a dodge, taking a step backwards. She threw her leg up and kicked him in the shin with all her strength, causing him to fall to one knee. She slammed her foot into his hand and he let go of his knife. Almost immediately she found herself behind him, wrapping her shawl around his neck. She squeezed the ends of the material and shook the man so that he straightened up and she could lean over him. 

“Where's Harrow?” She asked, but before she could hear any reply, she felt a piercing pain in her back. She fell forward, which was immediately exploited by the man she was trying to question. The man disentangled himself from the cloth and threw himself at her, pinning her to the ground. His hands quickly found their way to her neck and began to tighten their grip on her. Y/N bunched up all her muscles and then punched him in the nose with her head. The man groaned loudly, but let her go and she was able to take a quick breath. She slipped out from under his body and then kicked him in the chest with both legs. The guy fell on his back and just as she was about to get up and start questioning him again, someone once again attacked her from behind. 

When she turned around, she saw a young boy in front of her, who couldn't even be in his twenties. The kid had assumed a fighting stance, but it wasn't this that caught her attention, but the eyes that looked at her with fear. For a brief moment she hesitated, but eventually she punched the boy in the face, but lightly enough not to cause him more harm. Then she grabbed him by his jacket and pushed him against the wall, pinning him against it.

“Don't fight me, because you have no chance,” she threatened him, punching him in the face again. She knew she wouldn't have a clear conscience after that, but she was going to take advantage of the boy's fear. “Where is Harrow? TELL ME!”

“I'm not going to tell you anything!” He shouted back to her with certainty. Y/N cursed loudly. 

“Kid, do you want to live?” 

“Ammit will judge us all.” 

“Okay, I was nice,” she growled under her breath, and then put her elbow forward and pressed her forearm against the neck of the boy, who immediately began to choke due to lack of adequate air supply. “Talk, where is he!”

“Y/N, don't do that!” cried Marc, but she quickly realised that his accent changed. From American to British and she knew that somehow Steven had started to take control of his body again. “Let him go, he's innocent.” 

“He knows where Harrow is,” she replied nervously, but didn't even look at Steven. She kept looking into the boy's eyes, hoping that her murderous gaze would frighten him even more and he would start talking. “Tell me what you know!”

“Y/N!”

Steven's loud shout made her finally turn towards him and she unconsciously loosened her grip on the boy. The man quickly evaded her and took off running, as did the other two. She wanted to move straight after them, but strong arms wrapping around her waist immediately stopped her. Steven grabbed her tightly, and all she wanted was to break free from his grasp and finish the task. 

“Steven, let me go,” she said firmly, trying for a calm voice. “If we let them go now, we'll never find Harrow or Ammit's grave.”

“Violence won't get you anywhere,” he announced simply, and she pushed back against him, though she did it with a heavy heart. Steven's touch was pleasant, different from the one Marc had treated her. Steven clearly cared about her and didn't want her to do all those awful things, but she knew she had no other choice. 

“Listen, Steven,” she sighed heavily, lifting her gaze to him. “Harrow can't find Ammit. You can do what you want. Go back to England and put it all out of your mind, hand over control to Marc so we can finish this thing together. However, as much as I'd like to, I'm not moving from here until I stop Harrow and find my dagger.” 

“You have a choice. You don't have to do this.”

At this point, she regretted that Steven had regained control of their bodies. Normally, she wouldn't have minded at all, especially as Marc had his moods. However, in this situation, he was the only one who could help her. Innocent Steven, who wouldn't even hurt a fly, let alone a human being, was completely unsuitable. 

“The truth is, I have to,” she replied. “Steven, if you don't want to hand over control to Marc, I understand, but you should go. I will do it on my own.” 

“Y/N…”

“Go” she interrupted him firmly. Steven looked at her sadly, but finally turned and walked through the entrance to the building, leaving her alone on the roof.

Y/N cried out in frustration, burying her face in her hands. She continued in this position for a few seconds until she realised that she couldn't stand  like this. She picked up her shawl and stood on the edge of the roof, looking for the quickest exit from the building. Just below her was a small canopy, lower down was a rope that hung through the windows of two buildings, and at the very bottom she spotted colourful umbrellas that, at least minimally, could cushion her fall. She jumped off the roof onto the canopy of the balcony and then bounced off it towards the rope. She fell a few metres down and caught hold of the rope at the last moment. She waited a second for the rope to stop swinging and she was able to land straight down at the bottom of the street. What she didn't expect was the quiet sound she barely heard in the street bustle coming upstairs.

She looked at the other end of the rope and before she could say a loud “fuck”, the rope snapped and she landed with all her might on the wall of the building. The impact made her run out of air in her chest and she couldn't catch her breath. She groaned protractedly in pain, trying several times to take a deep breath, but each one ended in failure. Her lungs were burning with a fire and she wondered if she hadn't died after all, because it was impossible for her to still be alive.

Eventually, however, her breathing began to normalise. Her lungs were still bothering her, but enough that she could get used to it. She climbed down the rope, and when she landed on the street, she breathed a sigh of relief. She had no idea which way to go, but that was quickly resolved when she first recognised the voice of one of the men they had been fighting on the roof, and then the loud sounds of brawl. She immediately moved in that direction and when she was halfway down the alley, she saw that Marc had regained control of his body and it was he who was fighting again. Before she could reach him, however, she saw one of the attackers take a board of some sort and hit Marc's head with it. He lost his balance and, on top of that, he got pelted in the face by the other one and fell to the ground. 

“Guys!” She called out, moving on them and attacking. 

She alternated between attacking and dodging more blows, so that at one point she no longer knew which of them was fighting her at any given time. She felt that with each passing minute, she was losing more strength and just when she thought it could only end in her death, Marc woke up and helped her overpower all three of them. However, there was something different in his behaviour, something more cruel and ruthless. Something she was seeing for the first time, even if she already knew that he did not refrain from violence in any way. 

“Take the kiddo,” he turned to her, lifting the battered and bloodied two from the ground. Y/N immediately obeyed his command, but she couldn't help feeling that something had changed in his voice. It was still an American accent, but it seemed to her that it was lower than before. 

And was he softly speaking some kind of Spanish?

Marc led them to a vacant van and threw the two men into the pack, slapping them on the back of the head beforehand. He repeated the gesture with the young boy and, when all three were unconscious, opened the passenger-side door. 

“Go on, pretty girl,” he said and sent her a cocky smile.

Y/N concluded that she must have taken a decent blow to the head, because this was not normal behaviour for Marc. The fact that he wasn't in control during the fight definitely bothered her, but now, she didn't even know what she was supposed to think about it. The unexpected compliment, or nickname - she couldn't tell exactly - left her with no idea what to say. So, without a word, she climbed into the car, and after a moment he got behind the wheel and started the engine without much trouble, despite the fact that he had no keys. He corrected the mirror at the front so that it was pointing towards the rear of the car so that, if anything, he could quickly observe the movement of the unconscious three. 

“Where are we going?” She asked, glancing at him. Marc did not reciprocate, and his gaze was fixed on the road. 

“Out of town. There won't be any people there,” she nodded, and then furrowed her brow when he spoke again. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“Just battered. I banged into the wall of the building, but I don't think I'm in any serious danger. Thank you for your concern anyway.” 

Marc nodded and muttered something under his breath, but did not reply. In fact, neither of them spoke the whole way, but she couldn't help glancing at him every so often. She didn't think she knew him particularly well, given that their acquaintance had lasted a few days, but even now she could tell that something didn't sit well with her about him. Since when had he called her pretty? Not that she had anything against it, because every woman liked to receive compliments, but she had a feeling that barely her name could pass his lips.  

Either I had hit myself too hard in the head, or it was him after all. 

After a while, the van parked on a deserted hill outside the town, and Marc immediately left the car and started in the back. In the reflection of the mirror, she saw him throw everyone to the ground one by one, and they began to wake up. The two of them moved to fight again, but it looked like the youngest one was slow to understand the seriousness of the situation. The boy stepped back to the side, and then she too decided to leave the car. As she jumped down onto the dry, sandy ground she saw Marc plunge a knife into one man's chest and immediately murder the other man in cold blood. The sight of blood was nothing new to her. Neither was murder, but the last thing she expected was just such an image. Especially as they needed to find Harrow and only the three of them knew where he was staying. 

“Marc! What the bloody hell was going on? We were supposed to question not kill them!” - She called out to him and he looked at her with eyes widened in shock. 

“What?” Marc turned to look at one of the dead bodies. Then his gaze stopped on the knife he held in his hand and he began to mumble quietly under his breath. If Y/N was shocked, she didn't quite know how she should describe what she saw on Marc's face. Terror, anxiety and she had a feeling that this was the first time she had seen him unable to control his emotions for a brief moment. “Steven what did you do?” Steven must have answered him, because there was a brief pause, and then he spoke again. “Then who was it?”

She had the feeling that she was dreaming and this wasn't happening. How in a short time, could everything get so messed up? From the moment she had started that day with Marc, then Steven's appearance during the fight, and Marc again, but she wasn't so sure anymore. The young boy groaned in pain and Spector turned towards him. He threw the knife to the ground and approached the kid. 

“Where's the tomb?” Marc asked firmly. His figure visibly tensed and he was even more determined than before to extract the information he needed. 

Just then Khonshu materialised beside them. 

“Take him to the ledge,” the god instructed.

“He's just a kid.” 

“He'll talk.” 

“Marc” she spoke his name with a warning, but he ignored her. 

He grabbed the boy, dragged him to the edge of the cliff and pushed him so that if he let go, the kid would fall straight down. 

“Where is Harrow?” Shouted Spector, and the boy grabbed his scarf and looked down. Y/N hoped that the kid would cooperate right away and understand that this was the only thing that could save him from possible death. 

“Praise Ammit,” he said. Then pulled a knife from his side and cut off the scarf Marc was holding him by. Y/N put her hand to her mouth, seeing how the kid preferred to fall and kill himself rather than divulge any information. 

Always, it ends the same way. Always.

Marc froze in place and stared in shock down the cliff, where the boy's body looked like a small, insignificant stain. 

“I thought he'd talk,” Khonshu spoke up, leaning forward over the cliff. 

“You're for real?” she growled, addressing the deity directly. Marc shook his head, signalling to her that talking about the subject was not a good idea, but just as he had done before, she now chose to ignore him. “He was just a kid! He believed in these stupid ideas, but you could have seen it coming! They always make dramatic decisions in situations like this. Always!” 

She clenched her fists and jaw tightly, trying to control her rage. She couldn't get over what the kid had done, but it was too late to do anything about it. 

“He decided to sacrifice himself, little one,” replied Khonshu remarkably calmly. 

“He did it because Harrow messed with his head! Fuck! What do we do now?” Y/N looked to where Marc was standing just a moment ago, but he wasn't there. When she turned around, she saw him standing in front of a dusty, shattered mirror and communicating with Steven once again. “Marc!” 

“Stay out of my way!” growled Marc to his reflection and then turned to Y/N and Khonshu. “Well, if we can't find Harrow's digging crew, we're gonna have to stop them another way” he took a deep breath and addressed the deity directly. “So? What about the other gods? Are they just gonna stand by and allow somebody to unleash Ammit?”

“To signal for an audience with the gods is to risk their wrath” Khonshu confessed. 

“No shit Sherlock,” Y/N snarled. “What can they do to you?”

“Anger them enough, and they'll imprison me in stone.” 

“That doesn't sound so bad for me” commented Marc. 

“See, how you fare against Harrow without the protection of my healing armor.”

“All right,” agreed Marc in exasperation, throwing his arms up and lowering them back along his body. “So, what? Do you have any good ideas?”

Khonshu did not answer immediately. He leaned his head forward for a brief moment before finally looking back at Marc and Y/N and speaking up. 

“I have a bad one.” 

She identified with it unusually. 

Why come up with good ideas when the bad ones are definitely better. 

Later, Khonshu disappeared, but she almost immediately sensed the intensification of the divine powers. When she noticed that it was getting darker and darker unexpectedly, she looked up, where the sun, shining strongly, began to change into a crescent moon that enveloped the entire city in darkness, and then took a circular form and stayed that way. 

“What are you doing?” Marc asked, and the deity immediately answered him. 

“Sending the gods a signal they can't ignore.” 

⸻

TAGLIST:

@officialholyagua, @graciexmarvel, @princessleah129, @simonsbluee, @inwisper, @ahookedheroespureheart, @rayrlupin, @crazyshiper35, @classypeachlightsalad, @woofgocows, @ac-procrastinator-13

[not-so-rosyyy]

Your post the other day got me thinking and sparked my interest - I haven’t bought a manga in years. Do you have any recommendations, especially more current?

OMG! I love this topic.

okay, so i actually don’t know what genre you’re into with regards to manga, but judging from your other interests, i’d say you’re into Shonen/ Fantasy/ Action/ Historical

some of these you might have already heard about, but these really are my favorite from recent years, and they're all excellent:

1. Attack on Titan - set in a post-apocalyptic world where the last of humanity are stuck inside a gated community surrounded by what they call The Walls because there are man-eating giants outside to get them. this is like the Game of Thrones of manga, in that it's like super dark, gritty and harrowing. lots of mysteries and conspiracies and real-world parallels with social issues that plague us today. the early volumes are especially top-notch. everytime i read this, i'm like "humanity is shit" but also somehow i still want to root for us lol. i cried a lot here.

2. One Punch Man - about a depressed and bored superhero facing an existential crisis because he's become so strong he can defeat any (and i mean ANY) monster and villain with just one punch. lmao sounds ridiculous but that's the point because it's really a satirical look into the superhero genre. it subverts a lot of your expectations into that kind of narrative because it directly exposes tropes. really funny (like, the main character treats average things like budgeting and groceries as his biggest problems like the rest of us), but also action-packed and the main plot and mystery just gets better and better over time.

