#rip to anybody who read the whole thing thi | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mcclain-to-go-writes · 4 years

Text

The Concept Artist

Chapter 1

1998

It had all started with a letter. A seemingly unimportant, unsuspecting letter to one Lon Boraz and the Animaniacs.

The Warners were filming their newest film, "Wakko's Wish," when they heard Sandra, their ever friendly mail carrier, trying to get through the sea of crew to deliver a letter to the three. "I need to get this letter to them! Please, I can never get the letters up the tower, I just need to hand them to the Warners, and then I'll leave."

"Sandra, they're in the middle of filming, if you would just--"

"It's okay, Ron, I think we're done anyways," the director told him. "Come on in, Sandra."

Ron shot Sandra a dirty look before letting her pass. "Here you go, kids. Sorry to interrupt filming," Sandra handed them the letter before turning to exit.

"Thank you, Sandra!" The Warner siblings called before haphazardly tearing the letter open.

"What does it say, Yakko?" Dot asked.

"Oh, please tell us!" Wakko chimed in.

"Alright, alright, hold your horses," Yakko laughed. "Ahem, 'Lon, I've missed you my dearest friend. We've missed you. I know we've had our differences in the past, but I would love to see you again. Come visit the old studio again, and bring those Warners of yours with you, I'm sure they'd love to see how it all began. -Fredrick.'"

"Lon?" Dot asked. "Like Lon Borax? I thought he retired... and went nuts."

"He did. Old Freddy here must not be too close with Lon," Yakko muttered.

"Well, why don't we ask him to take us?" Yakko froze.

"I-I don't think that's such a great plan Wak. Lon isn't the most stable guy."

"Come on, Yakko. He created us! And we could at least ask for the address to the studio!" Dot chimed in.

"I don't even know if we should go to the studio, Dot. Something feels off with all thi-- hey!"

Before Yakko could even finish his sentence, his siblings were taking off to find Lon. Yakko sighed. "I guess there isn't any talking them out of it now."

Lon Borax lived on the outskirts of Burbank in the Home For Retired Animators (Who Went Insane). Yakko never much liked the place. It always gave off odd vibes, smelled old and musty and the bars that had adorned each window always reminded him of his own imprisonment in the water tower. He shook his head, as if to rid himself of the thoughts. He wouldn't be there long, all they had to be there for was talking to Lon, getting the address, and then dealing with his siblings.

As they approached, Yakko could make out the figure of a slender woman sitting at a desk near the front, the secretary, he assumed. If Yakko hadn't liked the building from the outside, he liked the inside even less. The faded yellow paint peeled at the corners and looked scratched in the middle, as if someone had tried to rip it from the walls. The air conditioning was deafening and made the room entirely too cold. How someone could work, let alone live here, Yakko would never know.

"Excuse me ma'am," Wakko asked as they approached the woman's desk. "We're here to see Lon Borax."

"And who should I say is here," the woman asked them.

"We're the Warner brothers!"

"And the Warner sister!"

The woman, Stacy, Yakko deduced from her name tag, typed at her laptop before looking up at them. "You three are the Warners?"

"Yep, that's us," Dot said, batting her eyes for effect.

"I'm afraid Mr. Borax isn't taking any visitors. Sorry kids, I'll tell him you stopped by."

"Oh, don't worry," Wakko waved his hand dismissively. "We won't be long."

"Maybe I wasn't making myself clear enough the first time. Mr. Borax won't see anybody. Now, I'm very sorry, but I have to ask you to leave," Stacy told them, shooing them out the door.

"But we came all this way!" Dot cried.

"I know, and I'm sorry but--"

"What's all that racket?" A male voice from inside called.

"Nothing, Mr. James!" Stacy called back, trying to push the three outside, but they just dug their heels in.

"We want to see Mr. Borax!" Dot cried once again.

"For the love of God, Stacy, just let them in already!" The man... Mr. James hollered.

"But sir--"

"Let them in!"

Finally, Stacy stopped pushing them, letting them pass her by.

"Borax is in room 258," Mr. James said, not even glancing up from his newspaper.

"Thank you!" The Warners laughed as they planted a big, sloppy kiss on the man's face.

"Bah! You kids better hurry before I change my mind!"

The Warners just laughed as they ran down the hall in search of room 258. Soon, the air smelled mustier than before, if that were possible. The pit in Yakko's stomach grew heavier as he saw they were coming up on Lon's room. He never had much trust with the man. He knew that Lon was here for a reason, and was highly capable of violence if he wanted to be. His siblings, however, had always looked up to him in a way. It made sense he supposed, he had created them after all. But from Yakko's minimal knowledge of the man, there was one thing he knew for certain, Lon Borax hated the Warners, and wanted nothing more than to be rid of them for good.

Before Yakko realized it, there it was. room 258.

"Sibs," Yakko started, stopping them from turning the handle of the old oak door. "Lon may not be thrilled to see us..."

"What do you mean by that, Yakko?" Dot asked.

"I-Lon... just... don't get your hopes us about him, okay?"

Dot and Wakko nodded hesitantly, before turning the handle to open the creaking wooden door.

"Nurse, for the last time, I don't want your crap JELLO!" Lon screamed when he heard the door squeak open. Dot and Wakko flinched, not anticipating such a forceful greeting. Yakko, however, stood perfectly still, as if he had known this was coming, As his siblings stood frozen in the entryway, Yakko walked into the room, his face calm and collected, but his hands subtly trembling by his sides.

"Lon Borax?" he asked.

"The f*ck do you want?" Any other time, Yakko would have made a witty remark about how even on the outskirts of the studio, the censoring was still there, but he was too nervous for that. Lon's face was burried under blankets, but Yakko could could see he was eerily thin and deathly pale.

"It's Yakko Warner. We need to talk."

Lon whipped around to face him, and his siblings who had hesitantly been looking in from the doorframe. "You," he spat. "You're the miserable freaks of nature that got me stuck here."

Yakko flinched, "I'm not thrilled to see you either, Lon. So let's make this as quick as possible, yeah?" Lon grunted. "Great. We got a letter. It's addressed to you, but it concerns us as well, so we got it first," Yakko handed him the letter.

"First you steal my career, now my mail," Yakko heard him growl under his breath. He read the letter, eyes widening. Finally, he finished, throwing the letter at Yakko. "I ain't taking you kids, if that's what you think is happening here."

Yakko swallowed, "I didn't think you would. Could you tell us the address of the studio?"

"There's a return address, moron. It's the studio address. Now get out of my room."

Yakko stared at the envelope, and sure enough, a return address was penciled in at the top left hand corner. Yakko felt a small pit of anger bubble in his stomach as he realized he could have avoided this whole encounter, kept Wakko and Dot's image of the man untainted.

"Are you f*cking deaf? I said get out of my room!" Lon howled, throwing a glass at Yakko. It landed about a foot from Yakko's feet, but it shattered on impact, sending shards of glass hurtling at Yakko, Wakko, and Dot. Luckily, none of the shards hit them, but when Yakko heard Dot start to cry, Yakko realized this man was not against throwing something else, potentially more dangerous, so Yakko hurriedly ran to his siblings, being quick to get them from the foul smelling building, to the damp grass outside. Dot was crying quite heavily, and Wakko was shaking like a leaf.

"Are you two okay?" Yakko asked. "He didn't hit either of you, did he?"

Wakko and Dot shook their heads.

"Why was he so mean?" Wakko asked finally. "I thought-I thought he'd like us."

Yakko brought them both in for a hug. "Some people are just mean," Yakko whispered. "And need someone to blame their troubles on."

Though neither sibling was willing to bring it up, they could feel Yakko shaking as he said it. Whether from anger, fear, or both, they couldn't tell. And they weren't sure they were willing to find out.

Alright, I hope you guys enjoyed and if you did please give this a like, a reblog or check it out on Ao3

#animaniacs #angst #horror #concept artist #mcclain writes #yakko #animaniacs yakko #wakko #wakko warner #dot #dot warner #fanfic #fanfiction

15 notes · View notes

twentiethcenturymoviesandtv · 4 years

Text

Dead Poets Society: The Story

Dead Poets Society opens in a pretty traditional way: with the first day of school.

It’s the beginning of a fresh school year for transfer student Todd Anderson (Ethan Hawke), new, shy kid on the block at Welton Academy, a prestigious prep-school for boys, located in Vermont. At the opening ceremony, older recruits march through a church, down the aisles full of other students, carrying banners that display the words: Tradition, Discipline, Honor, and Excellence. New students light candles, and, most importantly, headmaster Nolan takes to the podium to welcome the new students, and shy, quiet Todd Anderson sits in the pew, looking nervous as Headmaster Nolan begins his speech, discussing the four Pillars of the school, the prestigious nature of the establishment, and introducing the new English teacher: John Keating (Robin Williams).

The panel of teachers, sitting behind Nolan, is notably older and grayer than Keating, who, while not a terribly young man, is considerably more lively and animated than his new colleagues. This will be important later, but not right now. (Spoilers below!)

After the ceremony, the courtyard in front of the school is full of parents saying goodbye to their sons. It is here that we learn something interesting about Todd: he has, as Nolan puts it, “big shoes to fill” . As it turns out, Todd’s older brother was a student here, and a pretty good one. Even more nervous, Todd files out of the courtyard with the rest of the students, where we meet Todd’s to-be roomate: Neil Perry (Robert Sean Leonard).

