#so this was back when networks thought kids could have a little horror

[coockie8]

ok im not in the storm hawks fandom literally dont even know what that show is but i thought you were fucking kidding when you said the main plot is dark enough to be on par with game of thrones until you reblogged that unnerving trivia post like wtf this was a kids show?!?!?

This show was only a kids show because the networks wanted it to be. It could've been an R-rated sci-fi/fantasy series about the horrors of war by just taking itself more seriously. Easily.

[cherrylng]

Matthew Bellamy exclusive interview - Muse [INROCK (December 2018)]

Matthew Bellamy exclusive interview

Muse's latest album 'Simulation Theory' is out now

"It's got a very colourful sound and it's a progression towards a brighter version of Muse."

Matthew Bellamy / Muse INTERVIEW : P.G. BRUNELLI / INROCK L→R Matthew Bellamy (vo./keys./g.), Dominic Howard (dr.), Chris Wolstenholme (b.)

Fantasy has become reality and simulation technology is now part of our lives. The most frightening part of this is that we can no longer distinguish between reality and fantasy. Matthew Bellamy has spotted this and has created Muse's new album, Simulation Theory, their 8th album. Matthew has had a lot of trouble in his personal life, but this has not made his life darker, nor did it in any way influence this album. To begin with, Muse albums have never been straightforward and normal, and this one is no different. This album is also very deep and contains self-analysis and analyses things from many different angles.

Muse has stepped out of the confines of the UK and become one of the world's leading rock artists. So little time was allocated to Japan for the release of 'Simulation Theory', and as a result, INROCK was the only one allowed to cover the event.

'Thought Contagion' is a song about US news and US President Trump, and about other people hijacking your thoughts, but isn't that the same situation in every country, not just the US? Matthew Bellamy (vo./keys./g.): Yeah, I think so. But this song, although it's about the news, has nothing to do with Trump. I don't know why it seems to be misinterpreted. It's actually a song based on the ethics of Richard Dawkins (animal behaviourist). It's about how human thoughts and beliefs are like genes, capable of dividing and replicating. In fact, he also coined the term 'meme' (Meme. A humorous parody of a photo or video that is spread via the internet), which you see a lot on social networking sites. The internet has changed its meaning, though. The term was originally coined to explain that our thoughts behave like genes and expand. In other words, the human brain has the ability to change even the truth into something else. That's what this song is about.

Do you miss the '80s? Matthew: No, I don't really feel that way…

But didn't you once cite the '80s as "the era that had the biggest impact on you"? I mean, technology wasn't as advanced as it is now, but… Matthew: Ah, so you asked if I miss the '80s. If that's the case, the '80s certainly had a big influence on me, and I think that's reflected in this album. I've also been re-discovering some of my childhood influences while making this record. I think the strongest influence on a newly formed band or an artist at the beginning of their career is their teenage years. In our case, it was rock music. I also developed a big interest in classical music in my late teens, so that's part of it, but anyway, I think the first 15 years or so of this band has been based on those teenage influences. But as you can tell by listening to our early songs, there was always an artificial sound somewhere. Like the use of synthesisers. With this album we wanted to go back to that kind of sound. I was heavily influenced by horror film soundtracks as a kid, and that kind of '80s sound is definitely a big influence on this album. It's a reflection of the influences I had before I formed the band.

Dom (Dominic Howard, dr.) spoke to me a few days ago about the music video, but can I ask you one thing about the video for 'Pressure'? Did you always dream of playing guitar while rolling around on stage like Michael J. Fox? (An act from the film Back to the Future) Matthew: Hahaha! I guess you could say that (laughs). I don't really remember. I think I was about seven years old when that film was released.

Yeah, that film was released in '85, so you were born in '78, so you must have been seven years old then. Matthew: The most memorable images you see when you're a kid stick in your head for a long time as an adult, and I think my first guitar player was Michael J. Fox in that film. I think that image came back to me subconsciously as I was re-discovering my childhood influences. Anyway, I had a lot of fun shooting that video.

"Maybe the characters in the game are a lot more intelligent than we think, maybe they'll become conscious and emotional in time…"

There are other influences like 'Gremlins' and various '80s films? That car that appears a few times is also reminiscent of the DeLorean. Matthew: That car is a Lamborghini. It does have a DeLorean look to it. Thanks for noticing all the little details. I played quite a few VR (Virtual Reality) games while I was working on this album, and through them I discovered that not only can you go to different worlds, but you can also go to different times. You can visit places that existed in the past. I've recently been playing a game called Star Trek: Bridge Crew, which is a lot of fun because you get to spend time on a spaceship in the '70s. It's a very strange feeling to be in the 'future' as people imagined it back then. I like that kind of lost time. It's not connected to the present, but it's somehow connected to the past or the future. I like to create experiences where you don't know which era you're in.

You've released eight albums so far, and this is the first time your faces have been on the cover. Is this design also inspired by the gaming world? Matthew: Yeah, the jackets are very much inspired by the game. The idea of being trapped inside the game world is one of the themes of the album. You gradually realise that you've become your own digital avatar and you try to escape from this game world or programme that's trapping you. It might be a very strange idea, but when you play a game for a long time, you start to think about that kind of thing. I think that maybe the characters in the game are a lot more intelligent than we think, and maybe they'll eventually become conscious and have feelings. That's a very strange feeling, don't you think? An artificial intelligence that one day discovers that it was created by humans, but it's trapped inside the game world and can't escape anywhere. Maybe that's an idea that has a connection to our human lives. I think we all have that feeling of being trapped in a programme at times.

"I'm strongly attracted to the feeling of not knowing which era you're in."

Kyle Lambert, who designed the jacket (pictured above), also did the artwork for Stranger Things and designed the jacket for the super deluxe edition (2CD + 2 analogue records + box set including hardcover book, art prints etc). Paul Schipper has done artwork for Star Wars and Marvel films, how important was it for you to work with people involved in the world of film and television? Matthew: It was incredibly important. It's great to work with people who have experience in creating virtual worlds. It's the same with the videos. Making all the videos with Lance Drake [video director], I think we were able to create a certain world. It's the first time for us to make all the videos with the same director, but we like it a lot. It allows us to build a deeper relationship with each other, and when you do four or five videos together, you start to think about the connections between each video, and you can pay attention to the details. Like what kind of connections you want to make and how you want to develop the ideas. That's why the visual world is very important on this album. In the past we weren't so much into the videos, we only focused on the music, but with this album we've really tried to focus on the visual side of it as well.

Just one more question about the video - is 'Dig Down' inspired by Max Headroom (a CG character created in the '80s as a virtual presenter for TV shows)? Matthew: Yeah, exactly. That's where the whole idea of merging the virtual world that the album is about with the future world that we all used to imagine came from. Max Headroom was the first virtual presenter, but it was only on film, someone was actually playing as him. But at the time, the idea of having a CG character as a presenter was still very interesting. I'm very much attracted to that kind of future that people used to imagine. In the early science fiction films, they often depicted a future world where artificial intelligence and robots would appear and rule the world, but we actually live in such a time now, which I think is very interesting.

As far as the sound is concerned, you seem to have combined a lot of different elements at random, without setting any limits? Some are quite electronic, some are quite rock, some are acoustic like 'Something Human' and some are mellow like 'The Void'. Matthew: I think we live in a time where we are inspired by multiple different art forms. Even in our day-to-day lives, we're influenced by a lot of different things, and as a result, we can easily go in a lot of different directions. It used to be taboo to do something retro, but now we've moved past that. We don't feel the need to stick to one idea or one genre anymore. Nowadays, listeners listen to a lot of different genres, and there are a lot of artists who fuse everything from hip-hop to urban, dance, modern rock - and create new genres and styles of music. But by fusing different genres, sounds, and styles from different eras, as I mentioned earlier, you get the feeling that you don't know which era you're in, and as I said before, I'm strongly attracted to that kind of thing.

You collaborated with the UCLA (University of California, Los Angeles) Bruin Marching Band on another version of 'Pressure' on the Super Deluxe version, where did that idea come from? Matthew: There are a lot of synthesisers and electronic sounds on the eleven songs on the album, and the sound concept of the album was to blend that with an organic sound, and the Super Deluxe version is very organic, plus a lot of extra stuff. We wanted to include eleven organic, stripped-down versions of the songs (ten are actually on the Super Deluxe version). The result is that some of the songs are acoustic, some are piano-only, and all of them are very simple, except for 'Pressure', where we were like, "How the hell can we do this?" I was struggling with that one… It's a very up-tempo song, so I didn't think it could be done with just acoustic guitar. Then the idea of using a brass band came to me. There's actually a bit of that in the original. So I thought it would be great if a brass band could play on it, and I immediately thought of the UCLA brass band. They've actually performed Muse songs at halftime of college football games in the past. I saw the video on YouTube and thought it was great. Incidentally, they performed a medley of Muse songs including 'MK Ultra', 'United States of Eurasia', 'Resistance' and 'Knights of Cydonia' at halftime of a game against the University of Southern California in 2010, and again in 2013 when they performed 'Unnatural Selection' after a game against the University of California, Berkeley.

'Dig Down' is also an acoustic gospel version, which is totally different from the original concept, isn't it? Matthew: Yeah, that song is totally different from the original. The original is the most electronic song on the album, with a lot of synthesisers. If the original is more artificial and manufactured, the other version is all organic and natural sounding. If you listen to the other version, you can hear how the songs on the album were written. It's before all kinds of sounds were added.

What made you feel the need to make a super deluxe version? Matthew: I like expressing myself through music. That's my favourite part of the job. I think it all fits together and it all flows well as a piece of work, even though each song is a completely different version. The way albums are made nowadays is completely different from the way they used to be. There's a completely different concept. Because it's digital music, there's no limit to the number of songs you can have, you can have 50 songs on it, you can have eight songs on it. We came up with different versions of each song when we were making this album, but in this day and age we didn't want to put a limit on the number of songs, so we didn't feel the need to reject them.

You wanted to move away from the heavier, darker vibe of your previous album, 'Drones', didn't you? However, the album's content is not lightweight either, is it? 'Propaganda' is a very dangerous song, and 'Break It To Me' is so dark, it doesn't sound that different from 'Drones'. Matthew: There are definitely some darker themes, and I think they will continue to be present on future albums. But I think there's a big difference between the last album and this one in terms of style and atmosphere. 'Drones' was a very dark album, and the show was very dark as well. We wore black every night. Everything was black. Of course this album still has elements from the last one, but I think it's more colourful in terms of the sound. There's always been a dark element in Muse's music and I don't think it's going to change. Still, this album is quite bright for Muse. Anyway, we've moved towards a brighter version of Muse. The tour will definitely be more fun too.

Translator’s Note: This interview took so much of my time to read through each and every line in Japanese to get it right. Why? Because for some reason, the text gets printed in weird ways that it ends up missing a small yet very important thing: the ‘ー’. It’s a long vowel mark, usually only used in katakana. That missing long vowel mark can mess up the translating software so much, as it affects not only the word, but also entire sentences.

To put it simply, without that long vowel mark, there’s a VERY big difference between “ダーク (dark)” and “ダク (dork)”. And a VERY big difference between “'Drones' was a very dark album” and “'Drones' was a very dorky album”.

[jellycreamjammedart]

Lost and Found (Super)Stars

PT. 4 (index/parts) (Tag: desktop/mobile)

FNAF Security Breach Ruin, post-"betrayal" elevator ending hurt/comfort, Found Family, something I like to call "Hopeful Horror"

Summary: Having had her kindness stomped on then spat back at her, betrayed by who she thought was her friend, and now stuck at the ruined remains of Freddy Fazbear's Mega PizzaPlex, Cassie tries to find the slightest bit of meaning and worth in all of this.

Most of the way back through the cavernous path was silent. Cassie didn't want to linger long enough to wonder how deep underground they were, for there to be things like actual glowing mushrooms, it's just unnerving to think about; and Roxy was anxious to return back to their PizzaPlex place (as ruined as it is now,) feeling as if the cave-like area was going to collapse on them any moment; And they're out of the V.A.N.N.I network coverage zone, meaning Helpi and M.X.E.S as well as the AR world are unavailable until they make it back into the coverage zone.

Yeah, nobody wanted to stick down there longer than necessary.

Seeing the elevator that would take them back up to the PizzaPlex should've been at least mildly relieving, but Cassie felt her chest tighten with dread, especially when thinking on what happened with her on the other elevator. It's almost ironic, how she bickered with Helpi in refusal to use more vents, only to change her mind when he suggested an elevator shaft. Right now, she'd rather take the most decrepit vent filled with the most hostile robot than an elevator. But alas, that was the only way up, so there wasn't really much of a choice. Cassie entered it with Roxy, hoping with all her soul that nothing bad would happen to either of them in there.

The ride up was also silent, but Roxy was very attentive; Every now and then, either one or both her ears would twitch, hearing Cassie's slightly shaky breath, or her soles antsy shifting her weight from one to another, besides the off-sync, lower-pitched elevator music (it sounded so wrong...) She would've asked Cassie if she was okay, if only to cut through the silent elevator ride, but honestly? That's such a dumb question.

Of course Cassie is NOT okay! She's been evading death all night, for someone else, who wasn't even there... and chose not to be there for her when he could be. And she nearly did die down there! Cassie's probably not even fully processed everything.

Roxy keeps herself from growling, if only for the girl's sake as to not concern her. She does, however, gently reach her claws to take hold of the child's much smaller hand into them, a small but nice bit of reassurance, while also respecting possible boundaries of a kid who might be in need of a little space right now. She felt a little, nice flutter in her wirings upon sensing the small hand return the hold, with little to no hesitation.

Her ruined and sharp looks really meant nothing different for Cassie. She was the same beautiful winner she's always been. If Roxy had tear ducts, she'd cry to herself right now.