3. Akatsuki No Yona - well, this one isn't a shonen because the main character here is a woman and romance is a huge part of the story. BUT it is not the driving force of the plot. it's really more about politics, leadership, adventure, etc. the lore is really rich, too, imo. and Yona (the MC) is one of the most inspiring female characters i've ever encountered in manga. this is the story of how she, a once sheltered princess in a once "peaceful" kingdom, had to escape the palace after the emperor got murdered during a mutiny. on the run from her enemies, she soon learned that the world outside the palace is far from the idyllic place she once thought, and from her dealings with the common people, found her strength and grew to be a great leader in her own right all while trying to stop the ongoing war and take back the kingdom from her foes. (it's a very I JUST LOVE WHEN WOMEN! type of story)

4. My Hero Academia - this one I think is the most typical shonen story in this list (you know, the very untalented and weak protagonist who grew to be the most powerful one by sheer willpower coupled with a heart of gold). but it executes the genre's tropes and cliches really well, me thinks, and that's why it's wildly popular today. it's set in a world where having "quirks" or superpowers are common, and yet Midoriya (the MC) doesn't have one...even though his dream is to be the greatest superhero like his idol All Might. long story short, they meet and All Might, after seeing how Midoriya possesses the most important quality of a hero, passes his quirk onto him. and thus starts Midoriya's journey of proving that he deserves that power and living up to his idol's name. also cried a lot reading this. (lmao notice the pattern)

5. Kingdom - this is like...one of my most favorite mangas i've ever read. i'd say it's up there with One Piece as one of the best in the shonen genre. the main story is a fictionalized account of the Warring States period of China and it's told mainly from the POV of a young and poor war orphan who joined the military and rose to be one of its greatest generals. if you're into history, philosophy, politics, battlefield strategies and tactics--i couldn't recommend this manga enough. the characterization and story progression are A++. lots of epic moments and speeches that made me shiver and cry buckets. and it constantly ups the stakes and introduces allies you'll love and enemies you'll come to respect. (also...i love the female characters here.)

***sorry for this long ass answer you didn't ask for btw lmao***

[privateanxieties]

The Zombie Apocalypse ft. Peter Parker (Part 2)

Summary: It’s been weeks of living in the post apocalypse, and life at the Parker house might just be the way to get through this, until it isn’t. All it takes, it seems, is a moment of weakness - or, as it were, strength. May Parker is stronger than the best of them.

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader (she/her pronouns); established relationship, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst.

Warnings/Spoilers: high-tension situations, zombies? Some violence, but nothing too graphic. The topic of having children is brought up.

Words: 5.6K

----------------------------

Five weeks into the zombie apocalypse, there was good news and bad news.

The good news was that zombies had a limited shelf life, with reports of many of them having started to die off circulating among the remaining population.

The bad news was that the remaining population had decreased by at least half.

A lot of people were either dead for good, or… for all intents and purposes.

Anyone who hadn't yet turned appeared to have a natural immunity against the airborne virus, but they could still meet their end between clanking teeth.

Those still alive had seen horrors untold, and for most, going forward in life would be done in the same way they used to do it in the Dark Ages. No mercy, no hesitation, and no crying over what was lost until rebuilding started.

May Parker was not most people.

---------------------------

It was, funnily enough, the beginning of May. You'd have thought no one noticed the blooming trees or the serene skies, but at the end of the world, one had to find glimmers of hope wherever they chose to manifest.

The most beautiful peach tree sat just outside Peter Parker's bedroom window, so close that its branches kissed the side of his childhood house. A longing gaze fell upon it from the woman occupying the room, hands working of their own accord on the surface of a small wooden desk. She hadn't drawn in so long.

Even before the collapse of society, hobbies hadn't ranked particularly high on her list of priorities. There was a life to live, but one had to survive first, and thus a living had to be earned. The end times weren't very different, except now she had time she hadn't seen since she was a child. There was a bitterness in the realization that an apocalypse allowed for more leisure than capitalism ever had, but then again, she was lucky. She had a good support system.

Half of it was missing at the moment, and maybe drawing was less of a pleasant pastime than she made it out to be. Maybe it was needed in order to keep her nerves steady while Peter was out for a supply run.

They were few and far between, but all were the same kind of high-tension events. The stress of waiting for him to return was harrowing, but knowing there'd be nothing she could do if he didn't was the real psychological strain. The city was a minefield, and the first time he'd gone, he returned with a look she'd never be able to forget. That was at the very beginning, which already felt like a lifetime ago. They were all becoming more resilient in their own ways, all assigned their responsibilities and tools, and all with a solid structure to their days. Supply run days were the exception, as neither of them could think properly with Peter out there.

May was a trooper, all things considered. Resourcefulness could have been her middle name, for all that she'd managed to accomplish since the beginning of the end. The knowledge she possessed thanks to her nurse training was not even the most valuable - no, it appeared her fifty years of experience as a homemaker were far more necessary, and she was sure that without May, she and Peter would have either starved long ago, or would have had to leave for food every other day. May's special skill was making something out of nothing, materializing items out of thin air whenever the occasion called for it.

She was grateful for the older woman's presence, and even more grateful that Peter had her near, because she could see the sedative effect May had on him. And although she knew her own family was safe in another state, having had time to prepare for the apocalypse with ample warning, it was taxing to be away from them when there was no telling how long it'd be before they saw each other again.

She was surprised with how often she sought out May's company, not only for her kindness, but for the comfort of having a female figure in her life during extenuating circumstances. Peter was her everything, but Peter was also her partner, and she felt she had a responsibility to be strong for him, just like he was strong for her. It was an unfair exchange, she thought, given how much he was doing and how his abilities tore at him. He couldn't sit still and hide away, knowing there were people who could use his help, but he also couldn't sleep at night.

The thought of anything happening to either May or her took its toll, with many nights spent practically over top of him, much like a weighted blanket, at his request. He could sleep better knowing she was right there, her weight infusing his subconscious with calm. She guessed it had something to do with his powers, a pretty good clue being that she always awoke stuck to him, unable to move until he came to. They truly were learning much about each other these days.

For example, she was learning that Peter could find things to be embarrassed about even during the apocalypse. Since his childhood bedroom remained essentially untouched during the years he spent away from it, there was an abundance of… interesting paraphernalia lying around. She'd been cleaning out the space between his bed and the wall to make room for some weapons to keep nearby, when she came across a tattered little magazine holding all sorts of things. It wasn't Playboy. No, Peter's sensibilities were of artistic inclination. The shots were very tasteful, as she made her impression known to him with mirth.

It didn't stop him webbing the magazine right out of her hand with a furious blush. She'd never seen him blush. It was adorable.

However, the thought of him… perusing the pages with intent was less adorable, and that night the weirdness between them reached a peak when they realized that they were both thinking the same thing. It turned out that one could still be irrevocably horny during the apocalypse, perhaps even more so than usual. Life or death being the general modus operandi, you get a little anxious with the passing days. You also lose some of your inhibitions, which wasn't really in their favor when they needed to be mindful of another person in the house. May was very gracious not to say anything about their activities, because it was unquestionable that she'd heard them. Multiple times. And in any other world, she would have been mortified, even unable to meet the woman's eyes.

At this moment, though, she kind of missed her. With Peter not supposed to arrive for another hour, she figured she could go see what May was up to.

Satisfied enough with the progress on her sketch, she left the papers where they were, thinking she could come back to them later if she convinced Peter to keep the window uncovered for a little longer. He usually conceded, but only when he was around. He understood that it was hard to not leave the house for so long, because even if he dreaded the things he saw on supply runs, he was grateful for the outings nevertheless.

Stretching her most tense muscles, she placed the mechanical pencil behind her ear and returned the web shooters to their now familiar place around her wrists. They were old ones that Peter had refurbished into something a little easier to use and more sensitive to pressure. Peter's own web shooters were a lot tougher to press, having been built to account for super strength. He's pressed them accidentally one too many times.

These old ones were his first pair, having been sewn together awkwardly by a seventeen year old, the dark brown leather sourced from his father's briefcase - one of the only things of his that Peter had left. Their significance made her look after them with care, feeling emotional whenever she truly pondered their newfound home around her wrists.

With a final stretch and a look towards the window, she left the room to search for May, not surprised at her presence in the living room, where she'd been spending the past few days sorting through old boxes to keep busy.

"Hey May", she greeted.

The brown haired woman looked up from the clothes she was folding on the couch, a smile lighting up her face. She motioned to the spot next to the clothes in invitation, greeting her in return. Taking a seat with the pile between them, she noticed what sort of garments they were.

"Baby clothes?"

May nodded.

"Peter's?", she asked again, brows raised. She thought Peter had been left in the Parkers' care when he was about eight. May noticed her confusion.

"Oh, his parents got them, of course. No, these just… well, you know. Mary kept all of them and I just couldn't let them go when Ben sold their house.", she explained, reaching into the box in front of her and holding up a beige onesie with a matching cap, red dots all over it. Handing it over, she recalled the details of the outfit.

"He wouldn't wear anything else for weeks. I got this one for his first birthday. I thought it was the most fashionable one at the store - Ben said it looked like a mushroom to him."

Leaving a pregnant pause, her eyes ran over the garment with adoration.

"He was right."

The women shared a light-hearted chuckle before moving on to the next piece, one that left no doubt as to its purpose.

"No", she gasped, jaw hanging open in delight.

"Yes! He was a little platypus for Halloween! He was crawling everywhere by then, and it was his favorite animal. His father, bless him - he had this tail attached to the back that moved, and I don't know how he built that thing, but I don't think I've ever laughed so hard. Just all around the Christmas tree, squeaking as he went.", May said.

Laughing along , she almost made a joke about how Peter still crawled everywhere, just maybe with less squeaking. Still, she held back, because although May had warmed up to the idea of Spider-Man, she was not fully on board, at least not with her entire heart. She was proud of him, but worried all the same. Even though they shared in that worry now, the young woman was much more used to it, because she knew what Peter had gone through as Spider-Man and what he could withstand. May had comparatively known for a much shorter time, and needed to get accustomed to it at her own pace.

They continued along in higher spirits than they would have on their own, until May got a look on her face that spelled trouble.

"What is it?", she asked the older woman, overplaying the apprehension in her voice.

"Oh, honey, I don't - You know me, I don't stick my nose in other people's business, but I'm just so… emotional, I guess. And I can't help thinking about when all this will be over… I just don't know what to do with these clothes."

It didn't take long at all to work out what May was alluding to, and to her great surprise, she wasn't put off by the indirect personal question. It could have been because she and Peter had discussed kids before, so it wasn't too big a step to relay to May some of what they were thinking. Still, she wasn't sure how to phrase an answer to a question that hadn't been asked, so she resorted to unguarded honesty.

"We want kids. I mean, I guess you knew that Peter does, because he told me he's always wanted to be a dad.", she said, pausing to watch May nod in confirmation.

"Yeah. I want them too, and we've talked about it a few times. Obviously, not… lately, though. I don't know what this means for us. I don't know how safe the world will be in a few years, but… safe enough, I hope.", she added quietly, a small smile blooming when May took her hand in hers.

"I'm so happy he has you.", was all May said, the emotion in her voice conveying the rest.

When the moment passed, May proposed that they look through some old photo albums, unable to believe that she had yet to show her photos of baby Peter. However, with the albums upstairs in the attic, she offered to go get them instead while May offered to make them both coffee.

With the location of the albums indicated with surgical precision, the young woman made her way upstairs. May continued on to the kitchen, where she plugged in Peter's makeshift induction plate into some kind of contraption he also invented to power it up. Since the power and gas had been cut weeks ago, her boy kept coming up with all sorts of interesting solutions to practical problems around the house, and it instilled more confidence in May that he'd be alright. It wasn't easy, living with this anxiety, but she was glad her nephew had a good partner to keep him grounded and centered in this new world.

With the plate heating up, she recalled how Peter introduced it as a way to maintain some sort of normalcy, but one look at him had her figuring out the real reason behind it.

May didn't even care much for things like tea or coffee, and she could go without warm food for longer than a week.

No, May knew that Peter had been thinking of his love, who was all about little rituals to bring people together. Sharing a hot drink or having a conversation over food preparation were the ways the young woman kept sane, along with taking on the things others would have a hard time doing.

Even now, she was intent on May keeping her joints free of pressure by climbing the attic ladder herself, and the woman was truly glad Peter had found her.

Her mind swimming in sentimentality, May initially thought the noise she heard was from the water starting to boil. However, moments later, she heard it again, and this time it was not something she could mistake for an inside source.

Cautiously, May approached the kitchen window, looking through the small opening in the webbing on the left side. At first, there wasn't anything she could see, so she moved to the other window and its own tiny opening, heart beating faster. Even if she had not yet seen, she couldn't mistake those cries for anything else.

She knew that boy. Even from several houses away, May could recognize her best neighbors, and the Stevensons were among her favorites. A kind couple with the sweetest boy in the world, who always greeted her politely and helped her shovel the snow from the front of the house.

That was Tommy Stevenson out there, crying and screaming something awful, and May couldn't have done anything other than what she did next.

-------------------------------------

The attic was dusty, no question about it, and moving about without disturbing anything was easier said than done. She didn't want to navigate up there without a light source, and since there was no electricity, her phone would have to do. These days, the flashlight on it was the only useful feature, and one of the only reasons she kept it charged. The other reason was pure nostalgia. Even if she hated her phone back when it was indispensable, she couldn't deny a bit of aching for whatever made her feel like nothing had changed.

She'd never been so grateful for Peter's intellect and his knack for inventing. She didn't think she'd have ever managed to hold it together as well as she did without him and his relentless optimism.

Careful not to step on any floorboards that looked unsafe, she quickly spotted the set of crates that May had indicated, as they were the only items left uncovered by tarp.

Of the three crates, she picked the smallest one as indicated, noticing it was also the only one not sealed with nails. Resting the lid atop another box, she immediately realized it was the wrong one. Nearly overflowing with CDs, comics and everything in between, the box presented an irresistible temptation, because she knew they must all have been Peter's. On the one hand, she didn't want to be invasive, and if she asked she was sure Peter would tell her about the things he used to like, but on the other, she had none of her own things here.

Weeks ago, on his first run out in the city, Peter had asked her what she wanted from her apartment, and she didn't have it in her to name anything other than clothes, distraught as she was by horrific news. Peter brought her clothes, laptop, and a lipstick tube he found on her vanity that made her tear up and kiss him silly.