Neil Perry seems to be Todd’s complete opposite in personality. He’s confident, and out-going, and is expected by Nolan to be doing ‘great things’ this year. He takes Todd up to their dorm room, and there, Todd meets Neil’s friends: Knox Overstreet (Josh Charles), Richard Cameron (Dylan Kussman), Stephen Meeks (Allelon Ruggiero), Gerard Pitts (James Waterson), and Charlie Dalton (Gale Hansen). The boys get comfortable in Neil and Todd’s room, teasing Neil for being made to take chemistry courses over the summer. The laid-back nature of the introductions is cut short, however, by a knock at the door.

It’s Neil Perry’s father (Kurtwood Smith).

Mr. Perry tells Neil that he has spoken to Mr. Nolan, and has cut all of Neil’s extra-curricular activities for the year, including the school yearbook, as he doesn’t want Neil distracted from the end-goal of medical school. Neil tries to argue, but is quickly shot down.

After Mr. Perry leaves, the other boys encourage Neil to stand up to his father, but he refuses, resigned to doing what he’s told. The other boys leave, inviting Todd to join them for a Latin study group the next day.

The next day, on the first true day of classes, the boys pass through lesson after lesson, taught by wizened, distinguished men who bore their students to tears.

And then comes English class.

Mr. Keating enters the room, passes his entire classroom, and heads for the opposite door, telling his class to follow him. Confused, the class obeys.

Keating takes them out to the hallway, encouraging them to look at the case full of pictures of Welham alumnus, and tells them that those who first attended Welton, explaining that these people who were once young, are now old, or even dead.

“Carpe diem, seize the day. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.”

He also recites to them some poetry:

“O Captain, my Captain. Who knows where that comes from? Anybody? Not a clue? It’s from a poem by Walt Whitman about Mr. Abraham Lincoln. Now in this class you can either call me Mr. Keating, or if you’re slightly more daring, O Captain my Captain.”

After class, Cameron remarks that Keating seems rather odd, but the rest of the boys seem to like him, or at least, find him interesting. While the boys hit the showers, Knox reveals that he has to attend a dinner at the Danburys’ (whoever they are, more on that later) explaining that he can’t meet to study with them tonight. The boys pick on him a little and then invite Todd, who doesn’t seem to be on board for the plan.

That night, the boys meet to study, and Knox comes in late, elated. See, he’s met the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen: Chris. The bad news is that she’s engaged to a guy named Chet, but that doesn’t seem to deter Knox that much. He remains completely smitten.

The next day, Keating’s class remains as unconventional as the day before. This is no course where the first class is fun and then it’s down to business the next day: Keating seems to mean business about seizing the day.

He opens class by requesting that Cameron reads the first page of the introduction of their poetry book, an introduction about how to rate a poem’s ‘greatness score’. As he reads, Keating writes on the board, allowing him to reach the end of the page before telling Cameron, and the rest of the class, to rip out the introduction.

At first, the class hesitates, but after a moment, many of the students gleefully obey. As they tear out the pages, another teacher, Mr. McAllister stops to investigate. Keating explains that he is teaching the boys to think for themselves, to enjoy the use of language and the power of words.

“No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world.”

The boys contemplate this as Keating adds:

“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here – that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?”

At dinner, McAllister sits next to Keating and chastises him warningly about his choice to educate the boys to think for themselves, encouraging them to be creative.

“Show me the heart unfettered by foolish dreams and I’ll show you a happy man,” McAllister quotes.

Keating smiles and replies with a verse of his own: “But only in their dreams can men be truly free. ‘Twas always thus, and always thus will be.”

At their own table, the boys unearth an old yearbook, searching for Mr. Keating’s page. They learn that he was involved in a group called the ‘Dead Poets Society’.

Curiosity piqued, the boys ask Keating about the Dead Poets Society after dinner. Keating explains that it was a secret society, inspired by the words of Henry David Thoreau to ‘suck the marrow out of life’. This group would gather in a nearby cave and read poetry aloud, and write some of their own.

Neil suggests to the rest of the boys in private that they should revive the Dead Poets Society and meet that night. In his room, he finds a book called Five Centuries of Verse, with an inscription from Keating: the opening to every Dead Poets Society meeting.

“I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life. To put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived.”

That night, the boys all sneak out of the school and meet in the caves. Neil begins the meeting, reading the opening, and then the group takes turns reading poems and talking, getting progressively more spirited. After a while, they conclude, heading back to the school and singing.

The next day, in English class, Mr. Keating shows the boys how to read Shakespeare: not dull and stuffy, but full of life, (doing impressions of Marlon Brando and John Wayne to illustrate) and then does something even stranger.

Keating climbs onto his desk and asks the class why he does this. Charlie suggests that it is to feel taller.

“No! Thank you for playing, Mr. Dalton. I stand upon my desk to remind myself that we must constantly look at things in a different way.”

With that, Keating encourages his class, one at a time, to stand on his desk, looking at the room from a different perspective. As class comes to a close, Keating announces that the boys are to write, and then read aloud, their own poems, privately telling Todd that he is quite aware how much this assignment must scare him.

In his room, Todd attempts to write a poem as Neil bursts in, full of excitement. He has discovered a flier for a community play of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and intends to try out, realizing that he wants to be an actor. He says:

“For the first time in my whole life, I know what I wanna do! And for the first time, I’m gonna do it! Whether my father wants me to or not! Carpe diem!”

The next class, Keating takes the boys out to the field, handing them each a line of poetry. He begins an exercise where each boy must read aloud the line before running up and kicking a ball, one after another, while he plays classical music. Directly after, Neil blazes through the dorm, shouting that he’s secured the part in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, his enthusiasm undaunted by the fact that his father will never write the approval letter necessary. He forges the necessary letter from his father for the theater and the school principal as Todd looks on.

It is the next English class, and it is time to read the poems from the class. Knox, who has ridden his bike to Chris’s school to watch her at least once, reads aloud a poem dedicated to her. Other students read, and finally, it comes time for Todd’s turn.

Todd, as it turns out, hasn’t written a poem.

Undaunted, Keating brings Todd to the front of the class, covering his eyes and encouraging him, helping him create a poem on the spot. Todd’s spontaneous poem brings the class to applause, and Mr. Keating moves the class outside for some more ‘poetry in motion’.

At this point in the story, we’ve got a lot of information about quite a few characters.

Protagonists Todd and Neil, originally apparently the opposites of one another, are similar in pressures from home: Todd to be like his older brother, and Neil to follow the carefully laid plan that his father has set out for him. Neil is already moving outside of that plan, pursuing acting, and Todd, with some encouragement, manages to come up with an intense poem in front of an entire class, despite his shyness.

Even the other boys in the group have unique characterization: Charlie, the anything-for-a-joke class clown, Knox, the hopeless romantic, and Cameron, the reluctant tag-along. (Meeks and Pitts are there too, but they have far less screen time and personality than the rest of the DPS.) We as an audience are watching their growth and personal arcs after the catalyst that is John Keating.

Oddly enough, Keating is the main character that we spend the least amount of time with, and know the least about. We don’t know a lot about his home life, or what his background is, or what his thoughts are. All we see is his direct influence on the boys at the school, and his unintentional inspiration to restart the Dead Poets Society.

Speaking of which:

At the next Dead Poets Society meeting, Knox seems uneasy, announcing that he’s going to kill himself if he can’t be with Chris, and leaves the meeting to call her. The boys follow, cheering him on, as he makes the call, hanging up at first, before working up his nerve (Carpe Diem) to call her again. Chris invites Knox to a party, saying she was thinking about calling him, and elated, Knox accepts the invitation.

The next night is the night of the party. Knox heads off to the Danbury house, where he’s swallowed up by a rowdy crowd of teenagers. Soon enough, Knox (and everybody else) is at varying levels of intoxicated. Inhibitions loosened, Knox kisses the forehead of a passed-out Chris, enraging her boyfriend and starting a fight, ending the party abruptly.

Meanwhile, Todd is given the exact same birthday present as last year: a desk set that he didn’t even like, yet another sign of his parents not really paying attention to him. Neil, noticing Todd’s disappointment, cheers him up, throwing the desk set off the roof, before taking him to another Dead Poets Society Meeting, where Charlie (now insisting on being called Nuwanda) has brought girls in to impress them with poetry.

Charlie also announces that he published an article in the school newspaper demanding that girls be admitted to Welton, signing it the Dead Poets Society. The rest of the group is justifiably angry, afraid that this will put the school’s administration onto them.

Sure enough, at an assembly, Headmaster Nolan demands to know which of the students was responsible for the article. At first, none of the students come clean, until a phone rings.

Charlie picks it up, and announces that it’s from God, saying they should admit girls to Welton.

This prank inevitably ends with Charlie getting paddled in the Headmaster’s office (1959, remember?) and threatened with expulsion. Nolan wants the names of the other members of the Dead Poets Society, but Charlie won’t tell.

After dismissing Charlie, Nolan calls Keating in, questioning him about his teaching methods. Keating explains that he’s trying to teach the boys individualism.

“I always thought the idea of education was to learn to think for yourself.”

“At these boys’ age? Not on your life!”

Afterwards, Keating approaches the boys, specifically Charlie, and gently scolds him for his stunt.