Fortunately, the elevator ride is not eternal (even if it may have felt like so,) and both are let out back into the more constructed environment. Technically still under Roxy Party Garage, so they make way again. The way up is quite dark, Cassie felt the need to hold Roxy's hand in more of a guiding manner as their feet met the metallic grid surface of the stairs. "Watch your step." She softly instructs the eyeless wolf-- heck, she had to watch her own step, even with the flashlight in her other hand. And Roxy followed suit diligently.

Soon they make it to the end of the staircase and through the door that led them straight to where Cassie had... deactivated Roxy. She pointedly looked away from the spot, the shame that washed over her made her feel almost sick in the stomach. Roxy avoided looking too, it just made her feel sad, for the both of them; while missing her eyes, her hearing was so acute and precise, it was almost as if she was 'seeing' with her ears instead, along a sense of location. At least Helpi and M.X.E.S were back, now that they were within the network coverage zone again.

"Helpi, what's the nearest parent node again?" Cassie asks, feeling as if the little bear was clung to her shoulder over her backpack like a koala, the sensation similar to when she felt M.X.E.S touching her mask. Of course she knows the nodes, she unwisely deactivated them (regrettably,) but there were instances she wasn't sure in which order she did; Even in ruins, the PizzaPlex was huge!

"From our current location, backtracking will lead you into Fazerblast!" Helpi reminded.

Cassie felt her chest constrict; the first thing that came to her mind upon hearing Helpi's answer was the horror of the heavy steps of an once lovable bear beating into her ears as it bolted for her the last time she was there, always on her heels and one second of hesitation away from being grabbed.

"Do not fret!" Helpi is quick to reassure. "Since you're no longer going against the security protocols but rather in their favor, it's unlikely that any distress signals will be emitted to point you as a threat."

Wait, Helpi had a point; the animatronics were going after her because M.X.E.S was calling them over to her in order to protect the security nodes. But now the security bunny had no reason to do that. Sliding her mask back over her face, Cassie looks over to M.X.E.S as if looking for some kind of confirmation to what Helpi said. It refuses to look directly at her, but with an eventual glance her way, it nods its head lightly.

"But I don't recommend dropping your guard completely, either." Helpi quickly adds before Cassie could get 'too comfortable', his mouth a flat line. "If the animatronics see or hear you, they might still come at you independently!"

Oh. Yeah. That does sound rather risky. But so long Cassie hides herself and be quiet, she should be able to sneak past lingering threats. Being a child and small comes with a tiny little advantage point there.

But would that even matter for an animatronic with no eyes or ears but still patrolled? Was that headless Freddy pointedly after her with M.X.E.S' help? Or would it (he?) be clueless without it? Cassie can't imagine how he's functioning without a head. Or what it's like to function without a head. Is that even Freddy? Does it have any semblance or essence of him in there? Or was it all gone along with his head?

The small quartet squeeze through the cluttered Roxy Party Garage, though they do pause at several points to see if there was anything around them that could become useful ahead-- there's a lot of clutter, it's worth skimming over just to make sure. And if there was anything worth collecting, into Cassie's new backpack it'll go! Maybe a little screwdriver won't hurt!

Roxy weaved her feet over some old pieces of wood, likely from pallets. "... I remember something."

"What?" Cassie looked back from where she was pointing her flashlight at.

Roxy's ears stand upright. "People used to lose and forget those duffel bags in the PizzaPlex all the time. Rarely if ever the owners claimed them back, or claimed only what was inside."

Cassie blinks at the wolf, lightly tilting her head sideways. "You think there could still be any of them around here?"

"I certainly wouldn't be surprised." Roxy hums, holographic gaze landing on the Glamrock Freddy backpack; it's nice and convenient, but if they're going around nitpicking stuff on the way, it might become too small.

"Well, I don't see any around here right now." Cassie hums in response herself, pointing her flashlight over the more immediate area. "But if we find any somewhere ahead-"

"Then it's finders keepers, baby!" Roxy finishes the sentence in mild amusement, which Cassie reciprocates, a small upwards tug at the corners of her lips.

"Finders keepers."

They eventually come across a familiar vent and some blocked off pathways, and Cassie lifts her mask off her face, suddenly feeling rather claustrophobic at the thought of crawling in there again knowing now what's in there. And Roxy's too heavy to go in there with her and her weight might make the whole thing fall down.

And Roxy's aware of that. "I can take an alternative path and meet you on the other side, Cassie."

"Uh, are you sure I can't just go with you?" Cassie asks a little uneasily, remembering the creepy crawly that chased her in those. Roxy shakes her head.

"The vent is far safer for you to use."

"But-"

"Remember what I said, Cassie? You're stronger than you seem to believe yourself to be. We won't be apart for long, and I'll still be nearby so just hang in there, okay Champion?"

Cassie is a little taken aback by the new term of endearment; she felt her throat tighten but not in a necessarily bad way. It was just a bit too big of an emotion right now.

"Do not be afraid!" Cassie hears Helpi chiming in by her shoulder. "The Music Men shouldn't bother you this time, either! If they get in your way you can try... asking them to please move?" He suggests, though it's clear he doesn't sound very sure of his own advice. But definitely sure of his claim of them being harmless or at least neutral.

Cassie's eyes drift over to Roxy's endoskeleton eyesockets. "... you promise you will be there on the other side?"

Roxy shifts into a more confident stance. "Like 1st place at the finish line! I promise, Champion."

The girl eventually nods, and turns to face the vent, crouching down to enter; though she pauses to look back over her shoulder to see Roxy prying planks and slashing at a blocked off door, likely the alternative path she was going to take. Cassie kept her mask off her face (the vents feel even more claustrophobic with it on,) before she finally went on crawling in.

Okay, she knows this vent has nothing in it, but the next one...

The little girl however gets a small reprieve first upon crawling out the other side of the vent, in the form of a small room with colorful lockers, likely part of a hallway or utility room between attractions. There was a door, but it was jammed and barricaded shut. The other vent was right there, but it was rather up high on the wall. Cassie's brows furrow slightly.

"I need something to reach it..." She mutters out loud as her eyes evaluate the many lockers in the small room. One was more or less favorably placed, if she pushed it she could send it back against the wall. She begins trying to push at the locker to shove it back, but it was a tad too heavy for the child; she could feel it move slightly under her efforts though. She changes her strategy a little by first shoving into the locker as hard as she could, then while it's rocking a little at its base, she took a few steps back then ran towards it, ramming her shoulder into it with enough effort that the locker finally topples back with a small grunt leaving her, the locker's top hitting the wall right under the vent.

Cassie is left wincing, her shoulder now with a dull pain from hitting it into a hard surface, but now she could proceed! "Yes! I did it!" She just spends a few moments taking a couple breaths while rubbing at her eyes, then she climbs up the knocked locker until she reaches the vent finally, crawling once more.

Okay, so far so good... The vent is a smooth ride. She was very faintly starting to hear the Fazerblast music meaning she had crawled a good way in... Then it showed up.

Right as she was supposed to take the last turn, the creepy crawly Cassie dreaded meeting again dropped from above, blocking her path, its teeth clattering and its head and arms twitching. The girl stops in her tracks, forgetting how to breathe. While it doesn't break into a run towards her like it did their previous encounter, it stared at her unblinkingly. Cassie felt herself between a rock and a hard place, the only pathway she had was ahead, or retreat all the way back, which at this point was just a hassle.

"Don't be scared!" Helpi's voice pipes up, trying to calm her nerves. "Try going on anyways, it shouldn't be compelled to hurt you anymore."

Cassie hesitates; there's been times Helpi guaranteed she was safe only for circumstances to refute it, but that was when that thing down in the basement had a hold of him... Surely he wouldn't egg her into walking into danger with the promise of safety as himself... right? He did seem to feel bad he was tampered with, after all.

Swallowing dry, she makes a tentative crawl towards the miniature Music Man. "S... sorry. Can you... can you move, please? I- I need to pass." She follows Helpi's earlier suggestion, counting on nothing but luck for it to work. The small spider-like robot just continued staring at her for a hot minute, but to her pleasant surprise, it complies!

It skitters backwards towards a dead-end with a vent fan, unblocking the way for Cassie, who just then lets out the breath she was holding, relief draping over her like a thin but smooth blanket. "Uh, thank you."

Being tucked under a blanket with only a dozen pillows and plushies sounded just about great right now, actually...

"See? I told you so!" Helpi states proudly, as if he himself hadn't been somewhat uncertain of his own claim. "All you had to do was ask!"

"That you did." Cassie responds as she crawls past the small Music Man, then her brows furrow a little. "But... didn't you also say that I shouldn't let animatronics see or hear me?"

"Ah, well-" Helpi lets out a sound akin to a throat-clearing. "You see, it's a bit of a toss up."

"Oh no..."

"Hey, don't despair! If you prefer you can choose to err on the side of caution. Remember that you're not alone this time!"

Well, that was a bit of a nice reminder, though it doesn't really solve the fact that she was basically gambling with potentially still aggressive animatronics.

Cassie soon finds herself coming out of the vent, finally, and into a small backstage-like room for Fazerblast, cluttered and still with a few pieces of the former attraction. The only way through was the door that would take her straight into Fazerblast itself. She can't help but feel nervous, knowing what (who?) is lingering around there. Okay, okay, she just has to reach the parent node then its two child nodes without running into them. It's just two child nodes, she can do this! She already did once, only in reverse.

Swallowing thick, Cassie, grabbed the door handle and opened the door, letting herself into the ruined Fazerblast.

To Be Continued...

[findafight]

THANK YOU for the scoops troop post starcourt fic bc it’s been driving me CRAZY that the whole tortured by Russian MILITARY as teenagers was never brought up again!? Especially with Steve - like I don’t know how my guy handles physical touch and affection after all he’s been through physically and emotionally and he’s written off as a haha character most of the time but there’s SO much there with trauma, especially since the only other person with an inkling of what happened with the Russians is Robin

Ahhh yeah continuing this fic is definitely on the list. sorry this gets a little rambling and idk if it makes sense. Because obviously Steve and Robin don't outright tell Dustin and Erica what happened but they're smart kids and sort figured there was some light torture happening. And when you're running on adrenaline a lot of stuff doesn't register right away, so they have to have a chat about that and guilt for 'letting' it happen.

And like, they could have mentioned it when everyone regrouped in the food court but by that point Robin and Steve were crashing from Russian drugs and I can only assume they thought it was pretty obvious where they'd been what with Erica telling Murray how to actually get in. But then it's over and Hopper is dead and so is billy so it's not even the biggest deal that they were tortured and Robin definitely thought Steve was dead for a bit. They can deal with it together.

With Steve it's like "haha Steve is slow on the uptake and doesn't understand a lot and isn't very smart and asks a lot of dumb questions" and never "steve has had two severe concussions within a year of each other and he still graduated highschool on time only to be concussed AGAIN" my poor beloved blorbo please someone let him rest. And I desperately want one of the actual adult members of the upside down crew to realize that he's just sort of. Dealt with it by himself or with Robin, that he doesn't have the same support network as the party or Joyce and Hop or Nancy and Jonathan (who both have siblings that understand, Jon with his mom as well). And yeah he has Robin after S3, and Dustin is basically his brother, but it's different, because the only one who he'd remotely be absolutely honest with is Robin, who also only has him, and actually it's a miracle they're functional at all.

And I want Steve to be confused why the Grown Ups are mad (worried?) That he didn't tell them he and Robin were actually literally tortured because they all had better things to do, they had no obligations to Steve. He and Robin had each other, and he and Robin supported Dustin and Erica, and they're all fine now. The first few months were rough, sure, but now it's okay.

Plus the fact that the Byers were moving leaving Steve as the oldest person besides Murray who didn't live in Hawkins who knew about the upsidedown. He was the one that was supposed to be in charge and responsible, because no one else should have to do that when they're all trying to move on, so what good would telling Joyce, who would be far from Hawkins and its horrors, about how he could barely wear his watch sometime because it reminded him of being tied back to back with Robin. She couldn't do anything about it and she didn't get it the way Robin would.

So he and Robin have sleep overs and long talks so they're semi functional and can help Erica and Dustin work through it too. They deal with it together, because none of their parents know and Steve is accustomed to adults being unreliable even without world ending secrets involved. And there aren't any grown ups around anyways so. He's the grown up of the group and it's his job to make sure all the kids are okay.

I think out of anyone outside of Scoops Troop, Lucas probably knows the most because Erica is his sister and now she knows he gets her to talk about it. She's reluctant at first because he wasn't there, but does, because Lucas is her big brother and he is there for her. And while he and Steve were friends after Billy in S2 and Steve's protective streak, Lucas gets really close to Steve with Erica, because they're both clingy to each other and Steve, for all he's basically a bag of nervously shaking chihuahuas with hairspray and ibuprofen keeping him from breaking down at any given moment he isn't holding Robin's hand, seems like a stable force in their lives.

[hiding-under-the-willow]

please tell me more abt Yancy in mark TV

Okay so my thoughts on Yancy in all the Markiplier TV stuff is really a mash up if a lot of different headcanons I've collected from different places and then some.

So like, big fan of the headcanon that Yancy is one of Mark and Celine's kids, and he ended up in prison cause he got blamed for the events of wkm. I know it's not perfectly supported by the canon or anything but it's fun, so, y’know, who cares. I can do whatever I want lol. And then I don't know how common this headcanon actually is bc I picked it up from like one specific fic, but Yancy as the security guard for Wilford's club in Wilford Motherloving Warfstache.