Maybe they could look through those together when he got back, and from what she could already spot lying at the top of the pile, their teenage era tastes were not that disconnected. Once the lid was placed back, she wondered which of the other two boxes was supposed to be the correct one, because both of them needed prying open with a crowbar. May forgot to mention that part.

"Hey May?", she called out, hoping the older woman would hear.

When there was no response, she tried again, walking back to the opening through which she'd come.

"May? The photos aren't where you said they are."

Realizing she would have to go back down to get an answer, she pocketed her phone and mounted the ladder, quickly descending and making her way to the kitchen.

Whatever her face morphed into when she saw the front door wide open, it must've been a sight to see.

Her first instinct was to shut it, as soon as her brain started working. But she knew. She knew that May was not in the house, and she knew that the door was not kicked in. She would have heard something like that.

The closest weapon was the baseball bat in the corner of the living room, leaning up against the wall where it hadn't been touched in a while. It was the first thing she grabbed before stepping outside.

Nerves already stretched to the max without having even left the porch, the silence of the street was the worst thing she could've encountered.

She hadn't been outside since the very first day Peter brought them there, but what little of the street she could see still looked different to her. Maybe it was just that she was expecting danger to come barreling towards her just like that first day, or maybe she was already thinking of the worst scenarios, but the facts remained the same.

There was no sign of May anywhere around the house, so she would have to stray further to look.

She had to. She'd never forgive herself if she didn't. Peter was still not meant to get back for a long enough period of time to make her unable to sit still. Anything could happen in that time, and she wasn't about to look him in the eye and tell him she didn't know where his aunt was.

Where the hell could she have gone? How did things escalate to monumentally fucked in just ten minutes?

Leaving the door open was just as risky of a move as closing it, because having to make a run back only to find it shut and waste precious seconds opening it could be the difference between life and death.

At the same time, going back inside towards what you think is safety but is just an ambush would also be unpleasant.

She chose to leave it in between, remembering what Peter told her about so-called 'smart ones'. There was nothing more terrifying than a zombie with the ability to reason, even briefly or superficially.

She wanted to call out, but it would've been a horrible decision - second only to leaving the house without telling anyone. She was really struggling to keep it together and move along.

The last step off the porch was the strangest she had ever taken, and feeling the concrete beneath was even stranger. Her knees almost tickled through her jeans, involuntarily recalling the feeling of getting into a fight with the pavement and losing.

The silence was getting more deafening by the second, and looking around only enhanced her paranoia and tightened the grip she had on the bat. It was brand new - in the sense that it had never been used since it'd been given as a gift to Peter by Ben, over nineteen years ago. He'd been too scared to play baseball.

She was too scared to breathe properly.

With every moment that May didn't make herself visible, she was feeling the dread building up in her chest.

And then, a scream, muffled and heart-stopping.

But not May's.

She was sure it wasn't hers, and she was also sure it had come from several houses over to the left of their own.

There was no choice, not in the grand scheme of things. With adrenaline circulating unimpeded and the ultimate prerogative of finding May, it didn't even occur to her to not go in the direction of the sound.

But at least she wasn't stupid. She took the unconventional route, just in case the child who was now fully screaming could've been a trap. People have done lots of messed up things for resources since everything started happening.

Down the middle of the street was the worst place to be, so she went next to the fences of the gardens across, sacrificing some speed to be able to duck low. It proved a good decision, for horrifying reasons she soon came to learn.

She knew. She knew that going towards a source of sound, especially one calling out in a very obviously human way, was a bad idea. But at least she found May.

Eight houses away from where she'd started, behind the fence she was peeking through, May was huddled together with a little boy screaming his lungs out, inside a car that was parked in front of the garage.

The other horrific sound was the zombie trying to tear through metal to get at them.

Mind freezing temporarily, she pinched her own thigh hard to help herself focus.

At least there was only one, but time was not a friend in these circumstances. More would come. More would come.

She was chanting Peter's name in her head to calm down, hoping to borrow some of his herculean strength for what she was about to do.

Easily distractible. Less coordinated than the average person. Not subtle.

Those were some characteristics of zombies that she'd learned from Peter. A plan was devised in less than a minute, but she'd only know if it was good when executed. Hopefully it wouldn't end with her execution.

Now fully crouching by the fence in a spot covered by greenery, she made her way closer to the open gate, a classic white picket. Passing the bat to her left hand, she stretched out her arm, finding her placement the way Peter taught her.

Aim just slightly off where you normally would.

Web shooter ready, she took a short breath to steady herself and pressed the mechanism, a web flying off with still shocking speed, attaching itself to the very last wooden plank in the gate.

She'd have to do everything perfectly, or it would backfire miserably.

Pulling forward hard, the gate slammed into place, rattling the entire fence and successfully attracting the attention of the zombie. To get him to move towards it, she used the web still attached to open the gate slowly, and he took off running in a second that stretched eternally.

She released the web with a double tap, gripping the bat with both hands again and pleading with herself to not fuck this up.

One, two, three ragged steps more was the best timing she could estimate, getting up from her hunched over position and planting her legs firmly, bat pulled back.

She swung with everything she had, and maybe even a little harder than she should have, because although the zombie was struck, she momentarily lost her balance.

Still, she recovered faster than he did, able to swing again.

And again, and again, and again, until the pavement was colored black with brains.

These things were nearly tar on the inside.

Shaking in place and almost unable to refocus, the thing that brought her back to semi-awareness was May's call of utter … something. She wasn't sure what the emotion in her voice was.

"Oh! Oh, sweetheart! Honey, oh my God… oh, thank God!"

The hug she subsequently received was even better for her shot nerves, and little by little, she managed to come back to herself and look May over, and only when she was sure the woman was fine did she finally set her gaze on the boy hiding behind her.

He couldn't have been older than nine, maybe even younger.

They both looked like they awoke from a nightmare, tears in their eyes and a disheveled appearance from thrashing about in the car. It knocked the wind out of her and put a fierce protectiveness in its place, at once tethering her mind to the present and sharpening her senses.

"May, we need to get back. Right now. Let's go!", she said harshly, grasping May's wrist and reorienting herself towards their house, but the moment she stepped forward, she felt resistance, followed by a determined 'no!'. It didn't come from May.

Incredulous, she turned back, seeing the boy hold on to the woman's midsection fiercely. Desperately. She didn't understand, but May was already explaining.

"Honey I tried, I tried! But Tommy wouldn't go with me. He says his parents are still inside the house and he doesn't want to go anywhere without them! And then that - that thing - it saw us in the street. I didn't know where to go, and then we got trapped and…", she said desperately, a hand coming up to wipe at her face.

The new information was not able to change her mind about the urgency at hand.

"May, listen to me. We are out in the open right now. We're in danger. You made a lot of noise. I made a lot of noise killing it. More will be here soon, we have to move!", she exclaimed, struggling to keep the volume down while feeling like she was sitting on a bomb.

"I can't leave him here!", May retorted, just as desperate.

It was her grief-stricken face that telegraphed precisely what was going on in May's head and heart.

She knew exactly what she was thinking.

Closing her eyes for a long second, the young woman worked out the things that needed to happen and in what order. Determination was the only thing she clinged to, because any other emotion would have tripped her up. She needed to get them to safety. Now.

Grasping May's left upper arm, she looked directly into the woman's eyes and spoke with a tone she'd never heard herself use.

"I'll get him. You get inside. Please, May, just get inside."

It was too late.

Zombies are not subtle. You can hear them coming before they're near you, but it isn't much of an advantage if the things can still run.

The ones coming at them from down the street certainly could.

The one good thing was that they were coming from the opposite direction. They'd have been screwed if they were approaching from the direction of the house they sought shelter in.

"Run! Run!", she called to both of them, pushing them forth.

May broke into as fast a run as she could muster, pulling the young boy along with her, and the fear of seeing how many of those things were coming at them must've made him forget his protests.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, all at various distances from them.

May was not fast enough.

It wasn't so much a decision as it was an instinct. She couldn't describe it any other way, because it was quite simple. There was no thinking involved when she slowed down, no thinking when she stopped and turned.

She tried to do some thinking when she aimed, and it resulted in two of the closest ones having their eyes webbed up, but it didn't so much stop them as made them angrier.

She wasn't good enough to aim for their fast moving legs, so she didn't even try. No sense wasting time on futile actions.

With two somewhat out of the game as they'd started veering off course, she looked back to see May and the boy had covered half the distance. Taking off running herself, she was caught off guard by a new one that came from between the houses on the right, much closer than the others. This one, she had to kill. She had to.

Stopping once more, she shot web after web as well as she could, enough to make it easier when it got close enough.

She made the swing by the skin of her teeth, or rather, by its teeth.

They lunged with their heads, most of them.

Having time for just one more swing to make sure it didn't get up after her, she took it, splattering more brains on the pavement and inching herself a little closer to a breakdown.

She could hear the snapping jaws mere feet away, indicating that she'd taken a bit too long. It was hard to accurately estimate how much time you had before being made into a zombie meal.

Running at her top speed, she just about caught a glimpse of the boy entering the house, with May soon to follow. With the snarls too close, she took one more chance out of pure fear that one of them would pounce and she'd go down without having a chance to defend herself before she got teeth stuck in her neck. It was better to face them up front with a bat than get thrown to the ground.

The proximity being what it was, shooting webs came much easier, and the aim was much better. Too bad she only had time to web another two of their faces, this time including their mouths, before she was forced to swing again.

A split second miscalculation.

There were three left with unobstructed vision, and she couldn't possibly take on the other two even if she hit the closest one. Her mistake caused enough fear to make her arms drop the bat completely and her legs to move faster than they ever had.

If they gave out like that day, that would be it for her.

It almost looked like the time-space continuum itself was dilating, stretching ad infinitum to make May's house unreachable. It was like running in a dream, when you can't actually move.

The road, the houses and the sky disappeared. There was nothing but the house, getting ever farther away.

Until it was there. Right there.

Right there, as she rounded the corner. Right there, as she climbed the front porch steps in one lunge. Right there, as she slammed the door closed behind her and aimed a web at it.

But she missed.

She missed, because her hands were shaking too much, and that was all it took.

No time. No time.

She was halfway up the stairs when they came barreling through, vicious and making the worst sounds she'd ever heard, because this was supposed to be a safe place. Terror felt inside your house was the worst kind.

With the last bit of strength she had left, she yelled at the top of her lungs for May to shut the door to the bedroom, and for better or worse, she listened, a horrific sound leaving her.

Peter. Peter's room. Their room.

Past the bathroom, past May's room. She hoped they came after her and forgot about May.

Throwing herself in and slamming the door shut just in time, she pushed her shoulder against it with all her might, twisting the lock on the knob with horribly trembling hands.

It was just like that day at the ice cream shop.

The banging. The demonic noises. The terror of being trapped.

One didn't manage to break through that day, but today there were three, and this was just a wooden door to a childhood bedroom, in a house much older than her.

And though she tried to web whatever she could of the hinges and lock, it wasn't them breaking through that ended things.

It was the mistake of leaning her head against the banging door for one moment, trying to put more force into her push, that cut out the light. She hit the ground with blurry vision and snarls in her ears, and for another moment, she wondered if she'd feel it when they tore into her.

- to be continued -

A/N: Part three coming tomorrow ( April 1st) or earlier. Don’t worry, I won’t leave you on a cliffhanger for long. As always, your thoughts are very precious and appreciated. Thank you for reading.

[luxshine]

Moon Knight Primer, Part 4

Moon Knight: Fist of Khonshu (1985), Marvel Fanfare #38, West Coast Avengers (1986) #21-41

Prologue

Part I

Part II

Part III

Small annoying biographical sidebar.  West Coast Avengers was the first time I encountered Moon Knight and the guys. And while you will see how that was not the best time to meet the System? I still have some warmth feelings about that run despite it being a very, very bad time for everyone involved.

(And for everyone involved, I mean it. West Coast Avengers single handedly destroyed not just Moon Knight’s relationship with Khonshu, but also Hawkeye and Mockingbird’s marriage AND Wanda and Vision’s marriage! In fact, West Coast Avengers is directly tied to the current status quo of Scarlet Witch as an unstable “crazy” woman and her children being not quite real. So basically, if you liked Wandavision and Multiverse of Madness? This is the comic run you want to read)

And when I say “Destroy”? I am not kidding. In a very funny turn of events, the Fist of Khonshu sets up a new status quo for Moon Knight and the guys that lasts exactly until the end of Moon Knight’s time with the Avengers. Which is a real pity as the mini introduced a lot of very interesting ideas, and the WCA run just… didn’t seem what to do with them. And then, the WCA run ALSO introduced interesting ideas that never went anywhere because they were in the middle of a very complex storyline and by the time that was over? Marc and co. were long gone and thus, it was not even worth it to bring them up again and, as far as I’ve read? No one brought them up ever again.  Well, until the TV series resurrected Harrow, so now I have hope.

Oh? Did I forget to mention? Four parts deep into this we FINALLY get to Harrow’s introduction in the comics! And he has absolutely nothing to do with the TV series Harrow, but this one? This one REALLY has a doctorate!

But I am getting ahead of myself again, so let’s start with what Fist of Khonshu changed from what we know of Moon Knight and the system, the new enemies the guys would fight, and why it is not very remembered as a mini.

Because it’s a new series, we of course have to go back to the origin of how Marc was revived by Khonshu to be his fist. Only that this time, we see that someone else was there besides Marlene and the diggers: Araamses, immortal priest of Anubis, and mayor pain in the ass for a whole issue.

The status quo as the series begins is that, after Rabbi Spector’s second death? Marlene finally got her wish, sort of, and Marc put down the mantle of Moon Knight… and also stopped letting Steven and Jake front. This is pretty much the lowest point for this mini, that we never hear from any of the Alters except for Marc, who is now enjoying Steven’s fortune and making a name for himself as Marc Spector, millionaire art gallery owner.  I have NO idea if this is because Alan Zelenetz, the main writer, really thought that integration therapy was good and worked and thus Marc didn’t need the others anymore, or because he didn’t want to bother with the Moon System at all.