“There’s a time for daring and there’s a time for caution, and a wise man understands which is called for,” he says, explaining that being stupid is not the same as being an individual.

This is a common theme of the entire story, actually. As much as Keating encourages free-thinking and exploration of ideas, he knows the difference between bucking authority for the sake of it versus nonconformity. Each of the boys is exploring this aspect in their own way, from Todd’s slow-growing confidence to Neil’s direct disobedience of his father’s oppressive plan to Charlie’s defiance, even to Cameron’s caution against ‘disobeying rules’. Dead Poets Society is a story about encouraging people to think for themselves, but to be wise about what they do once they start, and while some are more obvious than others (Charlie’s foolishness and Knox’s overzealousness contrasted with Cameron’s blind following of ‘the rules’, all portrayed as kind of problematic), some examples are more ambiguous.

Such is the case with Neil.

After a rehearsal for the play, Neil comes back to his dorm to find his father, very displeased with him. He’s incredibly angry about Neil joining the play, and instructs him to quit the play the next morning, the same day as the first performance. Upset, Neil goes to Mr. Keating’s office to ask him for advice.

Keating listens to him, and suggests trying to talk to his father, for Neil to show him how passionate he is about acting so that he will allow him to do the play, encouraging him to come to his father earnestly before the play.

On a slightly lighter note, Knox enters Chris’s high school and follows her to class with flowers, trying to apologize for the previous night. She’s understandably embarrassed and tells him that her boyfriend, Chet, is still upset with Knox and is out to get him. Undeterred, Knox follows her into class and reads a poem about Chris aloud, in front of all of her classmates.

Remember what I said about ‘wise’ ways to deal with free thinking?

A little later, Neil lies to Keating, telling him that he’s talked to his father, and that he’s allowed to stay in the play.

The next night, Keating and the boys prepare to go see Neil perform, with Chris even turning up and deciding to accompany Knox to the play. It’s well worth it. Neil is in his element, comfortable and dynamic on stage, and his classmates and teacher cheer him on, awestruck by his talent.

Before the last monologue, Neil spots his father, entering the theater. Clearly daunted, he goes out and sells his final monologue anyway, to the wild applause of the audience.

All but his father.

After the performance, Neil’s father brings him home, informing him that he is being pulled out of Welton, and enrolled into a military school, immediately followed by medical school. Neil attempts to argue, to plead his case, but his father shuts him down, and Neil stops arguing.

Later that night, after his parents go to bed, Neil sneaks into his parents’ room wearing his costume, opens the drawer, taking his father’s gun, before retreating to his father’s study and killing himself.

It is right here that the movie goes from a good, even average film about ‘seizing the day’ and living life to the fullest, to a great movie about the consequences of doing it.

In another movie, Neil’s father would have seen the performance and realized his son was right. Or if he hadn’t, Neil would have finally stood up for himself, and his parents might have seen the light.

In another film, Neil wouldn’t have died. Especially not like that.

It is this moment, this gear-switch, that the audience is forced to contend with the implications, the fallout of these actions, and that sometimes, even ‘seizing the day’ is impossible, depending on your circumstances.

It’s not an easy idea to swallow. It’s not one we’re used to in movies. But it’s here, nonetheless.

Back at Welton, the boys tearfully wake Todd up to tell him the news. Upset, Todd runs out into the snow, as the boys follow. He remarks on how beautiful the snow is before throwing up and breaking down, rushing into the snow alone. In the classroom, Mr. Keating paces empty desks, arriving at Neil’s and removing the poetry book he left for him with the Dead Poets Society inscription.

The next morning, it turns out that the fallout affects more than Neil.

Headmaster Nolan announces that he intends to conduct an investigation into what happened. The boys gather to talk as Nolan interrogates Cameron, the rule-abider. The remaining Dead Poets are certain that Cameron is going to sell them out, and sure enough, that’s exactly what he does. Cameron enters, telling the group that he told them everything, and that they all should too, as it’s too late to save Keating, but not to save themselves.

Charlie reacts to this by punching Cameron in the face, getting him expelled.

The next boy called in is Todd, who enters Nolan’s office to find his parents there, too. Nervously, he sits as Nolan tries to get Todd to sign a document blaming Mr. Keating for Neil’s death. Todd glances at the page: the rest of the Dead Poets have signed too.

Later, in English class, Headmaster Nolan arrives and announces that he will be teaching until they can find a permanent replacement for Keating. As he opens class (encouraging people to read the ‘excellent’ ripped out introduction from the book) Keating enters the room to collect his things. After long moments of silence of the boys keeping their heads down as Keating gathers his belongings, Todd finally breaks, calling out to Mr. Keating and telling him that the school forced them to sign the confession.

As Nolan tries to get him to sit down, Todd shouts out: “O Captain, My Captain”, and stands on his desk. Many other students follow, one by one, as Keating tearfully watches.

Keating gratefully thanks the boys, and the film ends on a closeup of Todd’s face, after he’s finally stood up for himself, and seized the day.

Make no mistake, this is not a happy ending. Keating is forced to leave the school. Neil has taken his own life, trapped into a lifetime he didn’t want. Charlie has been expelled, and it’s likely the rest of the boys will be too. This is a movie based on, and ending with, great uncertainty. Not every boy stood up. Not everyone is coming out of this okay.

The question is, what are we supposed to take away from this?

The message of the film, the core theme that people remember, is Seize the Day. And yet, of those who ‘Seize the Day’, very few come out of it unscathed, if any. Instead, people are left with heartbreak, making bad decisions or, even if the decisions may have been morally ‘right’, or what they felt they had to do, consequences must follow. Charlie’s overzealous sense of humor and bucking of authority gets him expelled. Knox’s over-the-top romanticization of Chris nearly drives her away and gets him in trouble. Neil kills himself because the restricting nature of his family won’t allow him to ‘Seize the Day’.

And Todd?

Todd finally speaks out, but too late to fix any of the damage.

Despite the focus on Mr. Keating in most of the promotional material, the protagonist of the movie is, of course, Todd. Once Neil dies, Todd is who we are left with, and it is Todd who changes from shy boy who won’t speak out to the leader of a final daring farewell to a teacher that changed his life. He’s the one that grows. He changes.

It’s just too little too late.

The story of Dead Poets Society is a sobering one, and not exactly a story you’d expect. The first two-thirds could have been part of any typical, ‘feel good’ teen drama about self-discovery, but the last third takes expectations and turns them on their head. This is real life: it doesn’t always work out. People get fired for trying to do the right thing. Parents don’t see the harmful impact they have on their children. People value rules and tradition over the dreams of the young.

It is in this devastating third act that Dead Poets Society earns its place as a classic: by refusing to allow the cliched beginnings to define its ending.

It would have been so easy to allow Neil to convince his father to allow him to act. It would have been simple to allow Keating to change the mind of the establishment, for the Dead Poets to take Welton by storm.

But real life doesn’t always work out like that. Sometimes, the way we go about ‘seizing the day’ can end badly depending on our circumstances and the wisdom in the method we choose. The film isn’t telling us how to do it right. It’s showing you the lives of people who did it wrong, or at least, who seized the day, tried to make their lives extraordinary, and failed, due to many different reasons.

But.

That doesn’t mean we should stop trying.

For every failure, for every mistake (Neil sneaking to do the play, Charlie’s pranks, etc.), Todd’s example stands above and beyond. Yes, he might get into trouble. But this moment, this act of telling a beloved teacher that his work was not in vain, that his students will remember him, that he was not to blame, feels right. This is what he is supposed to do.

We cheer for that moment, we feel the weight of the movie lift just a smidge, because in the end, we have to seize the day. We have to try to make our lives extraordinary, but we have to find the right way to do it, the wise way to do it.

Because, for all of the mistakes made, Keating is right: Words and ideas will change the world. It is up to us how to use them, when to use daring, or caution, and in the end, try to find the meeting place between doing what is right, and doing what is true to yourself.

The ending is uncertain, yes. But it’s the only satisfying ending that an honest movie could give us.

Dead Poets Society is an emotional story, bringing up questions about non-conformity and following the rules that go beyond a surface: ‘yes or no’. A gripping story full of great performances, a warm atmosphere, and immortal dialogue, Dead Poets Society will continue to be a testament to words as long as we care to use them.

In the articles ahead, we’re going to be taking a look at some of the other important elements of Dead Poets Society, so if you enjoyed this one, stick around and join us! Don’t forget to leave a comment, like, or some other form of love if you enjoyed it, and follow for more! Thanks so much for reading, and I hope to see you in the next article.

#1989 #80s #Dead Poets Society #Dead Poets Society 1989 #Comedy #Drama #Dylan Kussman #Ethan Hawke #Film #Gale Hansen #Josh Charles #Kurtwood Smith #Movies #Peter Weir #PG #Robert Sean Leonard #Robin Williams

13 notes · View notes

amaanfr-blog · 6 years

Text

There was no one

(Spiderman homecoming, Irondad)

Waring: Suicide attempt, happy ending.

Summary:

My take on what was going in Peter's head when the warehouse collapsed on him, how he coped with it and what Tony Stark did about it.

"I just wanted to be like you,"

"and I wanted you to be better."

...

Well then. If Tony Stark could come out of a terrorist cave with shrapnel at his heart, wear a suit and save the world then the universe could damn well expect Peter Parker to get a measly building of his back.