So like, Yancy grows up in Markiplier Manor for most of his life, Celine gets custody during the divorce, the events of wkm happen (maybe Yancy is the one who told Celine about the poker night, having heard about it from William, and that's why Celine shows up in the middle of wkm?) So then when Celine goes off and never comes back he goes out looking for her, police show up while he's there, and between intense unethical police interrogations and the fucked up house immensely fucking with his head, he ends up convinced he did do the crime and pleads guilty, landing him in Happy Trails eventually. Canon ensues, Yancy decides he's gonna get out on parole after God knows how long he's been in there. At some point he meets Wilford, neither of them recognize eachother really, but there is like, some subconscious shit working definitely. Wilford's like, 'hey do you want to work at my club? I'll walk you right out of this fucking prison' and Yancy is like 'nah man, I'm gonna keep on track to make parole, do this the right way, but if the job offer is still open in a few months 👀' and Wilford's like 'okay, sick' and so when Yancy gets out a few month's later, there's Wilford inexplicably, ready to pick him up. And so he goes to work as security at the club, and things are actually pretty chill most of the time, so Yancy's got a lot of free time to do his own thing, and he's got no fucking clue where Wil's money comes from but he gets payed well, so he's enjoying the job, even if maybe he'd rather be performing. He does some community theater stuff here and there, occasionally performs in the club, often ends up ranting about his narrative ideas to Wil after hours. And eventually Wil is like 'hey, you know I own a TV network right? I could give you a show.' And Yancy absolutely fucking takes that opportunity. Which is how he ends up at Markiplier TV.

I feel like his show(s) would be this weird tonal mess where it's like a Disney Channel musical sitcom, there's songs and comedy and it's all very much giving young teen drama with constant bits and inconsistent lore, but then the storylines all deal with very serious and realistic topics. There's fucked up families, and deep dives into the horrors of the American prison system, and death, and grief, all portrayed very realistically and with all the complexity they deserve. But also all of the character's act like disney sitcom characters the second they're not handling the serious stuff, and there's always at least one musical number per episode. It's actually probably really cool if you're into weird shit like that (as I absolutely would be), the video essays discussing it are probably insane. But it maybe doesn't speak to the average audience lmao. Yancy doesn't really realize and doesn't care. It's reaching the audiences it needs to.

Anyways I think him and Bim get along the vast majority of the time, they've got a mutual love of theater and a mutual hatred of Ed, cause I mean, look at Ed's lore and then look at Yancy. Yeah Yancy fucking hates Ed and his whole deadbeat dad thing. Luckily fights around the office are so common here that it's pretty easy for Yancy to get away with punching Ed in the face a little bit any time he says some asshole shit. Also maybe everyone turns a little bit of a blind eye to it. So really he feels right at home.

I think Google freaks him out from the get-go, and he's a little more interested in trying to get some info on the weird android shit from Bing at first, but quickly finds out that Bing can be like twice as uncanny as Google, and so he just kind of ends of steering clear of both after not too long in the office. I think they grow on him eventually but it takes some warming up lol

I think he and The Host actually get along. Like, maybe he freaked Yancy out a little bit at first, and then he started to realize the two of them had a lot in common in terms of their opinions and beliefs, and instantly he started getting all buddy buddy with the guy, and then it was the Host's turn to be a little freaked out, cause he's not exactly used to people being so enthusiasticlly friendly towards him. So they become friends. Yancy's always there to make sure he gets included in work get togethers and such since some of the other guys find him intimidating.

Dr. Iplier finds him a little exasperating seeing ad he is probably constantly getting hurt and also constantly leading to other injuries around the office (mostly Ed's, let's be honest), but, y’know, his enthusiasm and friendliness around the office probably win him over eventually, and his kindness to the Host probably helps.

The Jims and Yancy get along great, in fact Yancy is probably the only person around the office who actively gets along with them besides Wilford.

Wilford is always very supportive of Yancy, and Yancy still picks up shifts at the club a few times a week. I think maybe he's the only one who's met Abe out of everyone else at the office bc of his job. Abe knows who Yancy is and has tried dropping hints to Wil a few times, but they are not getting picked up. So it just kind of goes unspoken.

Dark and Yancy absolutely have the strangest dynamic. Dark definitely knows who Yancy is. Yancy does not know who Dark is, but I think he recognizes bits of his mother in Dark's personality and actions, and it freaks him out. Some one points put once that Dark and Yancy look alike and that they've got matching moles under their eyes and Dark leaves without saying anything, visibly upset, and Yancy starts wearing a bandaid over that cheek every day after. No one brings up that shit again. Dark basically let's Yancy get away with anything around the office, seemingly from a sense of guilt. Funds any ideas he has, let's him get away with bending rules, or beating the shit out of Ed, or whatever. But then Yancy does something minor, or something that puts himself in danger, and Dark starts lecturing, and Yancy gets real pissed off. The office stays tense for several days after every time. I think those are just about the only times at which Wil starts to recognize him. He usually doesn't sit on the thought for very long, as he's prone to do. But maybe he treats Yancy to a little something the next day any time one of those arguments goes down. It helps a bit, for both of them.

I don't think he knows the details of what went down in the manor, or that he's seen Mark since, or that he knows about Dark and Mark's whole fucking thing, and I hate to think about how incredibly badly it would go if he did find out.

[00towns]

emails i wrote in november

In November, several of my friends challenged themselves to do NaNoWriMo, but with poetry. I've always been more of a prose gal myself. Last spring, I read The Idiot by Elif Batuman, and became enamored with the endless possibility of the email. I challenged myself to reclaim longform email as the one-to-one, one-to-many sandbox media habitat that it could be from the clutches of the corporate. Here are some emails I wrote in November.

Sun, Nov 6, 1:06 AM

Subject: Hellooo

Dear Avery, 

I'm writing this on the train from New York to Virginia, heading home after a week-long museums conference that I attended for work. The conference was interesting but traveling for work always feels like more of an out-of-body ethnography than an academic experience. There's something so surreal about eating cold quinoa salad and tuna salad wraps as fast as you can just so that you can be done eating sooner, trying to network with literal giants in the field as the least qualified person in a room (the director of Smithsonian Asian Pacific American Center said she liked my shoes, and I just laughed), and saying awkward goodnights to my coworker as we both try to ignore how work-y it all feels. I was haunted all week by how much I felt like just a flash in a montage portraying a character's average life - buttoning up my business casual shirt, almost spilling coffee on the subway, nodding off in the back of a dark auditorium, even writing this on my laptop on the train. Maybe this is just me getting older, but moments in life that are analogous images to movies or TV (think looking out the window of a taxi as it rains, driving with the sunroof down blasting music, journaling at a coffee shop in the morning) feel more burdened by a set of archetypical narrative expectations than original. Vying for originality is so tiring!

My brother likes to joke that he could never move to the West Coast because there are too many Asians like him there. He's mostly kidding, but I know there's a little real horror there too because I feel it too - like I'm a little too well represented in urban California. New York feels like that to me sometimes too, like the lingua franca developed between young people inhabiting certain corners of the Internet has edged itself into the way we dress, groups, and speak a little too much, and suddenly seeing yourself reflected in someone else is excruciating instead of liberating. The museums conference used the turn of phrase "being able to see yourself" on the walls and in the stories of a museum as a vehicle for assessing outcomes of DEI - if everyone can see themselves in the museum, the museum has succeeded in representing them. In the same way that trendy, wealthy, young New Yorkers eating at hole-in-the-wall Chinatown restaurants turn my stomach (not because of what they're actually doing, but because I'm young, and trendy, and also want to eat there, but not in the same way), I fear the day the actual most intimate parts of my identity are filleted and splattered across an exhibit claiming to represent me. 

I've recently reconnected with some friends from high school that I thought i'd never talk to again after graduating and moving to the US. In a strange way, looking back to where I came from and finding I still have friends there has helped quell a lot of my anxiety about how I am right now. Surprisingly, their disconnect from my physical life right now (one lives in Tokyo and one lives in Seoul) has been refreshing - almost as if the last four years of college and all its changes, growth, and contours can still be bounded, as if I can continue to be known in many different ways. After all I've learned, it's still just me. We mostly text, but one of them just left for boot camp for his Korean mandatory service and we won't hear from him for three weeks. Now, I'm challenging myself to have something interesting to tell him when he gets back. I'm wondering if this might be it - instead of a November writing challenge, I may just send emails to all my friends and see what I get back. The only thing I can think of is how the end of the year is coming, and it's almost time for me to look back through the neurotic list I keep of everything that I watched every month this year and decide what I liked the most. Right now, November is battling between Severance (the TV show with Adam Scott, not the book, but both very good), Hadestown, which I just watched this week, and the League of Legends world championships, which I reluctantly watched with my brother but ended up having a lot of fun with. I have a lot of reflections from this museums conference, the most preeminent one being Ireally can't decide if I want to work in museums or not, but that still doesn't really beat the apartment. 

Just some thoughts on the mind over the last few days. No pressure to reply - was thinking this form would be something you might appreciate, and this was probably more of an exercise for me than it will be an experience for you. Hope all is well with you, and if reclaiming the email form from work is as appealing to you as it is to me, excited to read anything you might send my way. 

Love, 

Gabi 

//

Fri, Nov 11, 1:27 AM

Subject: A message for Dan

Dear Dan, 

I've been thinking recently about the rhythms of transience that have seemed to be the drumbeat to our lives lately. We move, our friends move, our friends visit, we travel, and anything from just a few days in a new place or three months at home can all just feel like change jangling in a pocket. My family's recent move has taken it all out of me. I'm exhausted sorting out boxes, rediscovered long-lost belongings, trying to maintain a regular life during it all. There's so much mental and physical work to do. Underlying it all, I've been increasingly intrigued by the fact that since finally settling down and carving out my space in a foreseeably permanent home after being in a transient stage since June, something in my brain seems to have shifted into sharp focus after being blurry for a long time. This change in my attitude I've noticed is characterized by slightly improved anxiety, greater executive function, and stronger routine-keeping habits, and is likely congruent with a side of myself that I tend to keep relatively private: I can be extremely particular, anal-retentive, picky about my space in a way that I think is surprising to people. If you'll allow me, I'll muse on this point a little bit by pointing to a behavior that isn't new to me. 

I've always been someone who likes to collect things. There's something so incredibly satisfying to me about owning every item in a set, or having a determined set of objects chronicled and dedicated to a single project, activity, or outcome. Being a 'stuff' person has always been a little bit of a point of shame. My family moved a lot growing up, so we were constantly assessing the amount of stuff we have and hauling it into boxes to unpack in a new home, the grueling process of which can turn even the most valuable keepsake or useful item into junk, clutter, crap. After going to UVA, I kept moving a lot as most college students do, but there seemed to be a new avenue open to me to start something of my own personal effects anew because of the skeleton crew of things I brought to my first year dorm. I can only say this in retrospect, but I became a bit of a squirreler, and developed several small but neurotic collections through four years away from home: a robust bullet journal kit, a small army of kpop-related trading cards, and an amassment of yarn for fiber and textile related personal projects, among others that I'll probably unearth as I continue to parse through my things. I've been going slowly through the process of learning how many of these categorical groups I truly have as I unpack in my new space. In facing the 'things' that require endless sorting, I realize that perhaps collecting as I imagine it is less about owning the things, but the process of sorting, assessing, organizing, reorganizing, and storing that can seemingly repeat infinitely that I crave, and the sense of having completed something that comes with it all.  

I'm not sure what to do with this element of my personality that loves to own things. it comes with its own idiosyncrasies, like being extremely meticulous about my possessions, even those not a part of a collection. It is a material tendency, and sometimes makes living differently unimaginable - minimalism, tiny-house, digital nomadism, even expatriatism all seem out of reach for someone so intensely committed to their space and the things that inhabit it. I suspect it comes from my mom, who is also very particular about her stuff, a Virgo, and probably has  OCD, undiagnosed. In today's world and with the set of values I'd like to think that I espouse, being a collector feels supremely unimportant, but it seems to occupy my mind at least a little all the time (in the cruelest manner, I'm reminded of diaspora poetry, and how one might 'wax poetic' about half a mango or half the heart that lives across the ocean, a constant distraction). How might I come to acquire my next 'thing'? How does this complete or fit into my existing assortment? My obsessive tendencies over these collections ebb and flow and move from locus to locus; lately I've been wickedly attached to the process of organizing and storing a shoebox of ticket stubs, programs, and playbills that was unearthed in the process of this move. I have to imagine that this is not an individual affliction, but sometimes I wonder exactly where my head is when I'm thinking of something entirely else when I try to complete actual tasks or move on to other activities. Alternatively, maybe I just actually need to get screened for something rather than trying to write, reflect, digest it away. 

Do you collect anything? If you do, do you notice the same unsettled foundations of the habit? If you don't, what's something abstract that you do have that you could call a collection? Perhaps, thoughts, imaginations, observations. 

Just a few murmurings that I've gathered over the last few days - I've REALLY been enjoying this email format as a writing challenge. I'll call it a bid for connection, but I cannot communicate any stronger that I'm sharing with the hopes of reciprocity if you choose to do so, not entirely narcissism. I thought this form would be something you appreciate - but it is slightly more of an exercise for myself than for you. Let me know if this structure is something that inspires you too, and I'm happy to read whatever may come back my way. Otherwise, no pressure to reply. Hope all is well. 

Love, 

Gabi

//

Wed, Nov 16, 5:28 PM

Subject: Re: CAJM Follow Up

Luis!! 

So lovely to hear from you. Your portfolio is incredible - you really have an eye for intimacy! 

Wishing you all the same, and hope you're staying warm. 

Love, 

Gabi 

//

Wed, Nov 23, 2:09 PM

Subject: drinks for thanksgiving

I’m in charge. Beer and seasonal bold rock 

What kind of beer and/or any other requests?  

Requests are entertained. Not guaranteed 

G 

//

Wed, Nov 24, 1:59 AM

Subject: cold that gets colder every year

Dear Pasha, 

I hope you're staying warm where you are! I love living in a house but it is so much colder than an apartment. When the weather changes my hands get really chapped and rough, and because of that journaling by hand has become a bit tedious. I hope you won't mind if I send you some thoughts and musings from the past few days via email to a dear friend instead. 