Unfortunately for Marlene, but thankfully for us? This doesn’t last long. Among the things she convinced Marc to do was to sell Khonshu’s statue, and the second the thing is out of Grant… sorry, Spector’s mansion? Marc starts having visions of Khonshu calling him to Egypt, telling him that Moon Knight has to rise again against evil. Obviously, Marc wants to investigate, but Marlene, supportive as always, puts down an ultimatum: either he stays with her and forgets all that nonsense, or she won’t be there when he comes back.

And boy, they didn’t see it this way in the 80’s? But that was a huge red flag of a toxic, abusive relationship.

Thankfully, Marc doesn’t fall for that trick (Ok, the fact that a guy tries to kill him and upon failing, kills himself yelling “Death to Khonshu” helps a LOT to make him decide that yep, that is worth investigating), and even calls it her “spoiled kid act”. And yes, he will regret leaving, and spend pretty much the rest of the mini and part of WCA moping that he lost the love of his life? But Marlene is gone as the Girlfriend for now, and good riddance to her. She will appear again in the mini, breaking Marc’s heart over and over, but at the very least, she is no longer telling him he’s crazy every time he steps in his own home.

In Egypt he finds another secret tomb filled with Khonshu statues, and meets three blind priests who declare themselves to be the immortal servants of Khonshu and that they have contacted him because he choose to be Khonshu’s fist (as opposed as being chosen, they say that Marc putting on Khonshu’s robe on his shoulders upon revival is what made him accept become Khonshu’s fist) and he let the statue, his original compass to know when to act, fall into the hands of evil. So now THEY will tell him where to go and fight. Like a very annoying Bat signal because it comes with visions AND sound!

Fortunately, it also comes with its advantages: this time, the guys have proof that there is divine intervention in their lives, as not only he gets a pouch full of mystical weapons (An Ankh that glows when there’s mortal danger near, a boomerang covered with protective charms, wristbands with scarab darts, and so on) but also, the body strength will now increase proportionally to the phase and brilliance of the moon. So, new moon or cloudy day? The guys have normal strength. Full Moon? He can give Captain America a run for his money. This was probably one of the most popular additions of the era, and while it is no longer true for the comics (Long story that, we will go through it in time), it’s one many people still think about when thinking of Moon Knight’s abilities.

Marc starts thinking he must be insane by accepting, but he accepts anyway even if later decides that just because he took the weapons and the new costume doesn’t mean he is going to be Moon Knight again (Ah, the poor innocent guy). He fights Aaramses, is saved by a deus ex machina sandstorm that kills the other man, and gets the Khonshu statue back.

Back in New York we find that THIS time Marlene made good on her promise and left, but Marc can’t really spend much time looking for her because when she does? The Priests alert him to danger in Yucatan, and that’s where we meet Dr. Arthur Harrow.

Yes, you guys know that name. Unfortunately, THIS Dr. Arthur Harrow is not nearly as fun as Ethan Hawke’s Harrow, as he is a novel prize candidate who is following on the steps of Awschwitz’s scientists to create soldiers that can’t feel pain (Of course, the Nobel committee doesn’t know that part, they just know he’s doing advances in pain medicine). So yeah, run of the mill nazi villain for Moon Knight, who appears in this issue and we never, EVER see again.

Only really interesting thing is that, while the narration only refers to the guys as “Marc Spector”, whenever he is in the Moon Knight’s armor he thinks of Marc in the third person so… Who fronts? Who knows?

On the Marlene front? The writers FINALLY remembered that in her early appearances Marlene was called Fontaine and not Alarune, so they work to fix that particular plot hole by letting us now that Eric Fontaine? Is her ex-husband! And she’s going back to him because she has no money left and man, the writers REALLY wanted to make her look as if she only cared about money in her significant others! She still has to call Marc because Morpheus is back again, and this time with mind control powers so she really has no choice, as Morpheus is attacking her patients because she’s studying social work which is honestly the worst possible major for her.  (Also, as much as Marc hates Fontaine, he can’t really hate him when he finds out he’s on a wheelchair and that’s once again the last we hear from Fontaine in the mini)

Interestingly enough? While the Priests also send Marc (Who now thinks of himself as “Marc Spector, REFORMED mercenary and multi-millionaire”) visions about Morpheus, they scold him for thinking more about saving Marlene from the monster than about saving the innocent. While I think the Priests are a bit heavy handed? On this part, I am totally with them. But that is a thing that continues during the mini: Marc wants to quit being Moon Knight and only puts on the suit when the Priests insist… and then his own friends get affected by the case that he just rejected from the police (He has his own commissioner Gordon in the form of NY Detective Flint) so he realizes that he should’ve been more empathic and not just wait for the Priests to call him. Even if he really, really wants to quit (I have to check other comics, but I think this was also the time when Spiderman was quitting, and Captain America was quitting and Iron Man was close to quit and what was with the eighties and all superheroes wanting to hung the cape?)

Issues 5 and 6 have him fighting first two immortal priests that are sacrificing children to remain immortal and then a voodoo priestess who deals with heroine. Both issues end in a very low note and then the mini ends without a peep from Steven or Jake. As I said? Not a very good mini except for the “Moon Knight’s strength increases with the moon bit”.

And then… then we have the West Coast Avengers. (There’s Marvel Fanfare #38, but that one is even MORE run of the mill than Fist of Khonshu’s issues #5 and 6 with a “Boyband is actually made of old men who stole their fans’ youth with an incan idol” plot). And boy, West Coast Avengers makes a MESS out of things, as I said in the introduction because the very first thing it does? Is completely destroy the possibility that Khonshu is just in Marc’s mind by letting us hear the God’s voice as he talks not to any of the System… but to Clint Barton, aka. Hawkeye.

See, at the time the West Coast Avengers were divided in different time eras, and Clint, Wonderman and Tygra were stuck in ancient Egypt. There, Clint half-dies, and Khonshu, true to form, appears in his mind and offers him the same deal he offered Marc. Only Clint is not as easy to manipulate. He accepts helping Khonshu against Rama-tut, the enemy to fight, BUT only if Khonshu agrees to send his team back to their right time. Since Khonshu doesn’t have that power, the god instead sends a message  to Marc to go to California and help the Avengers in the present to figure out that the others are stuck in the past and get a time machine to get them out. After this, Khonshu returns Clint to life (Or to full strength, it’s not clear) and Clint gets to meet the priests of the cult of Khonshu who refer to him as “Beloved of Khonshu”, a term that has NEVER been used to refer to the Moon System.

And then Clint goes and creates the weapons that Marc is using in the future. Yeah, that’s right. Hawkeye made Moon Knight’s mystical arsenal because Khonshu asked him to, and Clint thought “Well, I can’t ask everyone to become a master archer so let’s diversify!”.

We get the Origin re-told, by the way, only that this time Marlene is nowhere to be seen, it’s the Priests themselves who bring Marc to the feet of the Statue, no one knows if he was dead or alive at the time, and we’re specifically told that the Alters came to be AFTER his resurrection, so that he had to quit being Moon Knight for his mental health to find himself again until the Priests called him back into service. This will be the first time the Origin is changed from its original form, but not the last.

Also, for all the “Everyone in the Marvel Universe thinks/knows Moon Knight is insane” meme? Here we have Marc being very careful not to let the Avengers know about his “schizophrenia” -his words, not mine- , even if really, Marc is sort of fronting all the time -sort of. This will get ugly soon- and Reed Richards, of all people, theorizing that Moon Knight’s powers come from an Egypcian god. So… no one thinks Khonshu is a figment of the System’s imagination! Yet.

And here comes the ugly part: Unlike in Fist of Khonshu, we do get to hear the other Alters, as they appear around Moon Knight from time to time. Except… at first we’re told that Marc IS fronting while being Moon Knight, and he only has three personalities (This comes handy when fighting a mind control ray… apparently, the ray can only control ONE person per zap, so since Moon Knight is only zapped twice, Steven and Jake get controlled, but Marc can still fight). Marc also seems convinced that Khonshu wants him to join the Avengers, so he has to say goodbye to Frenchie who is 100% supportive both of Moon Knight’s plurality and his career as an avenger. Frenchie is ten thousand times better than Marlene and that will again come up later as to why.

Oh, yes. The Ugly. See, from that point on, Moon Knight’s personality starts to change and be weird. On one hand, he speaks to Khonshu in his head a LOT. On the other, he suddenly has knowledge that none of the Alters had, such as a deep, deep understanding of Astrology when in his own book we know that none of the Alters had time or belief in the supernatural, even doubting Khonshu’s existence from time to time.  He also begins a relationship with Tygra, despite having earlier in his comic thought about how being Moon Knight was not conductive to romance.

When this happens, Steven and Jake start arguing with Marc about Marc wanting to be the only one in the body AGAIN. And they start wondering if the fact that Khonshu is now speaking to them is only a sign of madness… despite their powers being quite obviously real and moon-based. He is also in probation as an Avenger because Clint really doesn’t like it when people die and Marc… doesn’t have that particular hang-up. YET.

And then Khonshu comes up to speak up to Marc and tells him he WANTS Moon Knight to be an Avenger because the god is VERY interested in Clint Barton and the Avenger experience.  Which is problem #1 of Moon Knight’s time in the Avengers. They broke the cardinal rule of “We don’t show if Khonshu is real or not” in order to make the god obsess… over a completely different character.  Oh, and then we get told that nope, Khonshu doesn’t approve of Marc being with Tygra because she is “sun-oriented” despite claiming to love the moon and this is the first time Khonshu openly talks about his preferences about Moon Knight’s romantic life. While still insisting that he totally wants to understand Hawkeye and I do wonder about the West Coast Avenger’s writers obsession with Hawkeye back then.

Still, after Moon Knight saves Mockingbird from Phantom Rider -although they both lie to Hawkeye regarding exactly from whom he saved her- he officially becomes the #24 Avenger (Which, given that now the rooster of Avengers and ex-Avengers is about 150? Kinda impressive) but then, during a fight where Marc is left unconscious… Khonshu leaves the body. It is revealed then that he has been possessing the system, making them join the Avengers and then slowly taking over because since he was SO impressed by Hawkeye’s spirit, he wanted to be in the Avengers “personally”. And none of the Alters know about this. And he is more active than ever, as every time the team faces someone who can mind control them? Khonshu takes over to remain immune.

And yet, with Khonshu apparently over the moon for Hawkeye (yes, sorry, I just had to say that), when Hawkeye and Mockingbird divorce and separate? Moon Knight takes Mockingbird side and stays with her rather than remain with the Avengers.  And yet, Khonsu is STILL fronting as we get thoughts like “Assuming the form of Marc Spector is becoming a hindrance” -as he can’t use his full godly powers like that-  “My human Host, Marc Spector”, and stuff like that.

Finally, as the whole drama with Phantom Rider ends, Damion Hellstorm, Spawn of Satan, exorcises Khonshu from Moon Knight’s body and, after a very, very long fight with Seth’s armies (Because of a different crossover that was going on at the time), Khonshu declares that his little experiment with experiencing the human life was over, he had to go and fight Seth since they’re from the same pantheon, and thus, Marc will be left alone in his body (With the Alters, which Khonshu at some point calls “their madness” because Khonshu is an ass) but will still be the fist of Khonshu on earth and as such Marc is still under his service even if “their time of oneness is over”. Marc is not impressed. During the fight with the Seth armies, every bit of Moon Knight’s mystic arsenal is destroyed, so he is left only with his augmented strength during the moon cycle. 

Once Khonshu leaves and the fight is over, Marc -who is probably fronting- breaks things up with Tygra and leaves the avengers, stating that “I have met my maker, and I’m not sure I like what I saw” which marks the FIRST time Moon Knight and Khonshu are in real conflict, but not the last.

He also participated in the West Coast Avengers 2 and 3, but really, he was only there as a warm body to fight villains.

So there you have it, the series that brought the biggest change to Moon Knight status quo in the eighties, and yet… didn’t do anything interesting with the Alters. Seriously, I’d have KILLED to see Jake interacting with Clint, Steven with Tony Stark -as Iron Man was on the team for a bit at the same time as Moon Knight, and Marc with Mockingbird. To see the team confused as to who was fronting when with the guys desperately trying to keep their plurality a secret.  To NOT have Khonshu just become a Hawkeye fangirl and take over the guys’s autonomy just because he wanted to play Avenger near his new shiny non plural friend (That really left a bad taste in my mouth), but in the end, it was just a means to undo what they had done in the mini and get back to the original status quo, with just the new change of us knowing that Khonshu IS real, even if he is no longer around.

What did they do with that? Well, tune in for Part 5 when we get to see what happened in Marc Spector: Moon Knight (Oh, and The Punisher Annual 2), And that one is going to be short, and it’s going to be PAINFUL, so I am warning you right now.

[paradoxcase]

Chapter 36 of Harrow the Ninth

I've spent most of Saturday entering 145 of my ~200 sims into a new family tree program, which is sort of like the mental equivalent of stimming, but I think it's time to take a break and do more Locked Tomb liveblog

The symbol on this chapter is, I gather, meant to be a Herald, or possibly something else that's resurrection-beast-adjacent. Also, we are at one week before the prologue, now, if we can trust these chronological notes

Harrow has an absolutely massive case of Former "Gifted Child" syndrome, but she's only 18

She's one week away from probably dying while fighting a resurrection beast and she's way more worried about who is betraying John. It's also interesting how she compares her various experiences to decide whether or not something was a hallucination

I kind of wonder if at some point she is going to come to the conclusion that BOE can perform resurrections, since she saw three apparently resurrected (based on her memories of them) people, who claimed to be with BOE, or if that would be too sacrilegious an idea for her

First of all, what does "G" stand for in "J. G."? If John has a cavalier, I'd expect it to be A.L., or possibly the soul of Earth, not someone whose name starts with G

Second of all, why do they have callsigns? The purpose of callsigns (at least in ham radio, anyway) is to uniquely identify each individual radio geek, communicate their position in the radio geek hierarchy (and thus what frequencies they have access to, etc.), identify where they are from, and be relatively short because Morse Code is pretty verbose. But they are communicating in spoken language here, there's no reason for them to use Morse Code or a similar system, so there's no reason for them to shorten their names. Also, if this really is meant to be English, enunciating single letters over radio in English is notoriously prone to miscommunication due to how similar a lot of letter names sound, and for the purpose of being clear while doing this the NATO phonetic alphabet was invented, if you're actually going to do a radio thing in spoken language, you should be saying "Juliet Golf" instead of "J. G.", etc. Anyway, in addition to all this, this system is not even guaranteed to create a unique callsign for each Lyctor, it happens that all of these are unique, but that's just an accident. Goddammit, this pisses me off and I'm not even a real radio geek, I was just raised by radio geeks

So I'm guessing the resurrection beast/herald fear aura is directly related to guilt over the indelible sin, which makes sense if they specifically pursue people who committed the indelible sin. I believe when they were discussing how BOE hunted down a herald in order to make it into herald bullets (which I now retroactively realize means that BOE must use guns) they said that it affected all necromancers, so I wonder if it's more generally about gaining power from death

Also "it knows what you did to its kin", maybe referring to John consuming the soul of Earth? Or locking it in the Tomb? I'm not sure anymore

I mean, I think the Body going away probably has to do with the resurrection beast and not with Harrow, but haha, poor Harrow

You know, I've heard non-Americans complain that saying "Not!" after a sentence in this way is an Americanism, so I'm surprised to see this here. Or maybe it's only here to emphasize how grating Mercy's lecture is?