But it hurt. The last bits of his courage collapsed with the warehouse. When he realized that his attempts at dodging the vulture were nothing. Then came the orchestra of broken bones, followed by gushing blood.

If only he had the suit. If he just had Karen for a few seconds. Anybody or AI that would listen.

"Help! H-help! please!" His voice broke. "Anybody! please...I'm down here, I'm stuck-I'm stuck I can't move I can't-I can't..."

And yet, there was no one.

He wondered if Mr. Stark would be more disappointed or embarrassed if he saw him right now. He wasn't doing this for Mr. Stark though, or Liz, or to get his suit back.

He was going to survive this and stop the vulture. So that innocent people don’t get hurt when Avenger level weaponry goes into the hands of people who would do anything for money.

Was he going to cry under a heap of concrete or get back on his feet and stop an aircraft hijacking, Spiderman-style?

“come on Spiderman, come on Spiderman, come” he groaned when something pointy grazed the slash on his leg. “come…on Spiderman”

Where lifting the rubble took every drop of physical strength he had, it taught him something priceless in return:

He didn’t need a suit to be Spiderman.

...

Did Mr. stark get nightmares too? every time Peter closed his eyes, the concrete came back, laughing at him, mocking him. was he trying to be a superhero? he was an insect who survived being squashed. Nothing more.

He'd wake up crying, and his tears were nothing like the blood that kept gushing that night. tears were transparent, blood was red. Just like his Spiderman suit. just like Mr. Stark's armor.

Did Mr. Stark cry himself to sleep too?

...

The suit had grown on him, swinging out the window, he sat on the highest roof in eyesight, the moon was silver, not red like Ironman, or Spiderman, or his blood. it wasn't transparent like the tears of a teenage crybaby. It was a beautiful shade of silver.

If Mr. Stark found out he was crying on a random roof because of something that happened years ago, he'd definitely take his suit away. Peter immediately ripped the suit off, it had started to sting.

Thank god he was wearing something underneath.

He cocked his head and looked, down. Cars buzzing away and litten apartments and busy hotels. So many people were under him.

There was no one at the warehouse. One tear. he screamed, another tear, no one listened, he tried not to whimper.

No one would listen. No one ever listens. If he jumped, would people listen? they do say actions speak louder than words.

Would they care if their friendly neighborhood Spiderman suddenly disappeared?

Of course not. People remember the suave guy who saved all known and unknown worlds. not the kid who helped some old lady cross the fucking road. Do even you remember the name of the last guy who opened the door for you?

With that in mind he stood on the edge, how metaphorical, he had been on the edge for the past three years, this was just in a more literal sense.

He leaned forward, he was falling, no web following him, no safety buffer, just as he closed his eyes, May came to mind. Oh god, what was he doing, she'll be destroyed after this, first his parents then Ben, oh god please he'd do anything for May not to care about him. Ned, MJ, the Churro lady was going to hate him for this! Then Came Mr. Stark.

"And if you died, I feel like that's on me, I don't want that on my conscience" he didn't have his web shooters he was gonna die, why did he leave them up there-wait he should've hit the ground by now.

Then he realized the pair of red metal arms holding him up. But Ironman wasn't moving, just floating, shaking.

Peter definitely fucked up.

"M-Mr. Stark-"

"One word, kid, one. Why?"

Peter couldn't see his expression with the Ironman mask on. It was so much more terrifying.

They were back on the roof, now.

Peter quickly dismissed another roof from his mind, another day, another disappointment.

"Why?!" Tony screamed. Mr. Stark hardly raised his voice.

"The warehouse" Peter was uncharacteristically quiet. Tony’d do anything to exchange this for a never-ending Star Wars marathon with his kid.

Honestly, he expected him to experience all the trauma Avengers went through, no matter how hard he tried to throw that fact to the back of his brain.

Because he caused this. Tony Stark practically kidnapped a minor, lied to his aunt, threw him into a multi-million dollar suit and made him fight captain god damn America. then came saving ferries and fighting vultures.

But what warehouse?

the very fact that he didn't know something that caused his kid (*this kid) to attempt suicide made his insides turn to stone.

"What warehouse?"

Peter looked up at him, his brown eyes swirling with panic.

Tony glared at him. "What made the friendly pg thirteen Spiderman jump off a building?"

The kid visibly curled into himself, instinctive. defensive. Damn, Tony couldn't do anything right.

"When, when you took the suit away, I went to thi-this this" the tears were flooding, messing with the kid's audio quality. "warehouse, and the vulture was there and did you know his wings are very strong? and they can cut through walls and that's what they did and and I was-"

Tony wished he was an idiot. he wished he was oblivious. Ironman wished he wasn't so painfully overconfident. he wished he didn't finish Peter's words.

"You were in there. and the building collapsed" Peter nodded, staring at the ground.

Tony felt sick.

What had he done?

-the end-

(lol nah, i’m not that evil XD, continue reading, love)

Peter had given up not crying a long time ago, but the boy still had the audacity to look away and hide his tears behind his hand. As if that could stop those moonlit streaks and drops to haunt Tony forever.

Without thinking, he hugged the weeping kid in front of him. Said kid chuckled. “That’s not a hug”

“I’m just opening the door for you” Tony finished with a melancholic smile.

Peter sat down, legs hanging above Queens. For some reason, Stark knew he wouldn’t try jumping again.

Peter sighed and looked up at him. “First, I’m so sorry, second, this isn’t your fault, third: I’m not suicidal”

Tony pulled off his helmet. “That’s a little hard to believe taking into account that you just jumped off a building without your web shooters.” Ironman sat beside him.

There it was again, the panic in Peter’s eyes. “No, please no, what I did, I wasn’t thinking and now that I am, I know that I don’t want to go I won't leave you or May or Ned or Mj or the churro lady, nightmares aren’t supposed to-”

“Nightmares?” Tony narrowed his eyes, everything slowly falling into place. This kid was battling demons the size of his own.

Peter nodded, and He sighed. “Know how you like a song? and you listen to it over and over again?”

The teenager frowned, confused, but nodded again.

“And then you start hating it, it doesn't even sound like music anymore? Try that with your nightmare”

“Sorry, Mr. Stark, but what?”

Tony reigned in the urge to sass the kid in front of him. “Play the nightmare in your head, over and over again. Painful, scary, a bit crazy but trust me, kid. I get nightmares too.” He slowed down a bit. “Play it until you get tired of watching yourself getting crushed and getting back up again. Get tired of hearing the voices repeat the same things over and over again. And you’ll see it for what it is.”

Peter cocked his head at him and grinned. How the kid still maintained that attitude was beyond him. ‘Mr. Stark, this is all sweet and Dumbledore-y of you but what exactly am I supposed to see it as?’

The billionaire rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me say it, kid,”

Chuckling Peter looked below, so many people were living their lives under him, yet the one who came to rescue him flew here from god knows where. “How did you know I was going to jump”

Tony looked straight into his eyes, no helmet. “You get a little suspicious when your kid takes his suit and swings to a roof, in the middle of the night, every night And this time decides to take it off”

Peter held his head in his hands, sighing dramatically. “Oh god, Mr. Stark. This is a whole other level of helicopter parenting” Tony glared at him and they waited in the midst of the tense silence before bursting into fits of laughter.

A/N:

YOU! YES YOU! are reading my first fanfic on tumblr, and it would make this girl Hela happy if you press the heart thingy and reblog because I SPENT 2 WEEKS ON THIS GODDAMNIT. I need a beta reader, so if you want to help me out then message me.

Just some clarifications:

1) i am not promoting suicide, at all. This oneshot came to be when i realized having a building drop on a 15 year old and have no one offer him a hand would mess with their brain, and have consequences, something marvel ignored in homecoming.

2) Just because we end the oneshot with both of them laughing, that in no meaning of the word means they’re “ok” But they will, eventually. (want me to write some fluff? ;) )

3) THIS WHOLE THING IS FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF PETER AND TONY. I IN NO WAY AM SAYING THAT PETER IS A WORTHLESS INSECT OR THAT TONY SHOULD BE BLAMED FOR EVERYTHING. I tried my best to think up how their perspective, and this is it.

4) This ain’t Starker, period.

Bai.

104 notes · View notes

and-it-freezes-me · 3 years

Text

Schemes Of Mice - Part 2

Schemes Of Mice is the first part of the What Happened In Lichmai series.

{Part 1} {Part 3}

Summary: Virgil gets his car collected, and ends up running an errand for the guy at the coffee shop.

Word count: 5,809

He could leave, of course.

He could stand, cross the room - he couldn’t see it, but he knew exactly how many steps it would take to reach the archway. They had left the staircase unblocked: he could have left this darkness at any time.

He wouldn’t leave, though.

It took Virgil approximately four hours to conclude that he probably wasn’t dreaming.

They drove for another half hour after night suddenly turned to day, through the outskirts of the town - Lichmai, he reminded himself - and then stopped outside of a small motel.

Ethan, who hadn’t said anything since welcoming Virgil to town, was out of the van even before Roman had parked, although parked may be the wrong word. Slammed the brakes on in the middle of the mostly empty car park and blocking four or five different spaces was probably a more accurate description. He came around the side of the van and opened the door on Virgil, who was now clutching his bag to his chest: Roman had made several very sharp turns and he had been sure they were going to hit every other (seemingly redundant) lamppost and tree in the place.