As I find myself now, almost six months after graduation, I've noticed that I've developed a new hunger for words in a way that didn't exist when I was at school. It's reminiscent of the way I used to devour books as a child, or fixate on fandom in high school. My job isn't particularly challenging, which has its upsides and downsides, but what it has allowed is that my free time is now the time I spend trying to push myself in new ways, rather than recovering from work. I read more, I (try to) write more. I throw things at walls and see what sticks. I learn something new every day. While this isn't entirely distinct from the intellectual curiosity I experienced in college, it's something of a new beast to be pursuing it entirely on my own terms: to no particular end, with no intentional timeline, and with nothing to prove. I'd truly developed a slight fear that I wouldn't continue learning without being forced in the months since leaving school, so this new drive is a welcome one. The only conclusion that I can draw from this fresh way of experiencing myself is this: things tend to self-correct. I don't mean this in an 'everything will work out' way, but perhaps in a way that makes more room for less-than-ideal outcomes -- maybe that things, no matter if troubling or tender, tend to become more legible, more digestible with time, stillness, subconscious reflection. For me, this has been a renewed interest in reading and writing that I'm disappointed that I left unpursued for so long, but can now condense in a way that doesn't emotionally upset me into a logical outcome of the academic environment that we were in. Everything that has happened is correct because it has happened. Everything that will happen will self-correct. 

I won't pretend that this new desire to read and write more is coming out of pure strength of character on my part. I'm significantly more lonely now than I was at UVA, meaning I have more time on my hands to do the work of reflecting that prefaces reading, writing, creating. There's no longer something to say 'no' to in order to write for something that holds no water, has no particular purpose. In the best times of fourth year, I felt like a mirrorball of all the people around me so much that I would go home and have to strip down to my underwear, sit in my bed, and stare at the wall for a while before I felt normal enough to fall asleep. As much as I love my friends and feel comfortable around them, I've always been the type of person that feels the most like myself when I'm alone. The hours spent in my room, on walks, in the car have been kind to me. Much of even finding the patience to think, even if just to journal by hand, is developed in the hours spentnot reading or writing. Have you had luck with your November writing challenge? Has the framework of a 'writing challenge' been helpful or counterproductive to writing more? 

So: life has slowed, I'm more lonely, I'm not unhappy with it. One thing I hope tonot lose is an orientation towards entropy, an open invitation for disruption, a tendency for discomfort. I'm coming into a new relationship with myself within which I may be 'my own person' but I want to keep open to embodied, proactive experiences of things that are still strange, odd, and affronting for whatever reason. For some strange reason, as I think through how I might continue to keep myself open to new moments of weirdness, I keep coming back to one experience I had with a high school peer. We had had some strange, stupid, high school conflict earlier in our sophomore year and had come to an almost bored truce into our senior year. We definitely weren't friends and had no plans on continuing to be friends after graduation - she was moving to California for college and my family was leaving Korea. I remember leaving school one day with plans to go to a film store I had never been to before to get some film developed and to buy a new lens cap. I ran into her as I was walking down the big hill to the bus stop, and it was one of those instances where a myriad of weird unspoken social rules and obligations all cook together to create a situation where neither party is really happy with the outcome, despite having done everything 'right': we made small talk, I invited her to come with me, and she said yes. It was the end of senior year, in the strange time after exams and before graduation, and we literally had nothing better to do. 

To this day, I recall this trip viscerally and sensorily. It was a hot summer day, so we sweated and panted our way down the big hill, turning already awkward small talk into painfully awkward small talk. Once on the bus, we kept sweating and both tried to take off our backpacks to relieve some of the sweat. We changed from bus to subway with me navigating, got off the subway where we were supposed to transfer to another bus, but I had read the Google Maps instructions wrong and was actually supposed to transfer to another train, so we had to tap back into the subway, costing us an extra 1,175 won. She took my phone out of my hand to help me with the instructions, an act so strangely intimate and scary that she did so easily. When we finally arrived at the store, we heaved again up a few flights of stairs before entering the tiny shop and holding our backpacks close to our chests so as to not accidentally swing and break anything. The whole affair was underscored by continually trying our hardest to chat like regular people. I had planned on just struggling through communicating with the staff using Google Translate, my limited Korean, and (hopefully) the staff's limited English, but as embarrassing as stumbling through basic interactions through a language barrier already was, it seemed particularly stupid to do with another person watching who spoke both languages. She helped me ask the staff questions, put my film order in, and buy a new lens cap by acting as translator, something that I usually had too much pride to ask of anyone except my very best friend. We parted ways without having ever gotten past small talk, and I can't remember a single interaction with her I had after that day. 

I'm sure there are a thousand reasons that I remember this excursion so clearly despite its overall mundanity. It was terrible and awkward in every single sense. We were both clearly in minor distress the entire time, both physically and emotionally, yet neither of us cared enough about the other to really be able to do anything about it. If I had to put a name to what it was exactly that I felt was so important about this experience was that it was one of the very, very few times in my life where I did something with someone and truly did not give a single fuck about what they felt, what they thought about me, and what we were doing. As antithetical to the situation as these outcomes may seem, I really believe that I was truly comfortable for the first time with having absolutely no idea how something was going to turn out. It was a situation where I was extended grace and also extended my own grace in a weird, synergetic rapport that myself and this peer established where we were so terribly, terribly uncomfortable with each other, yet both entirely willing to be present and sit with the discomfort. How can I continue to orient myself to these types of exceedingly strange interactions? I find myself thinking back to this situation because I think I was taking myself seriously, something that doesn't come easily to me. Instead of laughing at the absurdity of this outing, or breaking the awkward silence by acknowledging it, I allowed it to be serious -- not in tone or mood perhaps, but in that I stopped myself from laughing it off, from overcompensating, from trying harder than I wanted to. Discomfort, in this roundabout way, is an entry point to attunement. How might I allow myself more grace to be uncomfortable? 

What are some things that have made you uncomfortable recently? Have they been opportunities for reflection? 

I really enjoyed writing this email, although it is definitely more of an exercise for me than for you. Let me know if this structure is something that inspires you too, and I'm happy to read whatever may come back my way. Otherwise, no pressure to reply. Hope all is well. Happy Thanksgiving. 

With love, 

Gabi 

[bsidesthepoint]

So I'm gonna try not to go into this too much (yeah, right), but I had some thoughts while I'm sitting here, sick out of my mind, trying to be productive.I made this video a long time ago. 

It predates the whole "analog horror" thing that has become prevalent, or at least my knowing what analog horror was (maybe during or after the Local 57 stuff, or even as far back as MarbleHornets).  It was actually an attempt to test whether I could incorporate my art into videos and make it look natural.  Those experiments are - still ongoing. 

Having said that, though, I've been reposting the little series of test vids on various social networks, given the recent popularity of analog horror, and - well, it's not lighting the world on fire, but they've been surprisingly well-received.  For me, anyway.  It's encouraging, even when the last thing you really care about is chasing "the Likes."

My actual point is this, though:

Earlier, I got my first - let's call it a "criticism."  Followed by another.I'm not disheartened.  I'm a nervous guy and I get disheartened at some opinions, but oddly, this isn't one of them.  It was always my fear as a kid (not so much anymore) that I would release books or movies or whatever I ended up doing, and I would get discouraged by the shower of criticism it caused, and I'd eventually give it up altogether.  Well, that never happened.

Instead, I've gotten what some might think is the opposite problem: praise.  To this day, my novella doesn't have a review below four stars.  My art and videos almost always get positive feedback, if nothing at all.  And I'm sad to say, in the past when I have asked for constructive criticism or harshness from people whose opinions I crave, I almost always get the opposite: I am told whatever they think it is I want to hear.  That it's great.  That it's perfect.  No notes.  Almost always spoken by someone who has realized they are out of their depth and want out of that arrangement immediately.

Not always, of course.  We're ruling out teachers and professors and tutors, and the occasional friend who won't B.S. you, or the wife who swore to be painfully honest and has no reason not to be.  And occasionally you get a scoff or a snurled lip as a family member says loudly to a room, "Why can't you just make NICE THINGS?" and you spend a good chunk of your life wondering about if maybe that means that there's something wrong with you.  But I digress.

Today I got honest feedback from strangers.  One, a well-meaning but sort of - unhelpful - list of things they would have done instead of what I had done.  And the other - let's call it the kindest way to say the elitist thing they could think to say.  Both equally helpful in what wasn't said, more so than what was.  Color me surprised when I found out how effing GRATEFUL I was.

Everyone practices being vulnerable, and somewhere along the way, we are told to guard our hearts, to become callous and impenetrable.  That fear of sharing and being seen, experienced, maybe even understood, we come to dread it because someone somewhere once told us to with little explanation.  No doubt from their own experiences, trying to spare us from the pain of rejection, but sometimes forgetting that the risk of being vulnerable often yields the greatest reward (and never passing that lesson onto us).  Some will try to substitute it with pride or anger, machismo and bravado, and be the only one in the room not to see how utterly miserable they are.  What a hollow life.

Human beings are social creatures meant to share and exchange, individuals expressing their individuality, and somehow we have convinced ourselves it is too embarrassing and risky to do what is supposed to come natural to us.  We repress and suppress and only end up being a world full of damaged people afraid to comfort one another and tend to our wounds.

*sigh*  Anyway.

This is deliberately nothing special.  It's a silly video with a monster in it, whom my wife affectionately named "Bubbles."  He was meant to be a step onto bigger and better things, and I felt he wasn't being served by just sitting on a hard-drive.  He has served the purpose of showing me what works, what doesn't, what I have to do next - and how people ultimately might feel.  I made meaningful connections today, and I never would have had I not taken the risk.  Everyday I try to make more, with varying degrees of success.

So here's something silly for the season of scares.  Check out my YouTube (ItsKindaBernt) or my TikTok (@brentonsides) if you want to see the whole series (there are only three videos, but check out my YouTube with the captions on for surprises).  And for those who actually read to the end (I know there aren't many), thank you.  I shared a little of myself today, so be sure to do the same thing to someone else.  It's scary, but it's worth it.

[stanning-reyna]

Jason should’ve gotten a character arc after hoo that included him learning to let go of the gods’ expectations for him and figuring out who he wanted to be for himself

- Even after BOO he’d had a purpose. Him and Piper had spent every free hour scouring the country for Leo, but they couldn’t do that anymore. It had been months and they had to accept that he was gone

- Jason started at a prep school in Pasadena. There was no reason for that school in particular, it was just where he had ended up at. It was as good a school as any

- At first he thought it would be nice, that a prep school would surely have the same tight regimen as the Legion, but it did not. He quickly figured out the kids there could all get away with whatever they wanted

- Jason considers going back to live with Piper, but when he calls her to ask about it she not so bluntly says there’s no reason for him to. He knows she didn’t mean it in a rude way. She knew he was looking for a purpose and knew he wouldn’t find it with her

- Something tells him that he needs this. He needs to know what it’s like to not have any structure or a task ahead. Maybe somewhere at this school he could find what he wanted outside of quests and training

- He joined sport teams, but they were all far too playful for the war games he was accustomed to. He focused on his grades, but he could pass all the tests without any studying

- Jason didn’t know what to do with his life. Why did nothing interest him? Was he even a person without a battle before him?

- One night, a little girl shows up at his dorm. He’d never met her before, but he could just tell she were one of his own, a demigod

- She said she was running from a monster, alone and scared, and had sensed some sort of power coming from his dorm. Must be a big three kid thing

- Jason brought the girl to Camp Jupiter safe and unharmed, but not before she told him about a group of other kids like them that had been hiding out together. She hadn’t seen them in weeks

- He then decided he was going to find the young demigods, whether it took weeks or months. He wasn’t going to let them die alone on the streets knowing no one cared whether they lived or died

- Years pass and Jason has helped dozens of demigod kids find safety. He’s started organizing a network of older demigods throughout the country who can help kids get to their respective camp

- Sometime he wonders if this is just another task he’s thrown himself into to avoid the emptiness in his chest, but unlike his hero quests, this means something. Every time he rescues a kid, he thinks of Leo, of the horrors he faced in foster care and how this kid won’t go through that. He thinks of Piper, of how this kid won’t face the loneliness that she did. Most importantly, he thinks of his sister, and how she would have done the exact same thing. And she’s his family more than any god or Legion.

[maxwell-grant]

Red of Overly Sarcastic Productions once said :"If you can imagine your Batman comforting a shared child, then congratulations, you're righting Batman. If not, you're just writing the Punisher in a funny hat". This got me wondering: could the Shadow comfort a scared child?

Could he? You forget who was there to lift young Bruce to his feet at his first brush with death (sadly far from his last).

But it's an interesting question to pose still, because children were straight up not in the pulps, not in any I've read, and I can't recall any episodes of the radio show that feature them much (there's gotta be at least a few, because they had everything in that show). The most interaction I think The Shadow's ever had with children (from comics that I can discuss here, because Marshall Rogers' "Harold Goes to Washington" is way, way too much for me to go into right now, and the less I talk about some other DC comics, the better) is in the Street & Smith comics.

There's Jerry from the Devil Kyoti arc, a kid who was traumatized by an encounter with the villain who Sayre's looking after and who ends up having some kind of hidden power that allows him to see The Shadow and defeat the villain. There was a blonde Jerry who showed up later in the Monstradamus arc, but he isn't a kid so much as he's diet Jimmy Olsen or a replacement for Harry, but he had weird eyesight-based powers and a familiarity with The Shadow, so I assume it's the same character.

There was also Donald Jordan - Shadow Jr, and okay, I may have to talk more about this weird little failed experiment some other time, but the basic gist of it is that The Shadow had a friend in Tibet named Harry Jordan (and someday I'm also gonna write about the weird prevalence and significance of the name "Harry" in The Shadow's mythos in and out of universe) who was murdered, leaving his son orphaned and with nowhere to go. And, I'll admit that I have a real weakness for The Shadow calling people "son", which he does a lot in this story.

And as you can expect, it then turns out that the kid's also learned how to cloud minds and has basically the same powers The Shadow has in these comics, and they solve the mystery of his dad's murder together, and yeah, you can absolutely tell that they are setting up this kid to be The Shadow's Robin. Although, interestingly, they don't have The Shadow actually recruit the kid, instead it's Jordan who asks The Shadow if he can go with him and join his mission, and Cranston even states he's going to have to "earn" his way

"Must I stay here, sir? It will always remind me of dad - I'd like to devote my life to your fight against evil and evil doers!