Is this a reference to the "it's for a church, honey, next!!" lady?

I know this is supposed to be a "Mercy is not fun at parties" thing, but honestly I feel this

I was curious how far that actually was, it turns out that is 33 and a half astronomical units. Yeah, that's pretty far away

That 2,000 kilometers is a mere 1 2.5 millionth of the total distance of 5 billion kilometers, though. I would think just covering that whole distance in a reasonable amount of time would be harder? Supposedly they don't have access to the stele system out here

This is the "Sex Pal" moment of this book, isn't it? I have no actual idea if John is lying about the peanuts or not, but I love the idea of Mercy just fuming over this one peanut incident for a significant part of 10,000 years

Also, the way describes this fantasy exchange between her and John feels like a bible story to me. Is it just me?

Ok, so this is interesting, because Number One has been mentioned, which means that if the beasts are numbered according to the way the Houses are numbered, then Earth can't be the missing beast. Previously we had only heard about Two, Six, Seven, and Eight, now we are up to One, Two, Four, Six, Seven, and Eight, which leaves Three, Five, and Nine. John said at the beginning of the book that there were three left to defeat, one of which is obviously Seven, and I guess the remaining two are Three, Five, or Nine. I wonder if the beasts are instead numbered based on their order from the sun, which would make Earth Three? That would make Seven actually be Uranus, which does match up with the 50,000 kilometer in diameter number from earlier, but I thought the point of that number was that the resurrection beast was supposed to be bigger than the original planet?

Does north/east/south/west even have any meaning in space, or in the River, without the presence of a magnetic field? I mean, the resurrection beast is a planet, so it might have a magnetic field, but we've established that they will not be attacking its actual body

Is this actually some missing information about what the fuck Mercy's powers even have to do with the rest of the Eighth House, or is Augustine just saying things to be saying things?

I wonder if it actually turns out to be something different, seeing as John literally has no intel on it

Also, you definitely do believe in sin, like, I don't think the concept of sin is necessarily universal across all religions, but it's definitely a big part of this one, necrophilia has been mentioned as a sin, we also have the indelible sin, and Mayonnaise Uncle definitely seemed to feel like some things were sins back in Gideon the Ninth

[borisbubbles]

Character analysis: Vivienne de Fer (Dragon Age Inquisition)

So, if you’ve wondered where I popped off to the past two months or so, I’m going to give you an answer - I finally bought Dragon Age Inquisition (legit on my gaming wishlist since its 2014 release) and I’ve been obsessed with it ever since. 

The main draw to this game however, isn’t so much the gameplay (if you want a game that feels similar but has better gameplay - Assassin’s Creed Odyssey is what you’d want instead), but the storytelling and particularly the character development are top notch. All nine companions are fascinating and fleshed out in such a realistic manner I’m still gasping in awe on my fifth playthrough.  Thus, a post on it is in order. It’s a bit different from my usual content, but don’t let that discourage you - clearing my head from Dragon Age will allow me to let Eurovision back in and continue my unfinished 2020 ranking.  In this post, I will be analyzing one of DAI’s most interesting characters - none other than Madame de Fer herself, Vivienne.  Now, I’m under the impression that this is a rather unpopular opinion but I absolutely love Vivienne. And no, I won’t apologize for it. As a Templar-thumping elitist with a icy, sardonic demeanor the sheer ‘Idea Of A Vivienne’ is meant to make your head spin. Dragon Age has always been a franchise in which mages are a socially surpressed group and to be confronted with a socially confident enchantress who likes Templars and seemingly supports the social shunning out of her own ambition is the walking embodiment of flippancy. 

and yet, I feel a lot of sympathy for Vivienne. 

Yes, she’s a bitch. She knows she’s one and she’s a-ok with it. I won’t argue with that. Sadly, the “Vivienne is a bitch” rhetoric also drastically sells her short. Vivienne is highly complex and her real personality is as tragic as it is twisted. 

Madame de Fer

So let’s start with what we are shown on the surface. Vivienne is a high-ranking courtier from an empire notable for its deadly, acid-laced political game. She seemingly joins the Inquisition for personal gain, to acrue reputation and power, and eventually be elected Divine (= female pope) at the end of the game. She presents herself as a despicable blend of Real Housewife, Disney Villain, and Tory Politician, all rolled into one ball of sickening, unctuous smarm. Worse, the Inquisitor has no way to rebuke Vivienne’s absurd policies and ideas. You can’t argue with her, convince her to listen to your differing viewpoints or even kick her out the Inquisition. She has a way with words where she can twist arguments around in such a fashion that she lands on top and makes the other person look like the irrational party.

“Thus speaks the Inquisitor who has made so many mature and level-headed choices so far. Such as releasion malcontents upon the population without safeguards to protect them should they turn into abominations. Very wise. I rearranged some furniture. Lives aren’t thrown into jeopardy by my actions. Perhaps a little perspective is needed.”

She’s Cersei Lannister on creatine, Dolores Umbridge on motherfucking roids. If you look at merely the surface, then yes, Vivienne looks like the worst person ever created. I love a good anti-villainess however, and she’s definitely one. 

Yet, she never actually does anything ‘evil’? Yes, she is ‘a tyrant’ as a Divine, but 1) the person saying this is Cassandra, whose dislike for mage freedom is only matched by her dislike of being sidelined 2) Divine Vivienne isn’t bad to mages either? (hold that thought, I’ll get to it). She never actually sabotages the Inquisition, no matter how low her approval with the Inquisitor gets. She never attempts to stop them, no matter how annoyed she is. She’s one of the most brutally honest companions in the cast, in fact. (It always surprises me people call her a ‘hypocrite’ - you keep using that word and it doesn’t mean what you think it means.) The ‘worst’ display of character is when she attempts to break up Sera and the Inquisitor and even then - are we going to pretend Sera isn’t a toxic, controlling girlfriend with a huge chip on her shoulder? I love Sera, but come on.  

Vivienne is a character where the storytelling rule of Show, Don’t Tell is of vital importance. The Orlesian empire is an empire built around posturing and reputation. Nobody really shows their true motivations or character, and instead builds a public façade. It’s like how the Hanar (the Jellyfish people) in Mass Effect have a Public name they use in day-to-day life, and a Personal Name for their loved-ones and inner circle. Vivienne’s ‘Public Visage’ is that of Madame de Fer - this is the Vivienne who openly relishes in power, publicly humiliates grasping anklebiters with passive-aggressive retorts, the woman who is feared and loathed by all of Orlais, and this is the Face you see for most of the game.

The real beauty of Vivienne’s character and the reason why I love her as much as I do (which is to say - a LOT) are the few moments when - what’s the phrase DigitalSpy love so much - Her Mask Slips, and you get a glimpse of the real woman underneath the hennin.

This is the Vivienne who stands by you during the Siege of Haven and approves of you when you save the villagers from Corypheus’s horde.

This is the Vivienne who comforts you when you lament the losses you suffered.

This is the Vivienne who admires you for setting an example as a mage for the rest of Thedas.

This is the Vivienne who worries about Cole’s well-being during his personal quest, momentarily forgetting who or what he is. 

This is the Vivienne who, when her approval for the Inquisitor reaches rock bottom, desperately reminds him of the suffering mages go through on a day-to-day basis because of the fear and hatred non-mages are bred to feel towards them and how this can spiral into more bloodshed without safeguards. 

This is the Vivienne who shows how deep her affection for Bastien de Ghislain truly is, by bringing you along during his dying moments. I love this scene btw. This is the only moment in the entire game where Vivienne is actually herself in the presence of the Inquisitor - needless to say, I consider anyone who deliberately spikes her potion a motherfucking psychopath ^_^)

“There is nothing here now” fuck I *almost* cried at Vivienne, get out of my head BioWare, this is WRONG -- people who delude themselves this is an irredeemable character. 

So, who is Vivienne really?

Understanding Vivienne requires recognizing that the mask and the real woman aren’t the same person. I think her relationship with Dorian is the prime example of this. I love the Vivienne/Dorian banter train, obviously - an unstoppable force of sass colliding with an unmovable wall of smarm is nothing short of a spectacle. However, there’s more to it than their highly entertaining snipes. As the incredibly gifted son of a magister, Dorian represents everything Vivienne should despise, and should be a natural enemy to her. And yet, she doesn’t and he isn’t.. Their gilded japes at each other are nothing more than verbal sparring, not dissimilar to how Krem and Iron Bull call each other names when they beat each other with sticks. In what I think is one of the most brilliantly written interactions between characters in DAI, I present Vivienne’s reaction when the Inquisitor enters a romance with Dorian:

Vivienne: I received a letter the other day, Dorian. Dorian: Truly? It's nice to know you have friends. 🙄 Vivienne: It was from an acquaintance in Tevinter expressing his shock at the disturbing rumors about your... relationship with the Inquisitor. Dorian: Rumors you were only too happy to verify, I assume. 🙃 Vivienne: I informed him the only disturbing thing in evidence was his penmanship. 🙂 Dorian: ...Oh. Thank you. 😳 Vivienne: I am not so quick to judge, darling. See that you give me no reason to feel otherwise.

Madame de Fer can never be seen directly expressing approval to a relationship between the Herald of Andraste and an ‘Evil’ Tevinter ’Magister’. By this subtle, subtle conversation, Vivienne indirectly tells Dorian that she considers him a good match for the Inquisitor and approves of the romance. It’s one of those reasons why I could never truly dislike Vivienne - between the layers of elegant poison lies a somewhat decent woman who never loses sight of the bigger picture. Not a good person maybe, but not one without some redeeming qualities.

The crux of Vivienne’s personality is that she, like all DAI companions, is a social outcast. She’s a mage in a fantasy setting where mages are psionically linked to demons, and grew up in a country where the majority religion has openly advocated the shunning and leashing of mages (’Magic exists to serve man’ - the Chantry is so, so vile in this game.). Vivienne’s “gift” was discovered so early in her life that she can barely remember her parents. Vivienne grew up in a squalid boarding school, learning from a young age that she’s dangerous and her talents need to be tamed and curbed. She is also terrified of demons, as her banters with Cole point out:

Cole: You're afraid. You don't have to be. Vivienne: My dear Inquisitor, please restrain your pet demon. I do not want it addressing me. Inquisitor: He's not doing any harm, Vivienne. Vivienne: It's a demon, darling. All it can do is harm. Cole: Everything bright, roar of anger as the demon rears. No, I will not fall. No one will control me ever again. Cole: Flash of white as the world comes back. Shaking, hollow, Harrowed, but smiling at templars to show them I'm me. Cole: I am not like that. I can protect you. If Templars come for you, I will kill them. Vivienne: Delightful. 😑

Vivienne’s Harrowing is implied to have been such a traumatizing event to her that she’s developed a pavlovian fear of demons ever since. (Hence her hostility towards Cole.). Vivienne is fully aware of the inherent dangers of magic, and projects this onto all other mages. 

Besides, given how Dragon Age has a history with mages doing all sorts of fucked up shit, ranging from blood magic, murder, demonic possession and actual terrorism (yes, *ElthinaBITCH* had it coming, but let’s not pretend like Anders/Justice was anything other than a terrorist), Vivienne’s policies of controlled monitoring and vigilance are actually significantly more sensible than the options of ‘unconditionally freeing every mage all over Thedas’ and ‘reverting back to the status quo before the rebellion’. They’re flawed policies, obviously. When Vivienne says “mages” she pictures faceless silhouettes foremost and not herself. Regardless, unlike Cassandra and Leliana, Vivienne is aware of the fear others harbour for her kind, and how hard it is to overcome such perceptions.  

Additionally, Vivienne’s a foreigner. She is an ethnic Rivaini, a culture associated with smugglers and pirates (Isabela from DAO and DA2 is half-Rivaini). This adds an additional social stigma, again pointed out by Cole:

Cole: Stepping into the parlor, hem of my gown snagged, no, adjust before I go in, must look perfect. Vivienne: My dear, your pet is speaking again. Do silence it. Cole: Voices inside. Marquis Alphonse. Cole: "I do hope Duke Bastien puts out the lights before he touches her. But then, she must disappear in the dark." Cole: Gown tight between my fingers, cold all over. Unacceptable. Wheels turn, strings pull. Cole: He hurt you. You left a letter, let out a lie so he would do something foolish against the Inquisition. A trap. Vivienne: Inquisitor, as your demon lacks manners, perhaps you could get Solas to train it.

This is the only palpable example of the casual racism Vivienne has to endure on a daily basis - Marquis Alphonse is a stupid, bigoted pillowhead who sucks at The Game, but remember - Vivienne only kills him if the Inquisitor decides to be a butthurt thug. She is aware that for every Alphonse, there are dozens of greasy sycophants who think exactly like he does, and will keep it under wraps just to remain in her good graces. 