“Mechanic opens at nine on weekdays. They can give you directions inside.” It was quite clearly a dismissal.

The deafening music clicked off.

As they had drawn closer to Lichmai, Roman’s manic laughter had subsided, and he seemed to have become more twitchy. The random comments he had thrown over his shoulder had become less frequent; for the last ten minutes, the three of them had been sitting in silence.

If it weren’t for the fact that he was being abandoned in a strange town, Virgil would almost be relieved to be leaving his suddenly taciturn companions.

“Thanks,” he murmured, unbuckling himself and getting up. Ethan offered him a hand for balance, which he took before jumping out of the vehicle. “I owe you one.”

Ethan flinched as though Virgil had raised a fist to him, hand jerking out of his.

“Watch who you say that to.” Now it was Virgil’s turn to flinch, because Roman’s voice came from right behind him. He didn’t remember hearing the driver’s side door open. He turned to find Roman staring at him, the white strip in his hair hanging between his intense neon eyes, and swallowed hard. “People take that kind of thing seriously around here.”

“Uh. Right.” Virgil glanced back to find that Ethan had disappeared into the van. “I’ll… Be careful.”

“Good luck.”

Roman moved past him, and a second later the door slammed closed behind him. Ethan must have been pinning blankets up over the windows, because Virgil couldn’t see into the van anymore. Were the two of them going to sleep here? In a poorly parked vehicle just outside of a motel with actual beds?

Actually, Virgil wasn’t sure he was surprised. The two of them were certainly weird enough that sleeping in their van wasn’t that bizarre.

Shouldering his bag, Virgil headed into the reception. If the woman sat behind the counter thought it strange that he was buying a room for one night at half past three in the morning, she didn’t say anything. She simply took his money and handed him a key - Virgil wasn’t sure she had said more than ten words to him, and he the same to her. Not that he was feeling particularly chatty just then.

The first thing that Virgil did when he got into the room he had paid for (12, good, he didn’t think he could handle being in room 13) was put his phone on to charge.

As he slid the curtains closed (they were thick, heavy things that completely blocked out the light from outside. Good. The orangey sky was making Virgil feel ever so slightly queasy), he glanced out at the car park. Ethan and Roman’s van was still there.

He didn’t bother changing out of his jeans and hoodie. Instead, Virgil tugged his weighted blanket from his bag and wrapped it around his shoulders, kicked off his shoes, and slid under the covers of the single bed beside him. He was so tired that even the unfamiliar surroundings couldn’t keep him awake for long.

When Virgil woke up, he expected to be in his car. That was how dreams worked, after all: one sleeps, one dreams, one wakes up in the place they originally went to sleep. The fact that he was not in his car, and was in fact in the motel room he had booked in what he had hoped had been a dream, suggested that maybe he hadn’t been dreaming at all. He had run out of petrol, made the stupid decision to hitchhike with a guy wearing slippers designed to look like very dangerous rabbits, and ended up in a town where it apparently didn’t get dark at all.

He could still be asleep, of course. This could be one of those weird dreams that feel so much like real life that it’s almost impossible to tell the difference. Maybe he was lying in a coma somewhere after making the idiotic decision to get in a van with some strangers.

With no better options, Virgil decided to pretend that he believed that he wasn’t asleep anymore. That way, if this did turn out to be real life he wouldn’t have wasted any time making a fool of himself - he was done with being everybody’s fool. And if he did wake up in a few hours time? Then none of this would matter anyway.

The minivan was gone from the carpark when he opened the curtains, and Virgil could see the edge of the sun peeking over the buildings in front of him. The sky seemed to be gradually shifting from the unsettling pastel yellow to a cool blue.

Virgil changed into a pair of slightly less rumpled jeans and a fresh t-shirt, then repacked his bag and went to hand his key in at reception. It was only as he returned it to the tired woman at reception that he actually looked at it properly: the key itself was just a typical metal key, a few flecks of something that was probably rust nestled into the grooves, but the attachment was a little more bizarre. Rather than a rectangular piece of card or wood bearing his room number, it looked like a long, off-white stick with the number ‘12’ burned into one side. A ring of translucent white beads wrapped around one end, and a beige ribbon was tied around the other. It almost looked like a bone.

Weird.

He must have been standing there for a while because the woman - she had a nametag, he realised suddenly, although rather than being pinned to her shirt it was perched on her short afro like a bow - cleared her throat. “Anything else I can help with?”

Oh - right. “Actually, um - my, my car’s kinda stranded.” Virgil shifted, pulling his bag closer to his side. “Do you know if there’s a mechanic, or…”

“Off mainstreet, opposite the clinic.” He waited, and after a second she smiled faintly. “Sorry. Out of here, second left, first right, ten minute walk. It’s signposted. Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks…” He craned his next to read her nametag. “Stacei. Have a good… Day.”

She snorted. “Not planning on returning any time soon, then?”

“Not really. Leeshmay wasn’t on the itinerary, and the whole sky thing is… Unsettling.” He tugged the strap of his bag higher up his shoulder and turned to go.

“Lichmai. Emphasis is on the first syllable. Sky gets a lot of people when they first arrive.” There was the squeaking of a chair whose wheels didn’t get enough oil, and then a soft jangling as Stacei returned his key to the pegs on the wall. “Mechanic won’t open ‘til nine - even if you drag your feet, you’re gonna be waiting around a while. I’d recommend the Eyes-Wide Café. They’ll be open. Tell Remy Stacei sent you.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Remy turned out to be an attractive guy with tight cornrows, maybe a few years older than Virgil was, wearing sunglasses and a leather jacket with a badge reading ‘My pronouns are he/they’. The Eyes-Wide Café was only a few buildings up from the clinic and the repair shop opposite (identifiable only by a tow-truck sat outside; apparently ‘signposted’ meant something different in Lichmai than it did everywhere else), and a queue of about three people were already waiting for various drinks.

Virgil spent his time in the queue rehearsing his order: One plain black coffee. He could add sugar later. No - that wasn’t polite enough. Good morning. Could I have one plain black coffee, please? No, that sounded too… Or maybe it wasn’t enough? He had just about settled on Morning. One plain black coffee, please, when the person ahead of him placed their order and moved away and all of his planning was put to waste.

“And what can I get for you, babe? Oh - hello, you’re not from around here, are you?” Virgil winced. Was it that obvious? Remy had pushed their sunglasses back from their eyes to get a better look at him. “You’re not! When’d you roll in, sugar?”

“Uh… Five hours ago, give or take…” Virgil would far rather have this conversation after he had gotten some coffee. Or, preferably, not at all. “I’m not staying.”

“Just passing through - you must’ve slept at the Sunny Motel, huh? That’s where most people end up.”

Didn’t Remy have better things to do? Wasn’t there anybody behind him in the queue? Virgil glanced over his shoulder to see that no, there wasn’t. He licked his lower lip. “Yeah. Girl on reception, Stacei, told me I could get coffee here?”

“She didn’t try to get you to use the machine there first?” Remy sounded almost incredulous. He was leaning across the counter on his elbows now, and as Virgil watched he pulled a packet of sugar from the jam jar by the till, ripped it open, and tipped it onto the countertop.

“No. Is the coffee good there?”

“Bless you, babe. It’s like making love in a canoe,” Remy replied, dragging their index finger through the small pile of granules in front of them.

Virgil waited, but when no explanation seemed forthcoming he resigned himself to the fact that he really couldn’t let that go without asking. “That’s… Good?” If they did coffee at the motel, why hadn’t Stacei just said that? He could have saved himself this weird interaction.

“Good?” Remy licked the pad of his thumb and pressed it against the sugar crystals. Virgil really hoped that the countertop was cleaned regularly. “It’s fucking close to water is what it is, babe.”

Virgil couldn’t help the unattractive snort of laughter that left him then, although he was aware enough to cover his mouth with his hand. Remy politely ignored the sound, chuckling faintly, and then turned to one of the large coffee machines to their left.

“I’ll tell you what. It’s your first day in town -”

“And last,” Virgil interrupted, and then felt like an ass.

Remy just raised a finely sculpted brow. “We’ll see. Either way, I’m gonna whip up something special for you - on the house, if you’ll do me a favour.”

Virgil hesitated, immediately on edge. “What… Sort of favour?” If this guy asked for his number, he was walking straight out. Not that Remy had seemed particularly dangerous so far, of course - but all Virgil had wanted when he had walked in was a coffee, and now he was having this ridiculous conversation.

His suspicion was obvious enough for Remy to look up from the second large drink he was filling. “Nothing dodgy, babe. Relax. Just hoping you’d drop some drinks off for my… Friends. I’ll have yours waiting when you get back, how about it?”

He gestured dramatically at the two drinks now on the counter between them. One of them was in a very large cardboard cup, the dark liquid and the rich, earthy scent betraying it to be coffee - almost exactly what Virgil wanted to order. It had another scent, too, one he couldn’t identify off the top of his head. The other was in a clear container, droplets of condensation running down its sides and mixing with the sugar Remy had left on the table. The drink was bright pink and topped with enough whipped cream to make Virgil’s teeth hurt just looking at it.

Virgil glanced at the clock behind the barista. Half past eight. He had the time. “Uh… Sure. Why not. Where?”