Now, "Shadow Jr's" career was incredibly short-lived, it only lasted for about two other issues, and I have no idea what happened in his final appearence called "Snake Eyes" in Shadow Comics #77, I cannot find that issue anywhere and I really want to. But the one other solo story of his I've read was...well, I think it kinda illustrates why the idea of The Shadow having a Robin was doomed from the start.

...Yeah. Even The Shadow at his most sanitized and family friendly is still The Shadow, and there's no room for children in his network, obviously he shouldn't and wouldn't have children be in those positions or make decisions expected from grown-ups who have already had encounters with death and danger, why would anyone do that-

The only instance I can think of The Shadow interacting with a child in the pulps was during The Prince of Evil, when he has to rescue a young boy from Stark's thugs.

Cranston, dazed, tried to stagger to his feet. Before he could do so, the thug had picked up the limp figure of the boy and was darting out into the street. There was a scream of horror from pedestrians.

A heavy truck was racing at top speed along the avenue. Straight into the path of the truck, the thug threw the senseless boy!

The driver of the truck jammed on the brakes. But it was too late to halt the heavy vehicle. The broad-tired wheels rolled toward the limp head of the lad on the pavement.

An instant before it could crush out his life, Lamont Cranston dived headlong into the path of destruction. His shoulder struck the boy, rolling him toward the curb. A quick wriggle, and Cranston swerved aside from the grinding death that loomed over him.

He picked up the boy. One glance and he knew there was no time to lose. The attempted killer had leaped into a waiting sedan and had already made his escape.

The boy was all Cranston could see or think about. Brass knuckles had fractured his skull. He had suffered a concussion of the brain. A glance at his bluish lips and the fixed glaze of his staring eyes told Cranston that unless the boy was operated on immediately, he would die.

A leap, Cranston was in his car. He laid the boy gently on the seat beside him, then headed the car toward the nearest hospital. Traffic lights were ignored.

The boy was taken to an emergency operating room and a skilled surgeon went to work. When it was over, Cranston asked only one question: "Will the child live?"

"Hard to say. We'll do our best."

"Spare no expense. Put him in a private room. Engage day and night nurses."

Cranston's face was pale. He knew that he himself was indirectly responsible for the boy's attack. A supercriminal had made a prompt answer to Cranston's message over Jackson's telephone. That telephone must have been tapped. The attempt to kill the boy was a vicious warning for Lamont Cranston to mind his own business about the Harmon family. It was a follow-up of the attack on Jackson's dog.

Cranston felt a surge of hot anger. He kept it under control while he answered routine police questions. He told all he knew - which was nothing.

He had only one angry thought. He intended to drive straight to the office of David Chester. He'd get the truth out of the sleek Chester, if he had to batter him with vengeful fists!

Cranston was actually halfway to Chester's office before common sense returned to him. He realized he had lost his sense of balance. He was behaving exactly as the crooks wanted. He was playing their game, not his!

He parked, and the hot rage drained slowly from him. He stopped thinking about the limp figure of a young lad on a white operating table.

This is definitely because Tinsley writes the character differently than Gibson, but I actually cannot think of another occasion where we got to read about The Shadow actively wanting to hit someone with his fists. It's very, very rare to read about The Shadow actually getting mad in the first place in such an undignified way. And I think with this passage, you'll start to notice a pattern.

The problem isn't that The Shadow cannot interact with kids or that he can't comfort them, he does it to his agents and adults he wants to help just fine, he knows how to address people in their language, or any language. The problem is, The Shadow is constantly surrounded by danger everywhere he goes, because he is The Shadow. He can be any number of things at any number of occasions, but usually, when The Shadow shows up, it's usually because people are going to die, and people are going to kill, and it's his job to address that and work the scales.

Children should not be anywhere near this, and if The Shadow's interacting with a child, it usually means that some grave danger or tragedy fell upon them, and he's here to either prevent greater tragedy or address the fall-out, and he'd be the first to agree that neither of these options should be happening at all. It doesn't mean he's not gonna do what's right and give life and limb to protect them, but, it shouldn't be up to the Boogeyman to look after them in the first place. Maybe it shouldn't be up to the Boogeyman to protect us.

But then again, as I mentioned when I talked about my own reasons for liking The Shadow so much, there are many kids who would like nothing more than to have the Boogeyman by their side to protect them. There's comfort in knowing that the scariest man in the room is unconditionally there to protect you, and that is the comfort that The Shadow gives best. Not as Cranston, not under a friendly face, but as what he is.

Due to a lack of scenes from the pulps or satisfying scenes from elsewhere, I will instead be pulling one from a fan story written by Kimberly-Murphy Smith, editor and writer of The Hot Cornerm where The Shadow rescues a child who was kidnapped for blackmail. I couldn't care less that it's fanfic, and if you do, come back in 20 or so years after The Shadow's been made public domain and it's gonna be just as official as anything licensed (on my “to write about” list: how fickle the separation between “official” and “fanfic” is, and the many times it plainly didn’t exist). There’s aspects of her writing I don’t care for, but I really like this scene and I do think The Shadow’s more gentle interactions with people are necessary to getting the character.

Annabelle.

She stopped crying for a minute. "Who's there?" she said, her voice choked.

A friend. Your mommy and daddy sent me to pick you up.

"Mommy? Mommy's here?"

Sh-h-h. Annabelle felt a gloved hand gently stroking her hair. She's waiting for you at home. So, we need to hurry up and leave.

"'kay." She looked around. "Where are you?"

It's kind of hard to see me. It's dark in here, plus you've been crying so much your eyes probably hurt.

"Yeah."

Don't be afraid. I'm here to help.

"'kay."

The implicit trust of children was simply amazing at times. Adults trembled in fear of The Shadow's wrath, but children somehow seemed to understand that he was there to help them, even if they couldn't see him.

Sit up, Annabelle. I'm going to pick you up. Be very quiet.

One hand took each of her arms and guided them around a neck she could not see. "Why are you wearin' a blanket?" she asked as the fabric of his cloak brushed against her shoulders.

Sometimes I get cold at night.

"Even in the summer?"

Even in the summer. He gently stroked her cheek and wiped away her tears. Now, you need to be very quiet so those bad men in the next room don't hear us. I'll bet you're tired.

She nodded.

He rocked her on his arms, projecting a very gentle hypnotic relaxation into her with his powers as he did. You probably didn't get your nap, either. Poor thing. Lean on my shoulder and go to sleep. And when you wake up, you'll be back with Mommy and Daddy.

She yawned, then snuggled against his shoulder and went to sleep.

The Shadow sighed with relief. Now to get past the men out front. He gently pulled the pistol out of its holster under his left arm and slipped it into the belted waist of his overcoat within easy reach, then secured his grip on Annabelle and draped his cloak over her.

She clutched the edge of his cloak in her hand like a security blanket and snuggled against his shoulder again.

(Art by Jill Thompson)

[picodart]

Digiweek 2021 - day 1: Beginnings

So I decided to do the Digiweek 2021 event this week. The first prompt is beginnings, whith one of the examples being “how you first got into Digimon”

(btw, i usually prefer the original japanese names, but since I’m talking about my first experiences with the english dub, I will be using the english names, just for this post)

For me it was in 3rd grade. I don’t remember which was the exact first episode I saw. I know I watched assorted episodes of the Devimon and Etemon arcs out of order (I also never happened to catch the Frigimon ep during the original run, first seeing it when I stumbled upon a VHS when I was in middle school) and despite some other kids saying it was a Pokemon ripoff, I thought it was pretty good.

However, I remember it was the Myotismon/real world arc that really got me hooked. If I had to pick a single episode that got me invested it would be “Out on the Town”, the Pumpkinmon and Gotsumon ep. First of all, my favorire holiday is halloween and as a kid I always loved goofy incompitant henchmen, so despite dying at the end of the episode, Pumpkinmon instantly become a favorite of mine (I think he may actually be my second favorite perfect level digimon after LadyDevimon) 

Second of all, like I said, up until then I had mostly seen various Devimon and Etemon eps out of order  (I think I’d seen all of the Etemon arc, and like half the Devimon arc) and though I may or may not of seen some of the early eps where DemiDevimon was messing with the kids (not totally sure) but I know I had somehow completely missed Myotismon’s introduction and the Digidestined traveling back to the real world. (I think I may have previously been watching reruns during a different timeslot or something)

So needless to say, I was pretty confused when I first saw Matt and TK running around in Japan, as well as when a Vampire villain I’d never seen before showed up, but everyone recognized him. Obviously I’d missed a lot, but the whole premise of them being in the real world (as well as a much more ruthless villain) must of captured my interest, since from then on I continued to tune into every episode of the Digimon Adventure anime, in order, all the way through Wizardmon / Gatomon eps, the Dark Masters arc, and the final showdown with Apocalymon. 

In fact, I’m fairly certain Digimon Adventure was the first series with an ongoing story that I ever got into. Up until then I’d mostly watched nicktoons, episodic cartoon network shows, kids horror anthologies like Goosebumps, and the first season of Pokemon (I know Pokemon kind of had an ongoing story, but really, for the most part the show was pretty episodic and you could watch the episodes out of order, and the only big change is some of the characters had new pokemon)

 So I think it says something to the writing quality of Digimon Adventure that it got little 8 to 9-year old me so invested as to follow along a serialized plot for the first time ever.

[lilydalexf]

Old School X is a project interviewing X-Files fanfic authors who were posting fic during the original run of the show. New interviews are posted every Tuesday.

Interview with Audrey Roget

Audrey Roget has 10 fics at Gossamer, with some different ones at AO3, fanfiction.net, and her website. You might know her from her very good fics or as part of Musea, a collective that all wrote fic and posted X-Files fic recs. I’ve recced some of my favorites of her stories here before, including Three Times Dana Scully Didn’t Go to San Diego for Christmas and The Shirt. Big thanks to Audrey for doing this interview.

Does it surprise you that people are still interested in reading your X-Files fanfics and others that were posted during the original run of the show (1993-2002)? A little, yes. Not so much by folks who were around in those days. I sometimes go hunting for beloved stories from the early years, both those I read and loved, and those I never got around to. I am always delighted to hear that later generations of fans have stumbled across my stuff, especially since I haven’t posted anything new in a number of years. It’s fantastic that both years-long fans and new ones are out there continuing to rec fic from all eras, and to maintain archives for fans yet-to-be born. What do you think of when you think about your X-Files fandom experience? What did you take away from it? What did you take away from your experience with X-Files fic or with the fandom in general? It may sound corny, but the main thing I think of, and the thing that has ultimately been most valuable and lasting, has been the friendships. The feeling of having found a tribe – not just of TXF fans, but of other people who could be as enthusiastically engaged as I was (if not more so) with fictional stories and characters – was mind-blowing. Since I was a kid, I had often mulled over the books/movies/TV I loved and speculated internally about what happened off the page or off-screen, or created new stories for characters in my head. But, except for an elementary school phase where I and my two BFFs regularly played Charlie’s Angels, I hadn’t engaged in that kind of gleeful immersion in a fictional world with others until TXF fandom. My involvement in fandom followed pretty quickly from getting hooked on the show, so for me, it’s all one big ball of experiences. Even as my interest in/involvement in fandom has waxed and waned over the years, I’ve been lucky to remain friends with wonderful people who I originally connected with as fellow fans.

Social media didn't really exist during the show's original run. How were you most involved with the X-Files online (atxc, message board, email mailing list, etc.)? What got you involved with X-Files fanfic?

My initial entrée to the fandom was through fanfiction. I didn’t get interested in the show until mid-season 5. Around the same time, I read an article in a zine called Might (co-founded by Dave Eggers) about this thing called fanfiction that people would write and publish online. At first I thought it was satire or a joke – the fic cited involved Wilma Flintstone and a polished sabre tooth, as I recall – but then realized this was an actual thing. So I figured that a show then at the peak of pop culture must have fanfiction, and I went looking. Early on, I scrolled atxc on a daily basis and downloaded stories. But I didn’t engage in discussions about the show on Usenet, since I only knew how to access it with my Earthlink email client, and I didn’t want to post using my real name.

Later, I set up a pseud address with Yahoo and subscribed to a couple of email fanfic/discussion lists, and stayed subscribed to those for years. There was also a period in there somewhere – of maybe only a year or so, when I think about it – when I’d often nerd out into the wee hours with other fans via IM chat groups. That was around the time the small writers’ collective Musea was founded, and we were active for several years after the show’s initial run. In the early aughts, I followed many authors to LiveJournal and eventually set up my own account and stayed involved in fandom that way, until it mostly dispersed as well. What was it that got you hooked on the X-Files as a show? In a word: Chemistry. I had casually watched a couple of episodes during the first four seasons, but I’m not a huge sci-fi/horror fan at heart, and the story lines didn’t immediately grab me. But I happened to tune into The Red and the Black in 1998, and BOOM. For the first time, the intense layers of emotion and attraction between Mulder and Scully really struck me – and then of course, upon further viewing, I realized it was unmissable, an essential element in the fabric of the show. As a wise woman once said, a switch had been flicked. Mulder and Scully’s magnetism was like nothing I’d ever seen, and though I eventually came to appreciate the storytelling, humor, production values, and other components that made the series so successful, watching those characters interact has always been what kept me coming back. Were you involved with any fandoms after the X-Files? If so, what was it like compared to X-Files? I was part of a list-serv discussion group for The West Wing for a while, which was a fun melding of character and plot analysis with political discussion. Later, I got into the House, MD fandom, again mostly as a fanfic reader/writer. I was finding that other fandoms, unlike TXF, were more dispersed, the networks of people structured more loosely, if at all. There were fanfic and discussion communities on LiveJournal, and fanfiction.net was the other main hub for posting and reading, but if there was anything centralized like Gossamer, Ephemeral, or the Haven, I never found it. Within all those fan communities, as in TXF, there were partisans for various characters and pairings, and flame wars erupted over plot developments that outraged this faction or that. One main difference was that those other shows had larger, ensemble casts and more varied subplots. So on one hand, there was more opportunity to explore back stories and multiple perspectives. In House MD in particular, there were several entrenched rival shipper camps, which were about equally grounded in canon, rather than TXF’s central ship. I was less into TWW fic, but my impression was that readers were less militant about their pairing preferences than TXF or House fans. Who are some of your favorite fictional characters? Why?