Finally, there’s the social position Vivienne manufactured for herself, which is the weak point towards her character imo. Remember, this woman is a commoner by birth. She doesn’t even have a surname. Through apparently sheer dumb luck (or satanic intervention) she basically fell into the position of Personal Mage to the Duke of Ghislain. Regardless, ‘Personal mages’ were the rage in Orlesian nobility, and the prestigious families owned by them like one may own a pet or personal property. By somehow becoming Bastien de Ghislain’s mistress and using his influence, "Madame de Fer” liberated herself from all the social stigmata which should have pinned her down into a lowly courtier rank and turned the largely ceremonial office of “Court Enchanter” into a position of respect and power. This is huge move towards mage emancipation by the way, in a society where, again, Mages are feared and shunned and are constantly bullied, emasculated and taught to hate their talents. Vivienne is a shining example of what mages can become at the height of their power. Power she has, mind you, never actually abused before her Divine election. Vivienne’s actions will forever be under scrutiny not because of who she is, but because of what she is. The Grand Game can spit her out at any moment, which will likely result in her death. 

Inquisitor: “You seem to be enjoying yourself, Vivienne?” Vivienne: “It’s The Game, darling. If I didn’t enjoy it, I’d be dead by now.”

Whether Vivienne was using Bastien for her own gain or whether she truly loved him isn’t a case of or/or. It’s a case of and/and. The perception that she was using Bastien makes Vivienne more fearsome and improves her position in the Grand Game, but deep down, I have no doubts truly loved him. Remember, Vivienne’s position at the Orlesian court was secure. She had nothing to gain by saving Bastien’s life, but she attempted to anyway. That Bastien’s sister is a High Cleric doesn’t matter - Vivienne can be elected Divine regardless of her personal quest’s resolution. She loved him, period. 

No, I don’t think Vivienne is a good person. She treats those she deems beneath her poorly, like Sera, Solas, Cole and Blackwall (characters I like less than Vivienne), which I think is the #1 indicator for a Bad Personality. But I don’t think she qualifies as ‘Evil’ either and I refuse to dismiss the beautiful layering of her character. I genuinely believe Vivienne joined the Inquisition not just for her personal gain, but also out of idealism, similar to Dorian (again, Cole is 100% correct in pointing out the similarities between Dorian’s and Vivienne’s motivations for joining, as discomforting it is to her). 

In her mind, Vivienne sees herself as the only person who can emancipate the mages without bloodshed - her personal accomplishments at the Orlesian court speak for themselves. Vivienne isn’t opposed to mage freedom - she worries for the consequences of radical change, as she believes Orlesian society unprepared for the consequences. Hence why she’s perfectly fine with a Divine Cassandra. Hence why her fellow mages immediately elect her Grand Enchanter of the new Circle. 

Hence why Vivienne is so terrified by the Inquisitor’s actions if her disapproval gets too low. The Inquisitor has the power to completely destroy everything she has built and fought for during her lifetime. Remember: Vivienne’s biggest fear is irrelevance - there’s no greater irrelevance than having your life achievements reverse-engineered by the accidental stumbling of some upstart nobody. This is the real reason why she joins, risks her life and gets her hands dirty - the only person whose competence Vivienne trusts, is Vivienne’s own. 

Even as Divine Victoria, I’d say she’s not bad, at all actually. Vivienne has the trappings of an an Enlightened Despot, maintaining full control, while simultaneously granting mages more responsibility and freedom, slowly laying the foundations to make mages more accepted and less persecuted in southern Thedas. Given that Ferelden is a feudal fiefdom and Orlais is an absolute monarchy, this is a fucking improvement are you kidding me. (Wait did he just imply Vivienne is secretly the best Divine - hmm, probably not because Cass/Leliana have better epilogues - but realistically speaking, yes, Viv should be the best Divine and it’s bullshit that the story disagrees.) 

Underneath the countless layers of smarm, frost and seeming callousness, lies a fiercely intelligent and brave woman, whose ideals have been twisted into perversion by the cruel, ungrateful world around her. Envy her for her ability to control her destiny, but know that envy is what it is.  

The flaw in Vivienne’s character isn’t so much the ‘tyranny’ or the ‘bitchiness’ or the 'smarm’. Her flaw is her false belief that she is what the mages need the most. Her belief that her competence gives her the prerogative to serve the unwashed mage masses... by ruling over them. For all intents and purposes, Vivienne is an Orlesian Magister and this will forever be the brilliant tragedy of her character. She was created by a corrupt institution that should, by all accounts fear and loathe her but instead embraced her. It’s that delirious irony that makes Vivienne de Fer one of the best fictional characters in RPG history.  the next post will be Eurovision-related. :-) 

[doomarchives]

David Annandale’s The Harrowing Of Doom: An In-Depth Review

So, I was kindly offered an advance reviewer’s copy of The Harrowing of Doom by David Annandale for the Marvel Untold series, a new prose line revolving around Marvel’s villains. Although I’m not personally familiar, the author’s prior written work and academic scholarship indicated a strong background in fantasy, science fiction, as well as horror film and literature - all essential elements of Doom himself honestly, whether in his character, design, or formative influences. A promising start from the outset! 

To no one’s surprise, I was especially excited for this one. Doctor Doom is both my favorite Marvel character and area of nerdy comics expertise, and Annandale sounded like the perfect candidate to tackle him. 

The Harrowing of Doom centers around a conflict familiar to those who know the character. Taking place fifteen years after his ascension to the throne, Victor von Doom is still hellbent on rescuing the soul of his mother, Cynthia, trapped in hell by the demon Mephisto. His yearly attempts to save her have been fruitless thus far, but he believes he can really do it this time, enlisting the help of a new character, Maria von Helm, and some of his lesser known subjects (also new characters) to accomplish the task, by building a machine called The Harrower. The noble scheme is further complicated by the reappearance of Prince Rudolfo Fortunov, son of the monarch deposed and murdered by Doom years prior, who is equally determined to take back what he believes is his birthright by any means necessary. The novel is a relatively dense and detailed one, and as a true blue Doom enthusiast, I have a dense and detailed review to match.

The first thing that I personally take note of in any material involving Doom is the author’s perspective on the truth of Latveria’s “benevolent dictatorship.” It immediately speaks volumes about a writer’s perception of Doom’s accountability and sense of morality; it kind of ends up coloring his entire characterization. That being said, I was really pleased by the evenhandedness with which Annandale treats Doom’s Latveria and his influence upon his subjects. It slots in neatly with some of the greats, Lee & Kirby, Jonathan Hickman, Roger Stern, etc with the acknowledgement that Doom is indeed a despot with an iron fist and a will absolute, but one who cares for the wellbeing of his country. Through dialogue from his subjects like the skittish Father Grigori Zargo and diehard loyal Captain Kariana Verlak, the reader gets the sense that Doom’s rule may be the best leadership Latveria has ever known. (A brief aside: another great strength of The Harrowing of Doom that has to be mentioned is the fleshing out of these different original characters. Maria von Helm was a particularly welcome addition, as a close friend of Doom’s mother and a far more empathetic magic user compared to him.)

Verlak is openly married to Dr. Elsa Orloff, a trans woman and neurosurgeon of international renown. Both of them had experienced the Fortunov rule that predated Doom’s, with Orloff even having fled Fortunov’s Latveria when she first come out as transgender, in fear of his tyrannical rule and the dangerously transphobic legislature he enforced called “The Laws of the Person.” It is apparent that Doom exists in obvious juxtaposition to the prior ruler’s bigotry. Beyond the total erasure of all previous discrimination and state-enforced bigotry, he has Verlak appointed in a role of great prominence, gave Orloff the tools she needed to succeed in her field, and even shares an exchange with her where he remarks that he knows her from her publications in the Lancet Neurology and that he appreciates them for their “speculative” approach. In an excellent exchange between Father Zargo and the rebel Prince Fortunov, the priest, who is by far Doom’s number one fan, explains Doom’s mesmerizing hold on the populace and the benefits they reap from his rule, despite it being a despotic one:

“I’ll be explicit, all the same,” said Zargo. “Doom is a sun king, even more fully than Louis XIV ever was. Latveria is a world power. How? Because of Doom and only because of Doom. Latveria’s strength and its wealth come from his inventions. And the beams of his sun touch every citizen. Universal basic income, free healthcare, free schooling, free universities, free training to the highest level of your calling - all of these things flow from Doom.”

“Free?” Fortunov snarled.

“The price is obedience, yes,” said Zargo, “And yes, Doom is feared.” Zargo stopped himself from saying Vladimir was feared and hated. [...] “Even though Doom is feared, he also is Latveria in every sense that matters.”

What I really appreciated was the author’s ability to walk the tightrope of acknowledging how beneficial Doom is for the country and his protectiveness over his domain, whilst also acknowledging Doom’s intense paternalism that ultimately favors his own goals. Doom, as well-read comic fans would know, is heralded as one of Marvel’s master manipulators. It’s a great strength of this novel to see him exerting his willpower and the strength of his personality to manipulate and sometimes, fully overpower that of his subjects. Father Zargo is definitely the most profound victim of this, a man with ties to both the church and the occult. Through the novel, Doom insistently pushes him towards the latter, his priorities made clear in one sentence: “The work was what mattered. Zargo’s soul was not Doom’s concern.” An especially interesting scene occurs later in the novel. Without too much elaboration, Doom performs an experiment where he uses the old Latverian nobility as guinea pigs.  This was something I immensely liked, corroborating one of my own personal perceptions of Doom. It’s always made sense to me that Doom would continue to hold a certain amount of disdain for Latverian high society, even after he went from low class Romani boy to monarch himself. 

(“The Fantastic Origin of Doctor Doom,” Fantastic Four Annual #2.)

Afterwards his partner, Maria von Helm, muses aloud that she always wondered why Doom let vestiges of the old regime remain, to which Doom responds: “Now you know. The aristocracy has its uses, and the advantages of being disposable.” It’s maybe my favorite example in the book of the exceptions to Doom’s purported benevolence. He does want the country to flourish and for his subjects to prosper, but this intent can be superseded by his innately ambitious nature and his own personal biases. It’s clear at several points in the book that Annandale is obviously well-read on Doom himself, but it was especially in the capturing of this nuance that it really stuck out to me in a big way. (As well as the fun reference to Doom’s brief jaunt in the French Riviera in Supervillain Team-Up!)

Outside of this core aspect of his characterization, I really enjoyed how the novel not only built up Doom’s cult of personality, but emphasized the sheer magnetism of Doom himself, in person. Constantly, characters find themselves buffeted by strength of his will, craving his approval or cowering and scrambling to avoid his displeasure. It’s a great true-to-character depiction of interactions between Doom and Latverian citizens, dynamics that were only touched upon briefly in the periphery of most comics involving Doom. I think, ironically, this is also perhaps the source of one of the novel’s few weaknesses. By keeping the book very Latveria-focused, Annandale does an excellent job of adding world-building on every level, from expounding on Latverian national holidays to the layouts of Doomstadt to the country’s storied history with witches predating Doom and his mother. But the fact that Doom mostly interacts with those beneath him or those who work for him gives the reader a bit of a myopic, overtly flattering perspective of him as almost too certain, too powerful, too unfeeling. I suppose it serves the scope of the novel for Doom to be more an obelisk of a man than fully well-rounded, but I contest that one of the best things about his character is that his indomitable exterior hides a deep well of pain and uncertainty. 

(“In The Clutches of Doctor Doom,” Fantastic Four #17.)

(“Oath of Fealty,” Doctor Doom #7.)

The novel obviously perceives Doom as Byronic, there’s even excerpts from Manfred interspersed between chapters that I greatly enjoyed, but I did find the heart of the Byronic character a little lacking here. Where Manfred bares his soul alone in monologue or to others, Doom, for the most part, does not. There are definitely brief allusions to the trials he’s faced, but he seems rarely prone to doubt or vulnerability until the very end. (For example, the central task is the attempt to rescue Cynthia von Doom’s soul, but little time is spent dwelling on this very human connection between mother and son.) Or even self-admitted imperfection! Interestingly, I only ever caught one mention of his scars in the entire novel. 

The Harrowing of Doom seems to prescribe to the line of thought that the mask is the only true face of Doom’s that matters, but I think with that philosophy, it stays firmly within the character’s own comfort zone. And his psyche never feels truly challenged, because there’s no worthy challenger. Doom knows without a doubt that he is Fortunov’s superior, so there’s no real interpersonal friction there. It left me keenly interested in seeing how the author would write Doom in the presence of someone like Reed Richards, an opponent who has historically brought out Doom’s baser instincts and invoked his self-doubt, drawing out his flaws and humanity in the process. Hopefully Marvel approves a sequel!

Doubtlessly, it’s still a strong entry into Marvel’s Doom canon and an excellent read for anyone who enjoys the character and is familiar with his history. The novel gives a sprawling, detailed look at Latveria and fleshes out both country and countrymen with aplomb. I took real delight at the indirect peeks at Doom’s personality through other characters’s observations or simple exposition. Some notable examples include Doom’s occult librarian wondering if he had been appointed out of spite of his witch-hunter ancestry, Zargo noting the west wing of Werner Academy was dedicated to clinical research in a nod to Werner von Doom’s work as a healer, and my favorite: the paintings within Castle Doom being impressionistic depictions of Doom’s ancestors, “people long buried, long forgotten, and in their lifetimes ignored or worse.”  

The conflict also moves at an engaging, brisk pace and smartly takes advantage of the widely known fact that Doom is preoccupied every Midsummer Night and turns that into an opening to be exploited by Fortunov, who also is well characterized throughout the novel and even experiences his own personal growth.

(“Though Some Call It Magic!”, Astonishing Tales #8)

Essentially, the product is a great novel about Doctor Doom influenced by strong comic lore knowledge, Gothic and Romance literature, horror cinema (According to the author, Doom’s lab is modeled after the lab from The Bride of Frankenstein!), and fantasy. If that sounds like something up your alley, definitely check it out. It gets a wholehearted recommendation from me. 

About Marvel Entertainment

Marvel Entertainment, LLC, a wholly-owned subsidiary of The Walt Disney Company, is one of the world’s most prominent character-based entertainment companies, built on a proven library of more than 8,000 characters featured in a variety of media for over eighty years. Marvel utilizes its character franchises in entertainment, licensing, publishing, games, and digital media.