“You’re a real doll.” Remy pulled a rectangle of card from under the counter and unfolded it into a drinks carrier, then put the two drinks into opposite corners and pushed them toward Virgil. “The clinic, third floor. The coffee’s for a Mr. Sanders - he’s the short one with the glasses. The rainbow frappé’s for Picani, pink hair, office full of cartoon merch. Got it?”

Virgil nodded, adjusting the strap on his shoulder with one hand and taking the drinks with the other. “Sure. Be right back.”

He really needed to stop doing things for people. As he stepped away, Remy called out, “Next!” and somebody stepped forward - there was a whole queue of people waiting now. Virgil didn’t remember seeing a single one arrive.

Well, at least Remy’s eyes had been a regular deep brown, rather than some other neon shade. And he was getting free coffee out of it.

It took him barely three minutes to reach the clinic and climb the stairs to the third floor - the person sat at the reception desk had looked up when he had entered, seen the drinks in his hand, and gestured toward the elevators. Clearly this was a regular occurrence; couldn’t Remy have waited for a break and then carried the drinks over themself?

There was a sign on the wall just opposite the elevators on the third floor. It read,

Dr. Emile Picani, Therapist, Room 3.1

Dr. Juliette Sho, Therapist, Room 3.2

Mr. Patton Sanders, Therapist, Room 3.3

Dr. Amelie Frost, Child Therapist, Room 3.4

Well, that made finding Picani and Mr. Sanders a lot easier: Virgil had been worrying that he was going to actually have to ask somebody where to find the two of them. He was definitely not in the mood to talk to more people this early in the morning.

The elevators and stairwell opened into a small open area with a few couches, a table, and another reception desk (this one empty), with a corridor visible on the other side. Its walls were painted a soft pastel blue, broken here and there by pale doors that looked wooden but were probably covered in a plastic veneer to give that impression. A few posters had been tacked to the walls, all bearing slogans like Talking is the first step to mending or Everyone needs someone to listen. It was… Well, it was just like the other hallways Virgil had sat in on his way to therapy sessions.

He swallowed briefly and patted the lump of his camera with his free hand before walking over to the desk. Remy hadn’t said he had to deliver the drinks directly into their recipients’ hands - he could just leave them here, he supposed. That way he wouldn’t have to actually interact with anybody - but it might mean that Remy’s friends didn’t get their drinks until they were cold. Or warm, in the case of the pink monstrosity that Virgil suddenly noticed was decorated with rainbow sprinkles.

Virgil had put the drinks carrier down on the desk and was glancing nervously from corridor to elevator, reasoning that a receptionist was likely to show up in the next few minutes and know who the drinks were for so he could leave now, when the nearest door opened.

“-you, Ruby? Did you get my email about the- Oh, you’re not Ruby.” Virgil’s heart sank. This must be Picani: he had hair almost exactly the same shade as the cold drink Virgil had brought him, and was wearing a dark blue cardigan that would have looked perfectly normal if it hadn’t been for the pale blue stomach and the line of antennae that ran up his back (Virgil could see them and the large ears on the hood when he turned to close the door behind him). “And you’ve got my drink! Remy must have persuaded you to drop them off as a favour, right? Ah, you’re a gem - I’m thinking Amethyst, given all the purple and the way you look like someone setting out to prove themself, but that’s only the most obvious choice - and we’re not taking your personality into account at all!”

Virgil blinked at him, pulling the bag at his hip a little closer to himself. Was everyone in this town missing a few buttons?

“Am I coming on too strong? Sorry! Let me start again - Emile Picani, therapist, in desperate need of that drink. I don’t think we’ve met. You are?” As he had spoken, Picani had approached the desk and scooped up the frappé, then taken a long sip from the paper straw sticking out of the top before looking at Virgil expectantly.

“... Virgil Insmyre,” Virgil muttered reluctantly. “And I’m just passing through.”

“That’ll explain the bag! You’re clinging to it like it’s your last connection to your past lives! So, Virgil, what do you think of Lichmai?” The universe seemed determined to make him talk to people this morning.

It would be rude not to answer - but it would probably be rude to say what he really thought, which was that this place held more crazy than a children’s birthday party in a candy factory. Licking his lower lip, Virgil cast around for the right words. “Well, it’s very… Different. A little unusual. Very unusual. The sky is definitely… Not what I’m used to.”

Picani chuckled. “Trying very hard not to offend, I see.”

“It’s that obvious?”

“I’ve only lived here for a few years now - I know the cultureshock firsthand.” He took another slurp from his drink. “Remy probably bribed you with a free drink to bring these over, right?” Virgil nodded. “You’ll want to get back. He’s a wizard with those drinks - never guesses wrong, and always brewed to perfection. The Uncle Iroh of coffee - or any drinks, I guess. I’ll take Patton’s coffee through.”

“Thanks.” Virgil bobbed his head once in an awkward approximation of a nod, then shifted from foot to foot. Picani didn’t seem to have anything else to add: he was picking up the coffee cup with his spare hand, apparently unconcerned by the hot liquid in the thin card cup.

Turning to go, Virgil made it halfway back to the staircase before Picani’s voice reached him again. “Hey.” He glanced back over his shoulder. The pink-haired therapist was still standing by the reception desk, watching him with his large, dark eyes. “You’re gonna be just fine out there, Virgil Insmyre. Nothing bad’s gonna happen to you. Everything’s going to work out.”

Just when he thought his day couldn’t get any weirder. Virgil was about to reply, politely but firmly state that he wasn’t here for therapy and didn’t want any free samples; a violent sneeze left him instead, and stinging his nose and making his eyes squeeze shut.

When he opened them, Picani was beaming once more. “Have a good day, Virgil!” He called cheerfully, before turning and heading down the corridor, presumably toward Patton Sanders’ office.

Virgil watched him go, the hood of his cardigan hanging down his back and the large ears attached to it bouncing slightly as he walked, then hitched his bag up on his shoulder yet again and let his shoulders hunch.

It wasn’t until he left the building that he managed to put his finger on what was really bothering him about that interaction: Picani’s parting words, the ones about everything being okay. They hadn’t sounded like reassurances or encouragement.

They had sounded like an order.

“Getting paranoid there, Verge,” he scolded himself, then shook his head once and made the short trip back up the road to the Eyes-Wide Café. “He’s just a slightly intense therapist with no filter. You never have to see him again.”

The queue in the coffee shop was still there, although its components had changed. Virgil found his fingers itching to pull his camera from his bag, to sit in the corner of the café for the rest of the day and document the way it grew and shrank, the way that it always held to the same structure no matter the people making it up. They would be the kind of photographs he would take now, and then come back to in several years time, maybe when he’s made something of a name for himself, and touch up to release as a proper series. Something about permanent patterns arising from impermanent moments…

Remy caught his eye and gestured to a table by the door, where a clear takeaway cup was sitting, a black-and-purple striped straw sticking jauntily out of the top. (Virgil had no idea where the straw had come from: the only straws on the counter were red and white. Picani’s had been pink.) The drink itself was almost black in colour, but it was quite obviously iced - and it was going to be really bitter, wasn’t it? Virgil knew he should have made off with Patton’s coffee when he had had the chance.

Still, a free drink was a free drink, and he had no desire to stand in the queue and offend the barista. Virgil glanced at the clock behind the bar - nine o’clock. Perfect. Grabbing the cup from the table, he left the café to the soft jangle of the bell above the door and started back down the street (again).

He would speak to the mechanic, get his car filled up, and be out of here before midday. Then he could forget all about the weird sky and the people here. Halfway between the café and the repair shop, Virgil lifted his drink to take a brief sip, braced for whatever concoction the barista had assumed he would like.

It… Wasn’t what he had been expecting at all. It was obviously coffee based, but there was no trace of bitterness in the cold liquid. It was somehow creamy despite its dark tone, and the taste of caramel lingered in his mouth after he had swallowed. The coolness sent a shiver down his spine and left a buzzing in his fingers, but he was spared the uncomfortable tingling in his teeth that usually made him avoid iced drinks like this. It was sweet enough to satisfy his tastes, but not so sweet that it became sickly or like eating pure syrup.

In short, it was really good.

Maybe Picani had been right and Remy really was some kind of coffee wizard, he thought. Didn’t stop either of them from being the second and third weirdest people he had met in his life (with Roman taking first place, and Ethan coming in at a tidy fourth).

Taking another long mouthful and enjoying the smooth caramel flavours, Virgil turned the corner to find that the garage door on the repair shop was slowly being raised, a blonde woman in stained blue overalls (cliché, much?) standing beside it with her fingers on a control box in the wall. The disemboweled form of a large car was gradually becoming visible inside the building.

“-ait!” Virgil was just lifting a hand to wave awkwardly at her when he became aware of shouting behind him over the grinding din of the door opening. “Wait! Wait up!”

The highstreet was not busy. There was no doubt in Virgil’s mind that the shouting person was trying to catch his attention. He briefly considered ignoring them, already having passed his limit on social interaction for the day, but turned when the sound of running footsteps met his ears.

It was the barista, still wearing their purple apron and with an empty coffee cup in one hand. Remy looked almost panicked, and Virgil glanced over his shoulder in the hope that somebody else was behind him and had skipped out on their bill - his hopes were proven false when the other skidded to a stop beside him.

“Did -” He paused, clearly trying to catch his breath.

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “You’re out of breath after running past four shops?”