I was deeply fascinated by Greg House for several years. (And the love-hate chemistry between him and Lisa Cuddy was a strong draw for me.) House MD came early in a wave of TV shows centered on anti-heroes, and Hugh Laurie brought amazing complexity and thoughtfulness to the character.

Philip and Elizabeth Jennings (The Americans) are a lethal pair of antiheroes. The inherent moral conflict of a sympathetic narrative from their POVs, and the global political conflict they embody was TV catnip for me. The internal struggles at the hearts of those characters were so exquisitely written and performed, they completely fascinate me.

The West Wing felt so much like a show created specifically for me. I’m especially fond of story arcs and scenes that centered on CJ Cregg, Charlie Young, and Josh Lyman. Though I loved Martin Sheen’s human portrayal of Jed Bartlet, the fact that he was the President always made him a little untouchable in my mind. But CJ, Charlie, and Josh were basically hard-working functionaries who were ambitious and idealistic and funny and flawed, and they spoke to me. What is your relationship like now to X-Files fandom? Do you ever still watch The X-Files or think about Mulder and Scully? Do you ever still read X-Files fic? Fic in another fandom?

I do continue to think about Mulder and Scully and watch episodes somewhat often. I’ll sometimes run a favorite episode as background when I want something comforting on. I read TXF fic pretty regularly, which can inspire me to go back and watch a particular episode or story arc I haven’t thought about in years. Just recently, I started listening to The X-Files Diaries podcast (@XFDPodcast, @admiralty-xfd), and that’s a fun dive into the characters, and how other fans react to and interpret episodes.

Every once in a while, a TV show or movie – and more particularly, the characters – will grab my attention and make me curious about how fanfic writers have interpreted the original material. Random example, I saw Singin’ in the Rain for the first time in a theatre a couple of years ago, and the chemistry of the three leads sent me to AO3 as soon as I got home. I also loved the first season of Mercy Street and found some well-done stories in that fandom. I usually peruse the Yuletide gifts every year and have been amazed by the sheer variety, creativity and cheekiness of the output. There are a bunch of other shows I’ve followed faithfully, and sought out fanfic – Broadchurch, The Killing, Agents of SHIELD, Elementary, The Good Wife. Although I’ve found some well-written stuff in those fandoms, I’ve rarely gotten the same charge from them as reading TXF fic. Do you have any favorite X-Files fanfic stories or authors?

syntax6 (@syntax6) – Universal Invariants/Laws of Motion. I’d also shout out to syn’s Hunter fics, too – well worth reading even for those who have never seen or particularly loved the show itself.

JET – I re-read Small Lives Awake every year around Thanksgiving time. Other annual holiday re-reads: Revely’s The Dreaming Sea and Jordan’s Through the Fire (both set at Halloween).

Amal Nahurriyeh’s Casey universe – the rare post-col fic that felt hopeful, made extra intriguing by a kick-ass original character. [Lilydale note: the series starts with Machines of Freedom and has lots of additional fics and snippets.]

Prufrock’s Love – Finding Rokovoko was genuinely terrifying and tender.

melforbes (@melforbes) – Seaglass Blue is a recent favorite, lyrical and bittersweet.

These are just a few (apologies to those that didn’t come to mind immediately). Fortunately for readers, there’s an astonishing number of authors who have written in TXF fandom whom you can depend on for a good yarn, insightful character study, and/or ingenious “fixes” where 1013 went awry.

What is your favorite of your own fics, X-Files and/or otherwise?

Probably the two set in my own (former) backyard of Southern California: Enivrez-vous and Ravenous. I’d first read the Baudelaire poem that was the source of the former’s title back in university days, so I was tickled to be able to use a few lines as an epigraph. Do you think you'll ever write another X-Files story? Or dust off and post an oldie that for whatever reason never made it online? It’s not out of the realm possibility. I’d meant for “Three Times Dana Scully Didn’t Go to San Diego for Christmas” to be followed up with “And One Time She Did.” In fact, the idea for that never-finished story was what inspired “Three Times” in the first place. I have a couple of scenes sketched out and – unusually for me – even know exactly how to end it. Every year, November rolls around, and I think I should finish and post it…maybe in 2021?

Where do you get ideas for stories? Sometimes it’s from my environment. “Enivrez-vous” and “Ravenous” describe places that I’m fond of, that made me want to place Mulder and Scully there. “What Not to Wear” has that element too – I set it in Memphis as a tribute to a great trip there with a sister Musean. But WNTW was also inspired by a kink challenge in a years-ago LiveJournal thread, so sometimes ideas come from fandom discussions or even other fanfics. In the House MD fandom, a fic by another writer made me want to continue the story, and the author kindly allowed an authorized sequel. What's the story behind your pen name? I wanted my pseudonym to sound like it could be a real person’s name – or at least, maybe like a romance writer’s pen name – rather than an online handle. I also wanted to use a slightly obscure fictional character, to amuse anyone in the know. I had long had a bit of an obsession with Whit Stillman’s 1990s film trilogy, which started with Metropolitan; the 3rd installment, Last Days of Disco, came out the same year I started down the TXF rabbit hole: 1998. The central heroine of Metropolitan – who is mentioned in or makes a cameo in the other two – is Audrey Rouget, a lover of Austen and, eventually, a book editor. I altered the spelling of the last name as a nod to every writer’s companion, Roget’s Thesaurus. Do your friends and family know about your fic and, if so, what have been their reactions? I have a few close friends – from outside TXF fandom – who know that I’ve written fanfic. I don’t know if they know my pseud; if they do, or if they’ve ready any of the fic, they haven’t said so to me. They are fannish sorts themselves, but not really TXF fans. A smattering of other friends and family members know or could intuit that I’ve been a fangrl on some level for years. My boss, whom I’ve known for about 3 years, recently mentioned off-handedly that she was really obsessed with TXF “back in the day,” and I am DYING to know if she got involved in fandom, but don’t think I’ll ever work up the courage to ask.

Is there a place online (tumblr, twitter, AO3, etc.) where people can find you and/or your stories now? Most of the X-Files stuff continues to be generously and steadfastly archived by Forte at The Basement Office. The House MD stories and some TXF things are at fanfiction.net; same for AO3. If ever post anything new, it will probably go to TBO and AO3. I really ought to get it all together in one place, one of these days…

(Posted by Lilydale on April 6, 2021)

[batfamscreaming]

The Last Night [highschool au]

warnings: long post. Canon-compliant body horror/mutilation, threats of suicide, threats to make it look like a suicide, things that don't die when they should, young Bruce enacting a stupid plan.

masterpost

000

Bruce didn’t come back from the library.

Despite how aware of his surroundings he might have been, he couldn't stop a hand going over his mouth.

A blindfold over his eyes.

Something that made him feel sleepy.

And he was pulled away.

--

Bruce woke disoriented.

Cold.

He groaned before he thought he should've hidden it, but the thought was far away in the back of his mind as he slowly regained consciousness.

--

“The prodigal son awakens.” Someone said above him. In front. Their voice echoed.

Bruce was on a slab in the middle of a large room. A circular theatre.

It was filled with people. Staring at him.

… And all of them wore the same white mask off an owl.

--

...ah.

Here it was.

A cold fog of clarity, instead of a haze to get lost in.

Once he was awake enough to see, he was awake enough to glare, and he set his icy blue eyes on them as he pushed himself up to sit.

“...you guys just sit around and stare at unconscious kids all day?” he asked.

--

“Only the special ones, Bruce. And you're very special.” The man said, one stood out from the rest in a white suit and black cape.

Bruce could probably feel someone behind him too. Closer than the rest.

Behind him was a man in black and gold, spectacles over his eyes and mask designed like an owl, but different from the rest.

--

He did feel him, once he'd sat up-- he jerked away, unable to stop himself from showing that weakness once he realized how close that one was standing. Different from the rest. Gloves like claws.

(Talon, his mind told him, with a trickle of ice down his spine, remembering how months ago, the business mongle had been found in his apartment, cut to ribbons.)

...but still, he forced his voice to not shake as he dragged his gaze back to the vacant masks and faces of the Court, and looked up at what he could only assume was the ‘judge’--

And he must've been standing trial.

“So, what?” Bruce asked, wetting his lips. “You going to kill me?”

--

“Oh no, no, Bruce Wayne. We’re going to recruit you.” The Judge said, his voice as jovial as it had been since the beginning.

The crowd around him was near motionless save for the occasional lean from one to whisper to the other. They were all clearly real people, and all of them well dressed.

Gotham’s Elite.

Just like him.

--

His throat tightened.

They were nothing like him. Nothing like him, or Tommy, who had suffered, and--

He found his voice loud, even in his own ears, shoving himself off the slab and ready to fight the entire room if he fucking had to. Assassin, no assassin, if it killed him, he didn’t care. He had no friends, and no future, and-- “You killed my parents,” he howled. “As if I would ever let you recruit me!”

--

As soon as he lunged forward, even if he was nowhere near the Judge, a taloned hand reached down and grabbed his shoulder with enough force to hold him in place, to keep him from running.

“Now who told you that?” The Judge asked. “Why would we ever kill one of our own?”

--

That stopped him almost as sharply as the hand on his shoulder did. His breath hitched.

He was normally so good at spotting liars, but he couldn’t see their faces. Couldn’t see their eyes. Didn’t even know what their regular voices were like to compare.

But they would have to be lying.

His parents would never work with them.

“You’re lying.”

He grabbed the Talon’s arm, and tried not to think of the knives on their fingers, and tried to throw him over his shoulder in a judo flip.

--

The Talon hadn’t been ready for the flip initially, but still had more training than Bruce.

Their feet landed before they pulled Bruce with them into a bear hug to keep him still.

“Surely you don’t think even your parents passed up this opportunity?” The Judge asked. “We are Gotham’s richest, just as you are. We decide what happens to our city, not the common riff raff crawling the streets. Your parents worked with us to make Gotham what it is today.”

--

It wasn’t like being held tight by Clark. The armored body around him moved when he struggled, but still-- still, he couldn’t do anything more than twist in the hold, but not break it, as he started to shake.

“Then how come it all fell apart when they died!?” he said, voice cracking.

His eyes felt hot.

“Even the Court couldn’t hold it together without them!?”

--

“I’m afraid that’s just another case of correlation not equalling causation.” The Judge said. “Perhaps with your help, you could bring Gotham back to something your parents would be proud of? We can help you. That’s what we do; offer a network of aid to bring Gotham to her full potential.”

“Talon,” the Judge turned his head to address the man bear-hugging Bruce into submission. “Take our guest to his lodgings. Give him time to think.”

The man said nothing as he set Bruce on his feet and shoved him forward.

--

…

Bruce stopped struggling, watching the Judge with barely-restrained tears. Shaking.

He wobbled on his feet when he was set down and stumbled with the shove.

...but he walked. He walked like he’d gone and drunk a bar dry, but he did it, still feeling the Talon’s arms around him through his clothes and suddenly feeling even colder and more exposed now that his arms were free.

“...you kill people,” he said to the Talon. “Why…”

--

“To maintain order.” The Talon said, leading Bruce down a series of corridors that became increasingly less lavish as they went.

They came to a steel door and the Talon opened it, but didn’t shove Bruce inside, expecting him to go in willingly.

The interior was nice for what it was. A comfortable bed. A desk with a light.

He was still one of Gotham’s Elite, after all.

--

“What about their families?” he asked, though he thought he knew the answer.

He was lightheaded.

Dizzy.

He went in, and stood just on the inside, feeling cold and empty.

--

If he was waiting on an answer he wouldn’t get one.

The Talon closed the door and it clicked heavily as it locked, and then he walked away.

--

…

Bruce couldn’t even hear his footsteps leaving.

...he wanted to throw up. But he just stood there. Dazed and shaking, and throat dry. No one knew where he was. He didn’t know where he was. No one knew the court, or would give Alfred closure, or be able to do anything if he disappeared down here.

No one would find his body if they wanted to get rid of him. A hole in his neck, just like mom’s.

“...Clark,” he croaked.

“Clark. Clark. Clark…”

--

… Clark would hear him.

Clark would hear him walking back to their dorm and stop dead in his tracks.

He knew the voice and it sounded so desperate, and suddenly he had forgotten the stabbing in his heart and was turning to run in the direction of it.

Ignoring whoever it was that just yelled at him for running.

He ran to where he thought it was coming from, but-- but that couldn’t be it. It was a dead end. So he circled back.

Another dead end.

It didn’t make sense.

How the fu-...

He started to look harder.

--

At some point, Bruce found himself on the floor, curled over his knees and pressing his palms into his eyes.

Were there cameras in here? Were there microphones? Would it matter right now?

“Clark, please, I don’t know where I am… I need help, please don’t have your hearing aids in right now, oh, fuck…”

--

Clark might have looked a little insane staring at the floor and seeing his friend miles down and sort of… throwing up his hands.

Okay.

Okay.

Uh.

…

Clark snuck out of the school and found his way into the sewers.

Ew.

It was as far down as he could get.

And then his eyes glowed red.

--

...at some point, Bruce stopped calling for help.

At some point, he just started talking.

Talking into his hands.

“I’m sorry about the bathroom. I was trying to scare you. I don’t know if you can hear but if you can I’m so sorry if you don’t hear from me again--”

He was going to do something stupid.

“--I might join them.”

--

Clark had no idea what Bruce was talking about. The Court of Owls was so far from his mind right now, he assumed maybe Bruce had been snooping around somewhere and got stuck or something and--

And soon the walls around him shook.

Clark didn’t drill down right over Bruce. He didn’t want to hurt him or have anything collapse around him, but that meant he didn’t really know what he was getting into. He couldn’t use heat vision and x-ray at the same time. So he just… guessed and then blew downward.