For more information visit marvel.com. © 2020 MARVEL

[akillysheel]

TENUOUS. ❜ ( 2 )

Summary:  Kuro asks the important questions before he and Cthugha decide on a starting point for their investigation. Warnings:  N/A. Notes:  N/A

    'I need to think about it.'

    Kuro slouched in his armchair, the events of the morning playing on loop in his head.  After Cthugha's untimely arrival, the Sheriff had taken it upon himself to take the rest of the afternoon off in an attempt to compartmentalise his thoughts.  He seldom ever took breaks, but when he'd emerged from his office as white as a sheet, his colleagues had ultimately pulled the plug on his hopes of remaining at work, advising insistently that he should go home.

    'Fine.  But you just remember, every minute you sit around ruminating about your stupid little life, that's another minute that this girl is missing, and that means it's another minute closer to doomsday too.'

    Could it be true?  Doomsday?  The end of the world?  It sounded to him like the paranoid ravings of a conspiracy nut...  yet he'd spoken with such calm authority, countered every one of the problems he'd had with a rebuttal of his own.  Every one of his questions had an answer;  everything he'd said about Raku  ( at least as far as his limited understanding of Gods was concerned ) was true.

    Mia Vanton's case sat on his lap.  It was a thin file, one that spared details for there hadn't been many to uncover, but in that moment it felt heavy.  Cumbersome.  As if he'd been shackled to the floorboards.

    This thing's been shut since 2001.

    One calloused thumb traced over its front, teasing the corner away from the papers inside.  He really didn't know whether he wanted to look at it or not.  It felt oddly like picking at a scab wound, baring himself to old pain that needn't be revisited.  Did he have it in him to feel as hopeless as he did twenty years ago?

    He grunted as a headache set in. It had steadily been growing for the past two hours, fostered in his brain like a bad habit.

    Is there any point in opening this up again?  Surely if she was to be found, she'd have been found by now.  This year marks the twentieth anniversary of her disappearance.  In two weeks, in fact.

    Was that relevant?  He couldn't help but consider it.  As much as he wanted to push Cthugha's prophecy aside as garbage, the fact was that he was impressed  -  and a little worried.  He knew things that nobody could have known, and deep down he knew that his colleagues wouldn't sell some random kid information.  Huron's task force was known for being small, humble and honest, and it's good service had been a near constant hallmark for the district's deep sense of peace.  There had never been a recorded incidence of internal corruption--  not even with other, less composed Sheriffs in the front seat.

    How else could he have known about Olivia?  About Raku, even.

    The Sheriff let out a deep sigh as he closed his eyes, knowing already what he had to do.

    “I’ve decided t’help y’.”

    “Thank.  God.”   The statement trembled with sarcastic frustration, Cthugha’s cobalt eyes all but grey on account of the storm that had entered them.  He sat in Kuro’s chair, his feet propped up on his desk.  The rubix cube--  the one that had previously been half-completed--  sat in his hands, its coloured faces now perfectly arranged.   “While you were busy jerking off to the end of all life in this realm, I was busy compiling resources that might help us stop it.”   He paused to reach inside of his jacket, retrieving a file of his own, before he dropped it unceremoniously on the desk.   “You’re welcome.”

    “Where were y’keepin’ that…?”

    “Just look at it.”

    Kuro hesitated briefly before dragging the file closer, opening it up to find himself staring at a myriad of newspaper clippings, interview transcripts and photographs.  It was makeshift work, by no means tidy, but the sheer wealth of information was staggering to him.  Even so, as he skimmed over them briefly, he realised that there was nothing there that he didn’t already know.

    Of course there isn’t.  Why would there be?

    I don’t know.  Maybe I assumed he was an agent of God or something.

    “Aside from all that,”   Cthugha started, rising from his commandeered seat.  In what felt like a flash, he’d moved from the desk to the far corner of the room, grabbing a hold of a whiteboard on wheels before reappearing where he had been.  Kuro blinked hard.   “We can rule out all the places you already searched in your previous hunt for her.”   Feverishly, the rifter began to fill the board with haphazard notes.   “That means you don’t have to trawl through Whit’s a second time, nor do you need to bother checking their home or questioning her papa.  He came up clean, remember?”

    “Yeah…  he was so dedicated t’findin’ his daughter that he all but singlehandedly led the search party campaign despite us tellin’ him that it was dangerous.  Had t’bust him outta a few compromisin’ positions fer his efforts...”

    “Exactly.  Also means that the tunnels are a bust too, so you don’t have to waste time trawling through the underground like a family of sewer rats.  Wherever she is, she’s somewhere ya didn’t think to comb through.”   He paused when he found his whiteboard pen beginning to run dry.   “Damn it--”   Much like before, he flickered away, a brief rummaging sound filling the quiet office before he reappeared before the board.   “Okay, so--  here’re all the places you don’t gotta worry about that I can think of off the top of my head.  There’s…  what?  Why’re ya staring at me like that?”

    “How’re y’doin’ that?”

    “You can write too, Kuro.”

    “I mean the…  disappearin’-’n’-reappearin’ thing.  Obviously.”

    “Oh, that.  Yeah, I guess that makes more sense…”   It was the closest to sheepish that he’d seen Cthugha thus far;  a break from his smug attitude was certainly refreshing.   “It’s just a teleportation shtick.  Think of it like…  instead of macro-leaps, I’m performing micro-hops in time.”

     "Huh,"   said Kuro, deciding not to question it.

     In truth, the more they talked about the Vanton case, the more he began to recall.  Kuro seldom ever forgot a victim - even though he'd been the Sheriff of Huron for over three centuries, and a police officer for even longer than that - but he wouldn't say that the details were as long-lasting.  There were simply too many nuances in too many cases--  too much information for him to store everything tightly away.  His brief read over the case file before he'd come back to the office that following morning hadn't helped much either, if only because there hadn't been much for him to garner in the first place.

    "I do have a question though,"   Kuro spoke up as he handed Cthugha a cup of coffee.  He wasn't sure whether he was trying to placate or subdue him.   "... or a couple."

    "Are they constructive?"

    "Maybe.  I mean--  y'mentioned parallel timelines 'n' shit.  Couldn't y'just…  hop into one where I found her 'n' tell me where she is?"

    "Parallel timelines are born out of choices, dummy.  Unless you're admitting that you purposefully didn't find her, that isn't gonna help at all."   A swig of his drink was taken, the rich flavour seeming to soothe his annoyance somewhat.   "Nah.  You're thinking of alternate timelines."

    "Then what about that?"

    "We're not really supposed to dip into those if we can help it.  Definitely a last resort sort of deal.  It creates the possibility for people to run into themselves;  fractures the separation between realities.  Doppelganger action is a one-way ticket to hell for the Universe.  Also the fact that, like parallel timelines, there are MULTITUDES of alternate timelines where everything's the same except one little thing, meaning it'd take a shit-ton of time to comb through 'em all--  most likely more time than we’ve got.  There're several versions of you out there, Kuro, but you're this one.  You should focus on that."

     "This's all real confusin’…"   the Sheriff mumbled, deflating a little.  He was so sure he'd had a good idea under his belt, but hell, what did he really know about the way that reality worked?

    "Mm.  Anything else?"   Cthugha asked tersely, eager to move on.

    "Just one more thing,"   Kuro affirmed, shifting in his place for a moment before deciding that brevity was more favourable than kindness.   "... how does this girl stayin' missin' end the world?  People go missin' all the time.  Some come home, some're found dead.  Some’re never found, yet the world keeps on spinnin’.  's just a cruel fact’a life."

    For the first time since their meeting, Cthugha fell silent.  A harrowing emptiness entered his eyes as he thought about the bleak future that awaited them if they did nothing.  A hazy field of fire, the once clean air ashen and thick.  The destruction spread like cancer, first exploding in Huron before it gradually spread outward.  What was perhaps even more frightening was that the one responsible for it seemed impervious to the herculean effort required to topple a district;  by the time he was done with Huron, he was already looking for a bigger, more developed fish to fry.

    It wasn’t the first time he’d seen the Universe in ruins by far, and he doubted it’d be the last.

    That didn’t mean he was accustomed to seeing it though.

    “Well,”   he said softly, whiteboard pen twirled absentmindedly in between his fingers.   “... let’s just say, grief does things to people.  Do you have any clue who Mia’s father is?”

    Slowly, Kuro squinted.    “Aside from knowin’ his name ‘n’ his daughter’s case?  No.  Should I?”

    “No.  That’s exactly why ya should be worried:  he’s got nothing left to lose.  Do you think he’s going to care about hurting anyone when he’s hurting this much himself?  He’s got no children to provide for;  no public image to protect.  When he loses his mind, he does it for real, and damned’re the consequences, get it?”

    “Got it…”   Kuro muttered.  He knew all too well about people like Mr.Vanton.  While an anonymous existence was ultimately a peaceful one, when crime was brought into the mix, it became a dangerous shield.  Who suspected the nobody?  Nobody, that’s who.   “Then we gotta get movin’.”

    “I have to ask,”   Cthugha started as he stepped towards the chair he’d been sprawled in, reaching for his jacket and shrugging it on.  Now that he had a little time to look over him properly, Kuro noted its strange cyan decals and the symbol that he’d never seen before adorning the right side;  two parallel lines with a small triangle beneath the centre point of the bottom one.  It looked vaguely like a seesaw with two slats on top instead of one.  "What made you change your mind?"

    “Well, I guess I never got over the fact that I couldn’t solve it.  D’y’have any idea how hard it is t’look a parent in the eye ‘n’ tell ‘em that the search fer their child is over?  There was nothin’ else I could do, but I still felt guilty.  I figure, even if yer full’a shit ‘n’ this really is some heartless stunt all fer yer own amusement, I can at least make sure that there really was nothin’ else I could’a done fer the Vantons.”

    The rifter hummed softly as he adjusted his tie.   “Heh.  Ya really are a good person.”

    “Y’had doubt?”

    “Who doesn’t?  Much easier to expose a bad person who’s pretending to be good than to find an actual good person these days.  I guess it’s just an unfortunate byproduct of evolution.”

    “Yer wrong,”   Kuro said firmly, pulling his black coat closed.  The gun at his hip was touched briefly before he pocketed his hand, satisfied that he had everything he needed.   “There’re a lot more good people in the world than bad.  ’s just that the bad leave behind their messes t’clean up.”

    “Well, whatever the truth is, it’s clear we’re dealing with a bad person here, huh?  So, got any bright ideas?”

    Already were the gears in his head turning.  With the compiled notes to aid him, he knew of the place that he wanted to start with.  It may have been a dead end--  wishful thinking more than anything--  but he wouldn’t be able to progress until he knew he’d upturned every stone on this property.   “We should head t’the Valerie Vineyard first.”

[animatedminds]

Luca: Reaction & Review

It’s been a while, but I’m back and ready to react! Today, in a degree of promptness that is somewhat rare for me given that I tend to make these reviews far after the releases of films, I’m going to be briefly looking at Pixar’s new movie Luca: what I think worked and why, what I think might not have as well and why, and so on. Should be fun! Spoilers ahead, but I’ll try to keep them down. Silenzio Bruno, let’s go!

Luca is the tale within the town of Porto Rosso - the name in itself being a Miyazaki reference - a small hamlet by the sea which has for generations been beset by local legends of vile, vicious sea monsters that live beneath the depths. Recent sightings of these creatures, seemingly attacking sailors and stealing their belongings, has turned superstition into reality - and the whole town is now in a frenzy, with hunters watching the seas for monsters to hunt and rewards to be had. But don’t worry about that. The plot isn’t actually anywhere near that harrowing or tense. What Luca is actually about the titular Luca himself: one of those sea monsters, who turn out to be just people who live on the bottom of the sea - and they fear humans just as much as humans fear them! Luca is the kid of a family of fish ranchers, who believes in the face of his parents’ restrictions that his life will never be anything different than what it is. If this sounds like a familiar set up, maybe in a “the parents won’t let the kid go out and explore, so they run away to explore in their own” sense, don’t worry. That’s because it is a familiar set up. It’s in my opinion done a bit better than some other examples - the appeal Luca feels in the surface world comes off as more real and substantial than Ariel’s mostly reason-less fixation in The Little Mermaid, and the contention between the parents and him has more impact on the story than the ten minute mini-arc in Moana, which was easily discarded by the story and thus mostly just felt like an excuse for the plot to not start right away - but it is definitely something we’ve seen before. Still, it does work as an introduction to the movie, for those reasons and what I’ll be getting into.

That sea monster “attacking” sailors? That turns out to be Alberto, a kid who lives by himself on the surface world, and mostly just steals trinkets from the surface in search of something to to. Seemingly a bad boy-type, Alberto quickly turns out to just be desperate for companionship, and Luca - who is desperate to express himself and find friends who encourage him - instantly forms a connection with him. However, when Luca’s parents find out and try to send him into the deep sea with the movies’ best character Uncle Ugo (in the sense that he’s absolutely hilarious), he and Alberto flee to Porto Rosso - where they meet up with Giulia, an energetic human girl who hopes to beat the local bully in an annual race... a race the two boys hope to win so they can buy a moped with the prize money and go wherever they choose. And that’s the basis of the movie. There’s other principal characters: Giulia’s father especially - a seemingly gruff fisherman who hates sea monsters but takes a shine to the boys while they pretend to be human, particularly Alberto - plays a key role, but without getting into too many spoilers just yet that’s how the board is set up, so to speak. But what is Luca as a movie? Well, I’ll tell you what it isn’t. I’ve seen a little bit of dissatisfaction from the film due to what I mentioned earlier about its tension or stakes. This isn’t Moana, in which the character needs to run from home to save all of creation from destruction. Or something like Aladdin, where the hero’s mistakes nearly cause the destruction/subjugation of the whole city or country. Luca isn’t fighting some grand supervillain like in The Incredibles (there is a villain, but the fact that he’s a blowhard is a main plot point), or saving Giulia from abuse as in Wreck-It Ralph. The stakes for Luca are low, and are low by intention. It’s a movie that’s less about saving the world, and more about saving your friendships and learning who you are. The film I most compare this movie to, at the end of the day, is a film whose age makes me feel old: The Sandlot. Sandlot is a movie about a new kid who meets a bunch of others kids with a baseball team, and tries to prove himself as their friend. The have adventures for a whole summer, fighting seemingly vicious dogs, taking on the creepy neighbor down the street, and while these trials are vitally important to them, the story makes it clear that these are the fleeting adventures of youth. I’m not about to say that the plot of Luca doesn’t ever get tense, because it does for a few brief blips, but it’s not about the tension - it’s about Luca, coming into his own and realizing who he wants to be, and realizing his friendships along the way. It’s quite possibly Disney/Pixar’s most direct attempt as a coming of age story, which is quite the turn given that it’s about sea monsters, and in that manner is succeeds quite well. It’s a heartwarming delight to watch.