Remy straightened up, clearly about to snap back at him, but paled when Virgil took a wary step backward. His eyes flickered to the half-drunk coffee in his hand.

“Is there a problem?” Virgil looked at the coffee as well. Remy had definitely made eye contact with him and pointed at it; there had been nobody else around, so it wasn’t as though he had just stolen somebody else’s coffee and walked off. So why did Remy look as though they were about to pass out?

“The - the cream.”

“What?”

“The, the cream, babe.” Remy pressed a hand to their face, pushing their sunglasses further up their nose. “I didn’t check if you were, uh…” He waved a hand, and Virgil’s eyebrow rose higher.

“Lactose intolerant?”

Remy nodded frantically. “That’s it. You’re… You’re not, right?”

“Bit late now, isn’t it?” Virgil gestured with his cup, then lifted it to his mouth again. He regretted the move when the barista’s dark skin moved a few steps further down the path toward grey. “No, I’m not. I’m fine. Did you really just abandon your shop to check that?”

Another nod, this time less desperate - but Remy didn’t seem relieved. Instead, they seemed… Resigned? Virgil was definitely imagining things now.

“Right. Good. Okay.”

They glanced left and right, then at Virgil again, and Virgil found that he couldn’t read their expression anymore. He held up his drink awkwardly again. “It’s… A good drink. Thanks.”

“Good.” Remy seemed to shake himself then, drawing his shoulders up a little and straightening his back. “Good! Okay, I’ll - good luck with your car, babe!” The sudden return of the brash barista was almost as surprising as the exaggerated swagger with which they returned to their café, and felt just as forced.

Virgil’s first assessment had been right. Great coffee or no, Remy was just plain weird.

Didn’t matter. Who cared about some strange guy in a strange town that he was never going to visit again? Taking a deep breath, Virgil counted slowly to five in his head before pushing them from his mind and heading into the repair shop.

He was grateful that the mechanic seemed more or less normal. She didn’t hand him any keychains made of bone or have glowing eyes or try to learn his life story. There was nothing weird about her shop at all: it was just like every other small shop Virgil had ever visited, slightly greasy and covered in spare parts, bolts and coils and tyres and pipes. He had passed a pair of petrol pumps on his way in to find her - she had been under the car in the shop, and had introduced herself with a brusque, “People call me Yana. What ya need?”.

Virgil had apologetically explained his situation, and she had slapped him on the back with an oily hand (he was going to have to wash his hoodie) and announced that it happened all the time: sometimes GPS just didn't work around Lichmai.

"That's not weird at all," he commented dryly, and Yana just laughed.

"Not around here, shortie." Grabbing a rag from by the door, she wiped some of the dirt from her fingers and then swiped a set of keys from a workbench by the door. "I'll head out and grab ya car, fill it up when I get back. Probably be an hour 'n a half?"

Finishing the last of his iced coffee, Virgil followed her out of the shop and watched as she lowered the sliding door once more, then flipped around a wooden sign he hadn't noticed before. The now-visible side read 'Back later.' "Do you want me to come with you to help you find it?"

Yana shook her head, already climbing into the battered orange tow-truck. "Only two roads in 'n out of town, 'n ya already told me which one you took. Just be here a little before eleven, yeah?"

“Just before eleven. Right.” What was he supposed to do until then? Go and sit in the Eyes-Wide Café and hope that nobody else tried to make conversation with him? It wasn’t as though he could go back to his room at the Sunny Motel, given the fact that he had handed his key in that morning.

Virgil lifted his free hand to shade his eyes from the morning sun as Yana’s truck turned the corner onto mainstreet and disappeared, then sighed. He supposed he could just sit on the wall outside the repair shop until she got back - boring as that might be, it would mean that he’d be able to leave as soon as was humanly possible. On the other hand, if he had a little over an hour, maybe it would be a good opportunity to stretch his legs. If he took the time to walk around now, whilst he didn’t have the option to be driving, he could realistically push back his mandatory driving breaks and try to make up some of the time he had lost by getting… Well, lost.

Maybe he could find a small park and see if there was anything worth photographing.

Setting an alarm for an hour’s time, Virgil returned to mainstreet and started walking in the opposite direction to the coffee shop and its weird owner, keeping a careful map of his route in his head. It was made more difficult by the fact that half of the turns he made seemed to be onto streets with no name, or rows of cookie-cutter cottages with identical gardens. Not that that was all that weird - plenty of places ended up with a given construction service building repeatedly from the same blueprint. It just made it rather difficult to find his way around.

At one point, the houses he was walking past seemed to thin out a little, and he found himself beside a small orchard.

Cresting a hill, he came across what must be the town’s highschool: he could see a game of lacrosse being played by a group of teenagers, and the words ‘LICHMAI MIDDLE SCHOOL / LICHMAI HIGH SCHOOL’ were stencilled across one building. (Actually, he only assumed it was lacrosse, but he thought it was probably a fairly good guess given that he could hear a teacher yelling at somebody to stop hitting their friend with a lacrosse stick).

Following the road down the other side of the hill, he found himself on the highstreet once more, this time further up than before. Weird. He didn’t remember doubling back on himself.

Somewhere - Virgil had given up trying to remember a route - he found a small square with a fountain in the middle, and the town hall stretching across one side of the plaza. The image of himself striding inside and demanding to see the mayor to complain about the lack of darkness briefly crossed his mind, and he chuckled at the thought. What was an elected official going to do about a localised breakage in the solar system? And he could definitely see himself as the sort of person that barges into the mayor’s office of a town he doesn’t even live in to make complaints. Not.

The soft chiming of his phone startled him out of his reverie, and he slipped it from his bag to glance at the screen. He didn’t need to: nobody would be messaging him, and he wasn’t expecting any phone calls, so it was obviously the alarm he had set.

Well, that made everything easier. A short walk back to the garage, pay Yana, get in his car, and forget this weird little town ever existed.

Virgil deliberately ignored the fact that it only took him five minutes to arrive back on mainstreet, despite the fact that he had gotten slightly turned around and ended up walking down a road he had never seen before (he would have remembered seeing a shop called ‘Midge’s Supplies: For All Your Protection Needs’ and what looked like several large bulbs of garlic, painted blue, hung in the window. What did they sell there? Herbal voodoo nonsense? Guns? Condoms? A mixture of the three?).

He pointedly didn’t mention the fact that Yana had tied a small pouch full of what looked like crushed flowers to his rearview mirror. He could take them off as soon as he had pulled away from the repair shop.

Virgil turned onto the highstreet. As he passed the Eyes-Wide Café, he glanced sideways, and found that Remy was watching him through the shop window. No - they were staring out of the window, watching the cars drive past. Virgil couldn’t even see his eyes behind those sunglasses. They weren’t watching him.

The first time he found himself stopped at a traffic light, he unhooked the small pouch Yana had left him, unbuckled his seatbelt, and leaned out of the passenger side window to drop it into a trash can.

Virgil only hit one more red light on his way out of town. In fact, he only saw one more light - did the place just have an unusually small amount of traffic control? He pushed the question aside as the buildings grew more sparse, and by the time he was driving passed what looked like a small farm Virgil was already trying to guess how long it would be before he reached a place where his GPS would work again. His phone had signal now, but was flatly refusing to load a map.

The woods, when he reached them, were almost completely silent. The trees had been cleared for about twenty metres on either side of the road, leaving a grassy strip pockmarked with what looked like the occasional overgrown stump. To prevent a treefall blocking one of the two roads into and out of town? That made sense: easier to stop a problem from happening all together than have to deal with it when it did happen. Finally, something about Lichmai that wasn’t completely bizarre. Not that that gave him any desire to stick around any longer than was completely necessary, though. Virgil pressed his foot down gently, encouraging his old blue car to pick up speed and get him back to some recognisable roads.

That, of course, was when smoke, thick and black, began to pour from under the bonnet.

Virgil swore.

#WhatHappenedInLichmai #virgil sanders #remy sanders #emile picani #remus sanders #janus sanders #SchemesOfMice

0 notes

bungou-stray-dogs-indulgences · 8 years

Note

You know that "who you should fight" meme? Could you do a BSD version of it, if it's not too much to ask?

(Ngl this may be the best thing I’ve ever answered)

WHO YOU SHOULD FIGHT

ADA

Atsushi: You win(?)

Walk right up to him and beat the ever-loving shit of him. He’ll apologize to you. An easy fight, just don’t slip in any tasteless orphan jokes, it’ll have the opposite effect intended and he’ll take you the fuck out with the pure intent to prove he’s worthy. You could beat him but the psychological weight of crushing someone so innocent will ensure that you never feel right again. Fight him if you have no soul.

Dazai: You lose

He’ll turn the whole affair into a big joke. If you, by some stroke of luck, actually hit him, he’ll probably just say ‘harder daddy’. The psychological effects of brawling Dazai will be devastating either way. DO. NOT. FIGHT.

Ranpo: You win

Honestly, it’s hardly worth your time. He hasn’t eaten anything but chocolate cake and cheap lollipops for the last six years, not to mention any form of physical exercise. He’s got pale-ass noodle arms and a muffin top (don’t believe the official art’s lies. The bitch eats solely from a candy shop and looks like he just topped off a cycling session with Jillian Micheals? Get the fuck out). Just don’t bring a Jolly Rancher shiv because he’ll eat the damn thing. Undoubtedly fight, just be prepared to book it like a fucking librarian after you knock him out because the rest of the ADA will come after you.