He landed somewhere with carpet and a loud thud, breathing heavily.

He had taken off his uniform and wrapped a bandana around his face to help with the smell and dust.

And he knew he had seen other skeletons down here before digging downward, but he didn’t know what that meant.

--

...Bruce felt it.

Felt the slight tremor in the walls. In the floor.

His head jerked upwards.

Oh no.

Clark had heard him.

“Shit-- shit, Clark!” he said, a little louder, still scared of being heard outside the door, now actually looking for cameras, he’d said the name too many times, though-- “Clark, don’t let them see you! They can take you away!”

--

There was really no way he hadn’t been heard, but--

He still tripped and stumbled over the rubble before giving up and just flying over it.

(Hide your face when you do it. Be so alien they can’t guess it’s you.)

Clark made sure the bandana over his face was still there and flew to where he could hear Bruce’s voice.

--

Fuck. Shit. Bruce didn’t know what to do, but the daze in his head had been replaced by the knowledge that Clark was coming, and he needed to find some way to help keep him safe.

He started trying the door, trying to shove it open or tug it that way, and when it didn’t budge, he banged on it. “Hey. Talon! Where the fuck are you!”

Talon is here, Clark, Talon is here, you heard the name, you know, okay--

--

Talon?? What??

Clark was just starting to wrap his head around what this place was, red carpets and tall pillars, when he saw Talon.

And Talon saw him. Floating.

They were both pretty unprepared.

But Talon was trained.

Bruce wouldn't see it, but he would hear it.

Clark yelling, startled. A scuffle. Something big and heavy being thrown into a wall.

…

And then Clark's face in front of the window of the door, his hair full of dust and face covered.

“Bruce! What the crap!”

--

Bruce stared back at him, eyes wide and afraid.

“Clark! Open the door!”

--

Clark tried the handle and pulled.

But the handle just ripped off.

… Okay.

Clark took a breath and shoved his hands through the sides where the door connected to the wall and pulled the whole thing off.

--

Good.

Bruce was already shoving himself against the floating alien, hugging him tight.

“Oh, God, oh, shit. Are you okay?!” he hissed, eyes flicking over Clark’s shoulder, looking for Talon--

--

Clark's shirt was torn up, but he looked fine as his arms wrapped around Bruce.

“Y-yeah, I'm--”

His head snapped back as he heard Talon get up with a groan behind him, body slumped in front of a massive dent in the wall.

--

At the groan, Bruce shoved out of Clark’s arms, and--

And shoved Clark behind him.

“Stay down,” he hissed, voice sharp and strong again, now that-- now that his friend was here. “If you try to touch him again I’ll bite through my tongue and you’ll lose a recruit just like that.”

--

“What?” Clark breathed, because-- because there was so much going on right now.

“We're leaving!” He yelled, grabbing Bruce again and pulling him close with a grip that said he didn't have a choice.

Talon was getting to his feet.

--

Bruce sucked in a breath as he was grabbed.

“No-- no! I need to know who..”

But he wouldn’t have a choice. Not with Clark’s iron grip on him. And not with his life not even enough to dissuade Talon.

--

Clark grabbed him tight and they were flying. Flying past startled court members with masks, away from Talon. Away from all of it.

When they got to the hole Clark made he said “take a breath!”

And they shot up.

It was like a rollercoaster in reverse, enough to take his breath away.

--

Bruce clung tight, sucking in a breath when Clark told him to and squeezing his eyes shut.

He pressed himself as hard as he could against the only solid thing he knew, and hid his face in Clark’s torn collar as they went.

“North,” Bruce told him, croaking. “Not school. School’s not safe--”

--

Clark heard him.

They shot out of the hole in the sewer and then up and out the manhole before anyone would tell who, or what, it was.

And then he leveled out and slowed down. They were too high for prying eyes to be able to tell what they were.

Headed North.

“Bruce, what the hell was that?” Clark asked, his bandanna long fallen off his face to hang around his neck.

--

Bruce still clung around Clark, shivering in the high altitude.

“The Owls,” he finally croaked. “Someone drugged me.”

--

His expression softened.

“... It’s okay. I’ve got you now.”

Clark hoped that was comforting.

--

Bruce nodded against Clark.

“...I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

--

…

“I know. I heard you.”

…

“You were right though. I was jealous of Tommy. So I’m sorry too.”

--

A shudder he couldn’t control ran through Bruce’s body.

“...don’t be. It’s fine. I didn’t…”

Everything was so wound up inside him. Or maybe that was lightheadedness.

“You don’t have to be jealous of people I don’t like like that.”

--

“I know. Just--”

…

He sighed. “It’s okay.”

(I know you don’t feel that way about me.)

“I understand.”

--

Bruce nodded against Clark again, and tried to hold in a sniff.

Arms still wrapped around Clark and suspended so far up they would barely be specks from the ground, Bruce pulled himself up a little in Clark’s grip. And kissed him.

(Everyone wanted something from him. His money, or status, or looks, or… or for Tommy, all three. All three and his dead parents.

And Clark had still come for him, even when Bruce had ripped all of those away and chased him far away.

And he was alive.)

--

Just like before Clark was a deer in headlights, eyes wide as Bruce put his lips on his. His grip stayed true, growing a little tighter around him, holding him close.

And like last time he closed his eyes and leaned into the kiss as they slowed down in the sky.

--

Bruce didn’t pull back this time.

...not that there was anywhere to pull back to, and he was very keenly aware of this, his legs dangling down with nothing to support him but the arms tight around his waist and his own grip around Clark’s shoulders.

….this kiss was gentler than the last one Bruce had given Clark. Slower. Like an apology. It was sweet.

When Clark pressed in he opened his mouth a little and tried to guide him through it.

--

Clark had never kissed someone like this before. It was nothing like sneaking a kiss from a girl break home when he was younger, hoping you did it right and having to take the lead.

… It was nice following for once.

He opened his mouth and followed along, slowly coming to a stop and bringing his legs down so Bruce could use him to lay on rather than hang over the city. And with Bruce's body supported by him underneath he could allow one hand to wander a little.

To feel his black hair.

--

Bruce could lead. He'd--

...he'd done a lot of kissing, the last two months, trying to forget the softness of Clark’s mouth.

He was still very, very aware of the fall below him, and the fact that even though his weight now fell a little more on Clark's waist, one of the arms holding him had still moved away.

His breathing grew a little deeper as he felt the hand reemerge in his hair, and pulled away just to get a deeper breath from the thin air.

--

Clark pulled away when Bruce did still looking a little dazed. Happy, but dazed. His hand slipped down, feeling the back of Bruce's neck.

Gentle.

“Okay,” he breathed, “Guess I don't understand.” He smirked.

--

Bruce frowned at him, though it wasn't an angry one. He swallowed. Clark would feel it under his hand.

“What don't you understand?”

--

“Thought you didn't like me like that.” He said quietly.

--

...Bruce finally grimaces, and tries to look away, but there's nowhere to look to but sky.

“...said you didn't have to be jealous of people I didn't like like that.”

--

“I know, but-- I didn't know that meant-- that meant I meant anything.” He looked down at the world below.

--

“That's ‘cause you're an idiot,” Bruce said, and leaned up to give him a tentative kiss again

--

Clark laughed into the second kiss, taking the jab in stride.

--

...as nice as it was, it would all have to end soon.

He was slowly growing colder in the sky, even when they weren't moving, and even with Clark under him. He was starting to shiver more, even though he refused to complain.

And they… they needed to get down, somehow, and find somewhere safe.

They couldn't go back to school. Not when Bruce had been kidnapped right in the library, in a bastion of the Gotham Elite.

The manor was nearby, but…

...but he didn't know if he could trust Alfred, after this.

But… for right now…

“Come on,” he whispered. “I think I know somewhere we can hide.”

--

He could feel Bruce shivering even if he didn't complain.

“Okay,” Clark said, grabbing Bruce with both arms again and starting to fly.

“Just tell me where.”

--

Bruce nodded and sniffed a bit, and told him.

...he told him how to find the little cave entrance, on the side of a hill, with a brick ring built around it to try and stop wandering children from falling in anymore.

It was too small to fly in together, so Bruce slid down first, into the cool, dark cave.

“No one else knows about it down here. Alfred only saw it once. He doesn't know I come back. It should be safe…”

He hoped it was.

--

Clark flew in behind him.

“... So what happened? I just heard you calling me and you were way down under even the sewers.”

--

Under the sewers? They must've been underwater almost, at that depth so near the shore.

“...” the cave was dark, despite the stream of sunlight coming down the hole. Bruce had left a box of things down here, though; an oil lantern among them.

He lit it, and relaxed when the wick wasn't too wet to work.

“...I was drugged,” he said again. “...I woke up in the court. And we talked.”

--

“... What did they say?”

--

...Bruce remembered the familiar tailor of the suits. The expense of the hideout.

He swallowed.

“...they said my family was one of them. They didn't kill them.”

--

“... What?” Clark breathed. “Wh-why?”

--

“...” Bruce knew very well why. But he also was very aware that it was something Kent had previously been defensive about. “...because the rich control the city. Not the ‘riff-raff’. And they want to keep it that way.”

“...and my family's one of the oldest in Gotham.”

--

(I might join them.)

Clark found himself flying around to hover beside Bruce, eyes catching the light of the lantern in the dark.

“You’re not going to join them, right? They kill people.”

--

“I know,” Bruce said right away, trying to look up at Clark, but not able to really meet his eyes. “...but if I'm in charge, maybe I can control them.”

The way he'd controlled Tommy. The way he'd held him back.

--

“Yeah? And how long will that take? To get to the top? Bruce that’d take years. Years of killing people just because they aren’t building things where you want or putting their money where you don’t agree with!”

--

He bit his cheek. “And what's my other option, Kent?”

“Even if I don't join, people are still going to die-- and I won't be a step closer to stopping it.”

--

“You’ve got so much you could use to help people, to keep them from dying.” Clark said. “Maybe you can’t fly or shoot fire from your eyes, but you have a name. You have money. Don’t be like every other rich person and throw that money towards your friends. You know that’s what they’re doing. They just pat each other on the back and kill anyone trying to make a difference!”

“You can make a bigger difference then even someone like me can, Bruce.”

--

“You think I don't know?”

God. He didn't mean for his voice to get so angry it cracked.

“That's what my mother was doing when she died.”

He flung his arm out, out towards the ceiling. “Why do you think we’re in this cave? Because they have names, they have money, and if they don't see me as a threat, maybe I can use what they throw away to fix this stupid city.”

His face was wet.

--

“You don’t know if they were even telling the truth, Bruce!” Clark said, still floating in front of him. “You know they’re the type of people to say anything that will make you want to join them. And then what? You join them and wade in the blood they spill right along beside them trying to soak it up with a paper towel?”

“You would still be responsible!”

--

Bruce flinched.

“...I know…” he said softly, head falling down again. “...I'm prepared for that. I just…”

His voice cracked again.

“I knew some of them, Clark. They're my neighbors. They can't… they won't go to jail, even if I find proof, I can't…”

“...I can't think of how to get rid of them..”

--

… Clark finally landed in front of him.

He started to grasp at straws.

“Can’t you just tell them you’ll stay out of their way? Even though you won’t join them?”

--

Bruce looked up at him, exhausted. “...if I can't trust them to tell the truth about my parents, why should I trust them with my life when I know I'll be getting in their way?”

“I won't stop getting in their way.”

Control.

--

Clark was rubbing his hands together.

Nervous.

“I’ll protect you. I’ll be your bodyguard. Not even that Talon guy could scratch me, see?” He smiled, forced, and held out his arms.

Torn shirt and not a scratch underneath.

--

Bruce reached up and pulled Clark’s hand away from his stomach. Furious.

“He could've disemboweled you!”

--

“He didn’t!” Clark said. “I felt his claws and they were a little sharp but-- look!”

He tugged off his shirt and pointed at the barely visible red lines.

“It was nothing! I’ve been shot and it’s hurt more! I’ll be fine!”

He was getting desperate.

Begging his friend and pulling at straws to keep Bruce from joining them.

--

Bruce was staring at the lines, shaking.

“Clark,” he whispered. “I don't even know if I can trust Alfred’s not one of them right now, okay?”

--

… Clark gripped his shirt, holding it against his chest as he looked down at Bruce.

He had no other excuses.

“Don’t.” Is all he could manage, barely a whisper.

--

...Bruce felt like the bathroom all over again. Staring up at Clark. Doing something dumb and heart-pounding to try and feel like it made a difference.

“...are you worried about their victims?” he asked, voice soft. “Or about me?”

--

“Both.” Clark said, then quieter; “You.”

--

...Bruce lifted his hands and ran his shaking fingers across Clark’s cheek.

“...save the bias for journalism,” he murmured, leaning in for another kiss. “I'm not going right now.”

--

Clark leaned into Bruce’s hand, reaching up to cup it under his own against his face while leaning down into the kiss.

“I don’t want you to go at all.” He whispered, sounding like he was about to cry. “Don’t do it.”

… But he had no alternatives to suggest.

--

...Bruce didn't, either. Not if he wanted to stay in Gotham.

He could run, but he was under aged, without access to his parents’ fortune. Underage and famous. He wouldn't get far like that.

He could stay and make Clark be his bodyguard, but he didn't want to be responsible for the pain when one day Clark failed.

And god, he couldn't believe the Owls would let them walk away after that exit. That Bruce could lie and say he wouldn't get in the way would ultimately just buy temporary time.

If he wanted to stay in Gotham right now with Clark, he had to try to appease them somehow.

And they'd only wanted one thing.

(Always. Always, someone wanted something from him.)

So Bruce kissed back. Harder. Hands betraying his nerves as he gripped onto Clark’s unyielding arms.

“They could lock you up,” Bruce said, shaky. “I won't let them…”

--

Clark breathed heavier into the kiss, trying not to cry as his hands found Bruce's hips and gripped them with a gentleness that betrayed his strength.