That said, there are a couple things I wish they had devoted more time to. The movie is very Luca focused, to the point that it features a lot of characters that don’t get to do much. Not quite having a handle on the supporting cast all the time is a thing you notice a bit in more recent Disney films, and it does unfortunately rear its head here and there in Luca - though the character who gets hit with this the worst is definitely Alberto. We only see Alberto really through Luca’s perspective, but at the same time the plot - without getting into it too much for spoiler’s sake - has an arc and vital character shift that it wants Alberto to go through. Yet, because most of these events doesn’t actually have to do with Luca specifically, he actually goes through most of this offscreen, with us and Luca being expected to fill in the blanks of whats going on ourselves without directly seeing it. That bit I said about Giulia’s father, that’s actually quite important to the character and his conclusion in the film, but we only really see it indirectly. And that’s ultimately a problem, because Luca’s arc - as heartwarming as it is - is still fairly well trodden and expected, whereas the brief blips we see of Alberto’s is more interesting: the character who needed more meat got very little of it, whereas the character who perhaps didn’t need as much got an overabundance.

And that’s a shame, but not enough for me to say the movie really falls behind because of it. Its still good. And I haven’t even gotten into the animation. Luca’s style is inspired heavily by stop motion, and definitely feels like an approximation of clay (or in some cases dolls/marionettes) created by computer generation. The characters do wild takes or have appearances that are clearly inspired by productions like Aardman, and it looks beautiful: the animation is fluid, the motions feel real, and it all gives the film a wonderful bit of personality that’s unique and distinctive. The backgrounds, also, are gorgeous - with every part of the Italian countryside and sea being a feast for the eyes, and the whole thing ends with a slide show of evidently Miyazaki-inspired 2D art whose subject matter mades me really hope this movie gets a tv show or something as a continuation. Even in terms of setting, I’ve been running into reactions from people who are actually from the regions depicted in the movie, delighting that Pixar took the time to put in all the little details and bits of home to make it feel authentic and real - which puts it a step up from Raya, in ways I’ll talk about in a later post. All in all, I’d recommend this movie for families, and for anyone who wants to relax with a movie that’s more about childhood and innocence than kings and successions. It’s kind of odd to think that Disney / Pixar hasn’t made too many movies of this kind, possibly because the inclination with animation is to go as big and dramatic as possible if you can due to the expense involved. As such, it is nice - in my opinion - to find a film that doesn’t worry so much about gravity as much as about... feeling, and the desire to find who we want to be.

[duxhess-kryzewan]

Please can you do an alternative of Mandalore Plot where when Obi-wan comes to Mandalore and Satine has a consort except it's a loveless, abusive relationship and Obi-wan loses control for a moment... Thank you!

- Touch - 

He had been pacing around the room for the better part of an hour, trying his hardest to get his breathing under control. Anger has no place within him. Anger is not the Jedi way. And yet, unfamiliarity of its control is the only thing he can feel coursing through him.

"Obi-Wan, you need to calm down."

The voices echo throughout the empty corridor, an unmelodious mix of anger and desperation.

"You're kidding yourself if you think your childish hopes for peace will keep Mandalore out of the war." They had spat out. He had heard that voice before; the guttural growl just memorable enough to stick out in the back of his head for some reason.

"I will not thrust my people in the line of fire when we can maintain a neutral ground."

"Mandalore was built upon bloodshed, and you're a pitiful excuse for a leader if you forget that."

He couldn't bring himself to look at her. She was a ghost. A phantom. An illusion so horrifying that looking at her would make everything all the more real and his soul couldn’t take anymore of wrath it had been bombarded with.

"Obi-Wan please." She begs, and it breaks his heart amidst the anger he's feeling. How could this have happened? If only he had known sooner, but how could he? It had been so long since they'd seen each other.

​But then she touches his arm and suddenly everything he had been feeling rushes out of him and is replaced by something else, something so much sadder and he decides that it's so much worse than anger.

"Please."

He turns the corner just in time to see the palm of his hand collide with her cheek, the sound so thunderous that it sends a wave of nausea right through him.

Her blue eyes are dark and clouded with dismay, the harrowing torment he sees reflective of his own emotions and everything insides him aches for her.

"How long has this been going on?"

Her cheek is still decorated with the slightest tinge of red, the lingering affects of what had happened still there and it stirs something almost primal within him every time he sees it. He tries to lock his eyes on hers, but they keep finding their way back to the damage. 

"It doesn't matter," She says, "I'm fine. It's fine. Please calm down, you're starting to scare me."

That's what does it; breaks him of his trance and in an instant he's no longer on the brink of snapping but is consumed by the woman in front of him and for the first time all night she’s no longer a mirage of emotions but real.

The sound of his heart pounding in his ears the only thing he can hear, the unfamiliarity of rage tearing through him the moment he lays eyes on the sight of the distress in Satine’s eyes.

And then all he can see is red.

He reaches out then, taking her hands between his own and pressing them against him. When was the last time someone had touched her that gently?

​He realizes then that she's shaking profusely, and he doesn't hesitate to raise her hands to his lips and press a series of kisses to her knuckles. Oh how he missed her.

"I just don't understand how anyone could do that to you."

The galaxy was filled with horrors beyond belief; terrible things that he had bared witness too more times than anyone should have too. He understood that the brutal wickedness that permeated world was never one to play favorites, or spare those - like Satine - who didn’t deserve it.

Her bottom lip wobbles at his words, "It's not what it looks like Obi-Wan, I promise. We were arguing and he was worked up, I swear this almost never happens-"

She cuts herself off, but it was too late. The damage was done. She had unwittingly admitted that this had happened before and everything inside him tingled. It was wrong. Everything about it was wrong. To think what would have been different had she asked him to stay-

He stops himself before letting the thought wander further. They made their choices. For the betterment of the galaxy, he knows. It was the right choice. The only choice they could have made, but he knows deep down that had things been different she never would even been in the presence of someone who would so intimately harm her.

He wondered what it said about him and how quickly he was able to push aside all sense of virtue and take the cowering man by the collar and slam him against the wall. It felt wrong. All of it. But the pink tinge of Satine’s cheek and bewilderment in her eyes only made him tighten his grip and it’s the first time that he truly understands how dangerous forming attachments can be; how easily one could give in to their feelings.

"If he ever lays a hand on you again..." He says, trailing off at the end. He can't bring himself to say what he shamefully was thinking.

Satine shakes her head, "Don't. Don't do that to yourself. Revenge is not who the Jedi are. It’s not who you are, Obi-Wan."

Instead of responding he pulls her closer, enveloping her in his arms and tucking her head under his chin. He wanted to remind her what a loving touch felt like. There was so much pain in the galaxy; so much destruction he's seen take place before him. The last thing he ever wanted was for any of that darkness to reach her.

He can feel her nuzzle herself against the crook of his neck, her labored breath dancing across his skin with every exhale. 

"It's late," she mumbles against him, "Does Anakin require your assistance at all this evening?"

His hand up trails up and down the length of her back soothingly, "So long as there aren't any urgent matters that arise, I should think not."

She exhales slowly before pulling away, just enough that she can look in his eyes and the trepidation he sees scares him all the more.

"The council saw it fit that consort be appointed. Arranged, is a more appropriate term."

Something inside of his chest burns at what she's saying. An arranged courtship.

"You've cultivated an entirely newfound era for Mandalore all on your own, how they could think-"

"Because historically Mandalorian Nobles rule with some form of...companion. It's the way the people have been lead thus far and the court feels-"

"I'm not worried about what they feel," he says, pulling away just enough that he can look into her eyes, "I want to know how you feel about it."

Her gaze drops to the floor, the refusal to look him in the eye saying all that he really needed to know. She's as she always has been; sacrificing herself for the sake of her people even at the result of her own misery. He understands it too well.

"Look at me, Satine."

He tucks his fingers under her chin and tilts her head back, leaving him with no choice but to look directly in his eyes.

She sighs under his touch, "I feel as though there is only one person in the galaxy I would ever want by my side, and it's certainly not him."

There's nothing else he can do besides kiss her. To make up for all the time lost. To apologize for all the time they won’t have. He had hoped - despite how much it would have killed him inside - that she would have moved on. That maybe she would have found someone else that would be everything she deserved and forgotten about him, the one person in the galaxy that would never fully be able to give himself to her.

And perhaps it was selfish, but the wave of relief that washed over him at the admission fills him with with such solace that he wonders if his heart could have taken it had she found someone new.

She presses another kiss to the corner of his mouth and trails her way down his neck before finally burrowing herself against his collarbone.

"Arranged or not," she mumbles against his skin, "I would never have been able to go through with it. He's not who I would be able to spend my life with. He's not you."

He rubs her back again soothingly, "I'm sorry I'm not here."

She loops her arms around his waist and holds herself against him, "You are."

He understands. After all, he carries her with him too. 

[janearts]

This is my favourite AU so you’ve come to the right place. >8))))) I’ve put detailed answers underneath a read-more. 

How are they?/What are those mages up to?

The number of Kinloch Hold’s refugees have thinned by the time they reach Haven’s gates. There are those who stayed at Kinloch rather than brave the roads; there are those who defected to either side along the road; and there are those who perished en route. By the time the former Knight-Commander and the former First Enchanter reach Haven, they are not only without institutional support, they are also “short-staffed”.

Cullen and Bree arrive at Haven determined not to be a burden, but an asset: Templars to fill out Inquisition ranks, Mages to assist with healing, Tranquil to assist with enchanting. That said, there are mage children to be cared for, their own injured, and their own elderly who need attention and care alongside Haven’s other refugees. Lacking the usual personnel (i.e., an entire working Circle), Bree argues that the Knight-Commander ought to reach out to the families of the children to see if there are any parents who desire to reunite with their children. Cullen argues that the Mage-Templar War has caused too much chaos for the location of potentially dispersed parents let alone the the safe delivery of any child. 

At Haven:

The Knight-Commander renounces his title and proclaims that he and his are Templars no longer to keep in tune with Canon!Cullen. He additionally suspends Harrowings, albeit against his own desires. (I want some of that wariness and distrust of Canon!Cullen to still be present for Knight-Commander!Cullen. Instead of a steep, sharp about-face anti-mage attitude as a result of trauma, I want a slow entrenching of opinion as a result of the usual Templar experience--failed Harrowings, hunting apostates, discoveries of blood magic use, etc.)

Bree adapts to Haven faster than Cullen does. She starts experimenting with non-mage clothes as her canon-self does and is comfortable socialising outside the Circle.

Cullen adapts quicker in word than in deed and feels out of place. More than that, he feels directionless. He gamely attempts the heavy Inquisition armour, but quickly sheds it in favour of the armour he has worn for the majority of his life. 

Prior to Morowa eventually allying with the rebel mages, I was toying with the idea of a possible War Table mission. The scenario is thus:

Cullen feels he is duty-bound to seek out the Templars and serve in the Order to the best of his ability. He and some fellow loyalist Templars go out to join the Lord Seeker, unaware of what lies in wait. While Morowa attends the rebel mages in person, the Inquisition forces (chosen either through diplomacy, subterfuge, or brute force) accompanied by some volunteer Kinloch tag-alongs (mages eagerly looking forward to kick some Templar ass, former Templars who miss their buddies, etc.) go to Therinfal Redoubt, which in turn leads to a jailbreak quest. If I can save Jowan in this AU, I can save Barris too, dammit!

Post-Morowa allying with the rebel mages, I was thinking about:

Some of Bree’s policies as First Enchanter--e.g., attempting to engender pride in their Circle--have totally backfired with the new presence of other mages from other Circles. 

Some of her current policies as Former First Enchanter have also backfired. In an attempt to acclimate her mages to “real world” life, she deliberately assigned them “non-magey” apprenticeships to the cooks, blacksmiths, farriers, masons, carpenters (*cough*Blackwall*cough*), etc. of the Inquisition. It was absolutely abysmal for everyone involved.

Cullen going cold turkey with lyrium and guiding his former Templars through the process as well if they so desire.

Who is watching their Mabari puppies?

As far as the mabari from this post are concerned, my immediate thoughts were that Cullen would be inclined to think of these dogs as a tactical advantage for his Templars in the execution of their duties, namely in the hunting of apostates. I want Knight-Commander!Cullen in this AU to be stuck in the same old Templar thought patterns that Canon!Cullen is in DA:I. (Like, for example, when Canon!Cullen insists there be a Templar present in the room when the Avvar “abomination” meets with Inquisition scholars.) 

I also headcanon that Cullen would not be accustomed to looking upon mabari as pets (i.e., a creature kept for love and amusement alone) as we might because we know that Fereldans keep dogs primarily for what they are able to do, particularly with regards to Ferelden’s war hounds. (Obligatory Doggy Disclaimer: that’s not, of course, to say that they are therefore unloved. It merely seems to me that modern, Western attitudes towards dog-ownership might not be 1:1 with Fereldan attitudes towards dog-ownership. I could absolutely be wrong in this interpretation!) 

In addition to all this, I maintain DA:I’s canon that Cullen only has a mabari pair with him during Trespasser. What I’m taking so, SO long to say is that I’m setting a scene in which a man who is accustomed to looking at these dogs as the mighty war hounds of his nation, now finds that these very same dogs are bonding with mages left and right (young! old! Marcher!! Orlesian!!!) and are, for the lack of a better, more contemporary word, becoming the equivalent of therapy dogs. That man can sit and stew until Trespasser to finally bond with a mabari who he can train in tactics to his heart’s content.

ANYHOO THIS JUST GOES TO SHOW BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH (or in this case, ask) FOR. >8V