Kyouka: Depends

Look, fourteen’s a shitty age even when you’re not dealing with pressing morality crises.There is nothing Kyouka wants more in this world than to dial herself, let Demon Snow rip and raise her kill count to thirty seven. But all you gotta do to keep her at bay is debate on morality like Matthew fucking Murdock in Netflix’s Daredevil. If you can successfully hold her back with discussion on ethics (and how hers will be jack-shit if she slaughters you) you have a slim chance of victory. A great fight if you need to practice for speech class.

Kunikida: You lose

You might think victory’s as simple as tossing his notebook in a nearby water fountain and watching him flip a lid, but this is an absolutely awful tactic and the inside of your head will be decorating the sidewalk in mere milliseconds. He beats Dazai’s band-aid wrapped flanks on the daily and he won’t hesitate to destroy yours. If you fight, at least your cause of death can be listed as ‘blonde beefcake’s rippling biceps’.

Kenji: You win

Just feed him a few bowls of Spaghetti-o’s before you deck him and the little blonde bitch won’t stand a chance. You can smack him back into the cultist backwater rice paddies he crawled out of easy as smacking a crippled fly. A perfect fight for abusing a fourteen year old without getting into too much trouble.

Fukuzawa: You lose

You might think you could dress up in a kitty costume and sneak up to him. And you could. It would be easy, in fact. He’s so focused on the cuteness he won’t notice any maliscious intent. Despite this his reflexes are simply too quick and he’ll still take you the fuck out when you make your move. A bad fight from all angles. You’ll have to fend off his adopted, dysfunctional ADA children too. Just don’t.

PORT MAFIA

Akutagawa: Depends (99.5% losing chance. risky.)

Yeah, you’re fucked. Akutagawa won’t even wait until you initiate, he’ll be the one attacking you, probably over something minor and stupid like the color of your pants is personally offensive. Rashomon will be slicing and dicing you into a smoothie for cannibals before you know what hit you. The only way you make it out alive is if by some stroke of luck Dazai happens to be in a one hundred mile radius and Akutagawa’s senpai-radar starts going off. Fight only if you bring My Chemical Romance vinyls to punt at him; they’re his biggest weakness .

Chuuya: Depends (99.75% losing chance. Cross thy fingers and pray)

Facing Chuuya is a bigger risk than that board game. He’s practically impervious to all close-up melee and he’s too small of a target to be hit with anything from afar. You might think you’d have a fighting chance if you knocked his hat off; after all, that’s basically all he is. A hat rack prone to alcoholism. But that fury will only make him stronger and he’ll crush you like you’re a cum-covered Dazai body pillow. As with Akutagawa your only glimmer of hope for survival is if bandage-kun happens to be close by because Chuuya will prioritize and leave your now crippled ass in the dust that he punted you in. Only fight while intoxicated. (Both of you. Not just him. It’s more fun that way. Much like Turkish oil wrestling but with more gravity.)

Mori: You lose

If you want to fight him you’ve obviously got a death wish and I’m not going to stop you. There’s easier ways to go though, man. Easier ways. His expression won’t even change when he whips out that scalpel (I don’t believe that man’s ever been to medical school) and filets you like a fresh caught tuna, on its way to a B-rated fast food join. Your body’s gonna get left on the pavement for the stray dogs. (No, I’m not gonna finish that joke. Low hanging fruit. I have some dignity.) If you want to die that bad, just go see if Dazai will suicide with you. It’ll be significantly less painful

Elise: I fucking dare you

I mean, you probably could take her out, she’s like seven. Mori will let her play skip rope with your small intestine after she’s recovered. Rest In Peace if you even consider it.

Kouyou: You lose

I don’t know what would inspire you to be so stupid. She’ll just let out a dignified little chuckle and shove that umbrella sword so far up your ass you’ll be tasting acid rain for months, and she’ll do it all in the most ladylike way possible. Unless you’re ready for your innards to end up in a teapot, served with chocolate-coated orange wafers at tea break, just don’t fight.

Oda: ???

He’s fucking dead. What are you gonna do, kick his headstone, maybe plant some weeds over his grave? Just don’t mention the burnt orphan soup, or he’ll literally rise and put you in his coffin instead. If you’re willing to dabble into necromancy, knock yourself (or him, in this case) out.

Q: Haha

I get why you’d want to fight him, I really do. He looks like a miniature Cruella Deville on an acid trip. But you just don’t have a chance. Hit him. Go ahead. As soon as you so much as brush him he has the power to destroy your shit like it’s never been destroyed before. Will annihilate you from the inside out. The deadliest emo thirteen year old there’s ever been; avoid at all costs!!!

Higuchi: You LOSE

You might think you have a chance because she doesn’t have an ability. But you’re gravely mistaken. Higuchi is bitter. Higchi is ruthless. Higuchi does not give a fuck about anything other than getting Emotagawa-senpai to notice her. She has nothing, nothing to lose and she will not rest until she’s pulling your tonsils through your asshole in the hopes that Akutagawa will give her a thumbs-up for slaughtering you. DO NOT fight. She stands to lose nothing and gain everything.

THE GUILD

Hawthorne: You lose

You might think that you’d have a fighting chance because he’s a priest and priest’s aren’t supposed to wreck people’s shit but he will see your sins and you won’t even see him coming. Try to punch him his ability is literally activated by injuries. Knocks you out with a psalter hymnal and ships you off to Bible camp while you’re unconscious. Only fight if you have never sinned, not once, ever.

Steinbeck: Depends

If you’re from the city he’ll destroy you. Farm boys always tear apart city people no questions asked. If that fact doesn’t dissuade you then just prepare yourself not to be freaked the fuck out when he jack-knifes his own neck and starts sprouting flora. As long as you keep your cool you’ve got a 30/70 chance. Only fight if you bring a metric fucktonne of weed killer.

Poe: You win (biggest douchecanoe award, but that’s about it)

Physically, sure, you could sneeze within fifty feet of his pasty ass and take him down. But really? Do you really want to hurt him? He’ll stare right into your soul with those sad, sad eyes and wonder just what he did to inspire such bitterness in you. If you can still fuck him up after that then you’d best kiss your spirit goodbye because it’s descending to the seventh level of fiery hell as you read this. Plus, honestly, there’s no true triumph against a man whose best bud is a raccoon. That’s just too rad. If you can deal with the pressing moral consequences and a pissed off raccoon, go for it. (You monster).

Mitchell: You win

All you have to do is push her hospital bed down the stairs and pretend it was an accident. Her comatose ass can’t do a thing to stop you. Fight if you’re ready to run from angry hospital staff.

Fitzgerald: You lose

You know, this sentient sack of Benjamins deserves it, in all honesty, but don’t try. Him and his power suit will kick you into the next millennia before you can say ‘old sport’. Prepare to be crushed by capitalism.

Melville: You win

He’s like eighty and his ability’s a goddamn floating whale. As long as you don’t throw down at Sea World, you’re good. Fight as long as you’re not in front of an assisted living facility; the CNAs will think he’s a resident and defend him.

Lovecraft: Depends

Attack him while he’s trying to nap and he’ll be too lazy to get up. Otherwise… yeah, just google ‘Cthulhu’. You’ll get the idea. Don’t fight: there’s no beating weaponized tentacle porn.

Montgomery: You lose

Go right ahead and try, she’ll whisk you away to her Melanie-Martinez ass torture dimension and let Anne mop the floor with your teeth. It’s kind of like challenging God. Unless you want to spend eternity in an unsexy rip-off of the 50 shades Red Room, DO. NOT. ENGAGE.

Twain: You win

Twain’s all talk, anybody that walks around with their titties hanging out 24/7 is definitely trying to distract from something. In this case he’s trying to fool people into thinking he’s not a dictionary-definition pussy. Rip the heads off his muppet babies and he doesn’t even have an ability anymore, the schmuck. Fight when you’re looking for a quick self-esteem boost.

Alcott: You win

This poor woman does not deserve to be tortured anymore than she already is by the weight of her own social awkwardness, but if you really insist: make a derogatory comment and she’s basically down for the count already, no physical contact necessary. If you really want to dominate, just steal her glasses and she instantly morphs into a significantly less foxy Velma Dinkley. Also significantly less prone to self defense. An A-1 fight for when you’re looking to cement residency in Hell.

OTHER

Ango: Depends

You would think his beanpole ass would be an easy target. You’d be wrong, though. So very wrong. He’s been chugging tomato juice like it’s his job for the past forever and he’s got a snazzy pair of handcuffs he’s just dying to break out. If you sabotage basic safety features on his car, though, he’s a goner. Just sneakily unbuckle his seat belt while he’s driving and you’ve basically defeated him right then and there. A good fight for practicing strategic tactics and subtle vehicle vandalism.

Fyodor: You lose

Just ask A how that one turned out. Actually, ask anyone in the manga what throwing down with Fyodor entails. (Unless you only watch the anime, then just wait for the season three that we’re probably not getting) He’ll escort you personally to the gates of hell with a flick to your forehead. Then he’ll step right over your still-warm corpse and start playing the cello with that unnecessarily wide leg-spreadage. Mess with this sentient ushanka hat and he’ll uSHANKa you.

5K notes · View notes