“They don't have to know it's me. You said I could hide my face. They-- they don't need to know--”

Begging.

--

“I was calling your name….” Bruce whispered. “Please, Clark, I can’t lose someone again…”

--

Clark finally choked out a sob and wrapped his arms around Bruce, pulling him closer and shoving his face into Bruce's neck.

“I can deal with them, I--”

He had nothing left to offer.

--

…

Bruce just held him. Tight.

...he felt cold and empty inside. But he didn’t let go.

“...I found them. I have to try and control them…”

He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince anymore.

--

Clark cried. He cried into Bruce's neck and held him tight and didn't know what else to say. He didn't know what to do.

So while he had him, he just held onto Bruce and didn't let go.

--

…

Bruce didn’t know how long they were down there. Or how long Clark cried.

He was numb again. And all he knew was the arms were around him, and he was holding Clark tight as the sun went down, and soon, the only light was his lamplight, without even the flicker of stars.

“...it’s late…” he said, quiet. Tired and getting hungry and sore.

--

Clark had barely stopped holding him since they got down in the cave.

“... What do you wanna do?” He asked quietly.

Where were they supposed to go?

--

…

He didn’t know.

“...let’s get food,” he said, “and something to hide your face with. ...And then we should go.”

--

… Clark sniffed and nodded, finally peeling himself from Bruce as he tugged his tattered shirt back on.

“I'm not leaving you tonight.” He said, wanting to be sure Bruce knew that.

--

… “Thanks,” Bruce said, voice a little hoarse.

“...I’m going to need your help getting back up the well…”

...he stepped in close again, for a different sort of hug as they got up.

--

Clark nodded again and put his arms around Bruce, flying him up out of the well and setting him on his feet in the dying grass around it.

--

...it was still dark out, but not as dark as the cave.

In the far distance, there was a silhouette. Taller than the trees or fields around them. A house: massive and spired.

In front of it were flashing lights. Police cars.

...Bruce watched on with trepidation.

“...they reported me missing,” he said.

--

“... If Alfred were part of the Owls do you think he would’ve reported you?” Clark asked.

--

“Why wouldn't he?” Bruce asked, not sure. “There's not a clean cop in Gotham.”

--

Clark just sighed and took Bruce’s word for it. “... Whaddya wanna do?”

--

“...interstate gas station?” he suggested.

Food. Something to hide Clark’s face. New shirt.

They didn't need much.

--

“Okay,” he said. “Want me to fly us there or…?”

--

He nodded.

“....can't get out of the manor grounds, otherwise…”

Fenced in. Worse than school.

Fenced in everywhere but Kansas.

--

Clark offered his arms. “Just tell me what direction to go in.”

--

He would.

It was easy to spot the interstate at night, and the little clusters of buildings that sprung up along it. And--

And it was so different from the daytime flight. Bruce found his breath catching as they flew over the lights of outskirts and the rivers below.

--

Even Clark looked around as they flew.

“... Never been over a city before.”

But he didn’t linger, not like he had on their way there when Bruce kissed him.

He landed somewhere they wouldn’t be seen by the gas station.

--

Bruce stripped off his coat once they landed and handed it to Clark, to help cover his torn shirt.

“Can you see okay without your glasses?” he asked.

--

“I’m a little far-sighted.” Clark said, tugging on the jacket.

It was kinda tight.

He pulled off his glasses and held them out to Bruce, assuming he wanted them for a disguise.

--

Yeah, he did.

He put on the glasses and relaxed a little.

… “It’ll do, hopefully.”

They looked at least sort of different, and he didn’t think the Court would look at this one random gas station, of all places, right?

Right.

--

Hopefully.

Clark followed him into the gas station.

The attendant didn’t even look up.

--

Good.

Bruce grabbed some food and a shirt, and a ski mask (bad winters) and gestured for Clark to pick something to eat out, too.

--

Clark grabbed a gross gas station hotdog and a soda for himself.

He would pay too with the money Bruce gave him, just in case the guy behind the counter did recognize Bruce.

--

That was fine.

Routine. Habit.

Bruce just stood behind people while they operated for him.

He wondered if owls did that.

“...wanna eat on the curb?” he asked as they left.

--

“Sure,” Clark said, walking out with him.

He found a spot that didn’t look as dirty and sat down. Pulled out his hotdog to start eating.

…

“You feelin’ okay?”

--

…

Bruce opened the sandwich he’d taken from the freezer section and took a bite.

“...I dunno if I’m feeling anything really right now.”

--

… Clark nodded and took a bite from his hotdog.

“Yeah. I dunno what I’m feelin’ either right now.”

--

…

Bruce reached over and tried to find Clark's hand. To squeeze it.

“...I'm sorry. Please don't hate me for this.”

--

Clark looked down at their hands and gave Bruce’s a squeeze back. “I won’t-- I--”

He felt his eyes get hot again and tried not to cry.

“... Just promise me you’ll get out. If you find a chance. Just get out.”

--

...Bruce nodded.

“...I will. I just…”

…

He curled up a bit again, like he'd done on the bus.

“...All I can think of is leaving Gotham. And I don't want to.”

He'd told Clark he did.

That he was going to run.

But he wasn't going to be chased.

--

“You can’t do that until you’re 18 anyway, right?” Clark said, still holding his hand.

--

… “not without permission,” Bruce said, swallowing hard, and glancing back at the way they'd come.

--

Clark sighed and looked down at his hotdog.

He wasn’t hungry despite everything.

…

“What’d we do after this? Are you going back to them?”

--

...Bruce nodded.

“...see if I have something they want,” he said.

Just think of it like economics.

--

“... Do you want me to be there with you? Or do you not think…”

Would they not accept him if the guy who plowed into their court was beside him?

--

Bruce tried to smile reassuringly, but it fell flat, and he let it wilt.

“...I want you there, yeah, but… I don't think it'll be a good idea.”

--

… “I’ll be close.” Clark said, face turning serious.

“I’ll be close and if they do anything I’ll see it and come.” His eyes looked over to meet Bruce’s.

--

…he'd see it, there.

The fear that never left Bruce, dragged to the surface.

The relief that he wouldn't be alone.

He nodded.

“...okay. I trust you.”

--

Clark smiled, even if it didn't last very long.

He held Bruce's hand while they ate and wondered if his friend would be able to stay himself even after joining the Owls.

--

(It wouldn't be so bad to stay someone else, as long as no one else died.)

Bruce finished his sandwich. Threw the wrapper away from where they sat.

And he waited, quietly, for Clark to finish, too, watching the stars out here that came out more than in middle Gotham.

...why did it feel like his last night?

He wasn't going to get himself locked in that little holding room forever--

--

It really did feel like Bruce’s last night, even if in theory they would accept him and… little would change in their day-to-day lives.

When they were both done eating it would take a lot of strength to stand up.

But they both had to. If this was going to have an end. They had to both stand up.

And Clark would have to watch Bruce walk into the fire.

--

It wasn't Aristotle who said it, but Bruce couldn't remember anyone else right now.

Bravery isn't the lack of fear, but the confrontation of it.

...but all the same, he wished he'd been a little bolder-feeling as Clark brought him back to the entrance of the shaft, and he made his slow descent down, leaving the upperworld behind.

He dusted himself off without much thought once he slid from the broken wall into the spacious chamber of red carpet and pillars, and looked around slowly.

“...hello? Is anyone still here?”

--

There was no one there when he arrived. The hole hadn’t been cleaned up from Clark’s entrance, but Bruce would know he was being watched.

--

Bruce could feel it. Prickles on his skin.

Familiar. Being watched.

Bluff. Hands on his sides. Impatient.

“I can hear you breathing. You may as well come out.”

--

… His bluff went unanswered.

It would be another minute before he would hear footsteps.

Talon walked around the corner to face him.

“Follow me.”

--

...at least it got him in the light.

...he didn't let himself look back at the hole he'd crawled down through.

He followed Talon.

--

Talon lead him to a smaller room. Opened the door to a lavish office with wood and soft red carpet that matched the rest of their underground facility. The Judge was sat behind a large desk.

“Ah, he returns.” He said, standing up.

--

“What, can't use the prodigal son line twice?” Bruce asked, strolling in with his head held higher than before. Eyes sharp again.

He was so fucking aware of the Talon at his back.

“...what you said about my parents. Was it true?”

--

“Oh I think the prodigal son title is only saved for those who are… eligible in joining our little organization.” The Judge said, and as soon as he was finished the Talon was grabbing Bruce’s neck.

--

Bruce lunged forward for the Judge’s mask as the word ‘eligible’ died, but was caught mid-air, choking.

One hand tried to pry the fingers off his windpipe in animal desperation.

The other grabbed for the Talon’s mask instead.

--

The Talon’s mask was cloth, attached to the rest of his suit. Bruce could feel it ripping a little at the clasps by his neck. He pushed Bruce down on the floor and grabbed for one of the sharp throwing knives strapped to his sides.

“I don’t know what it was you had come grab you the first time, but you’re really a fool for coming here again. I’m afraid our offer has expired.” The Judge said, rounding the desk so he could get closer.

But not too close.

--

Bruce didn't let go.

He needed at least one face.

One way for it to not be everyone he knew--

But he still glared up at the Judge, choking and struggling on the floor.

“Can't negotiate-- if it's fair--huh?” he choked out.

Clark was watching for him.

“You'll wish you had me--”

--

He’d get one face, the fabric eventually tearing off to reveal… no one he knew.

A nobody, their face generic and plain save for a scar across their lip. They weren’t a part of The Elite.

“Won’t it be a shame when your butler finds you tomorrow morning, bled out in your bathtub from slit wrists?” The Judge said, and Talon pinned down one of Bruce’s arms with his leg.

--

His heart started to pound a little faster.

The pinned arm was shaking. He'd given his jacket over at the gas station, and though he'd returned the glasses he hadn't taken the jacket back--

The Judge could see the scars on his arm.

Where was Clark?

“That doesn't even make sense for him to find me in the manor--” he said, not sure why. Adrenaline? Fear?

Clark said he'd be watching--

--

“No? It doesn’t make sense that Bruce Wayne, overwhelmed with all that has happened to him, would run home and--”

The Judge never finished his sentence.

The wall exploded in pieces of wood and drywall and the weight on Bruce was yanked off him.

--

Oh god. Oh god.

Bruce was up on his feet and running, tackling into the Judge with every one of his 150 pounds, ripping the mask off his face.

--

The Judge was trying to fight him off, but it was clear he was no fighter, and soon enough Bruce had the mask ripped off.

He would recognize the face behind it. A Galavan, teeth grit and hands reaching to grab Bruce by the throat and get him off or choke him to death himself.

Behind him, through yet another wall Clark had crashed through, there was heat.

And screaming.

--

He had a face.

He had a face.

And he reeled back and hit Galavan as hard as he could across the face, until his knuckles hurt.

But the screaming stopped him from--

From keeping it up.

He shoved away, still gripping the mask, suddenly thinking of he burnt off their arms.

--

The Judge wasn’t moving. Alive, but unconscious from Bruce’s onslaught.

But behind him, through another wall into a whole separate room, Clark stood heaving with his hands over his eyes, and a smoking Talon at his feet, unmoving.

--

Bruce ran towards him. Shaking.

“Clark..?” he whispered, too quiet to even hear himself, scared that there might still be someone around.

He knelt beside Clark, rubbing his back, trying to wrap an arm around him.

Trying to pull his eyes from the Talon’s body.

He suddenly wished he hadn't removed the mask.

Maybe he wouldn't have to see the dead eyes. The same glassy gaze.

The--

The…

Oh god.

“Get up,” Bruce said, voice speaking into a break. “Get up, there's something wrong--”

--

Clark wore the ski mask Bruce had gotten him. The ski mask and the bandana around his mouth. Around the eyes was burning and still red with cinders as he tried to breathe and get to his feet.

“He won’t-- he won’t hurt you again--” Clark mumbled out.

Rationalizing it in his brain.

--

Bruce knew what dead bodies looked like.

He grabbed Clark by the shoulder, trying to haul him upright faster. “Shut up, get up, shh--”

The hand was moving.

“He's not dead!”

--

Clark’s eyes went down to the body.

Moving.

When it looked like that.

His eyes went wide and he felt himself stop breathing.

Before he knew it he was grabbing Bruce again to fly them out.

--

Bruce didn't protest.

Not at all.

He was already clinging tight to Clark, shaking, with the mask still clutched in one hand against his chest.

“M-manor,” Bruce said. “K-keep your hat on.”

He had to know now, now that plan A was spent.

If Alfred was with them, he needed to know, before Alfred got word of what had happened.

--

Clark flew.

He flew out of the hole he had made into the room and towards the massive hole he had made from the sewers.

But then he paused.

“I- I should destroy this place…”

Even if he didn’t know how.

--

Bruce turned, shaking, though not with cold.

“We don't kill,” he breathed, gripping Clark tighter. “We’re not killers.”

--

Clark looked at him, mouth tight, and nodded.

He flew them out of the hole.

Out of the sewer.

They went to the Manor.

--

...Bruce had stopped shaking by the time they touched down.

The police cars were gone, now.

It was late in the night.

Everything inside him had gotten carved out and scooped from him, leaving a bare shell that didn't even feel scared anymore as he rang the manor doorbell.

“Don't let him see you right away. Not until we know,” he said numbly, still holding the smooth mask between his fingers.

--

“Okay.” Clark said quietly, dropping Bruce on his feet and then flying away and off to the side.

Bruce would tell him if it was fine to come down. And if things started going south… he would be there.

--

Bruce took a deep breath and waited.

...a few moments later, the door opened.

An older man with a thin layer of hair on the top of his head and a thinning mustache opened the door--

--and nearly fell to his knees, pulling Bruce into a hug, to complete shock on Bruce's face.

“Master Bruce! You've had me worried sick!”

--

Clark waited where he was, hovering up and to the right out of immediate sight.

(No one ever looked up.)

He wanted to believe Alfred was genuine, if not because that sounded very sincere but also… he didn’t want Bruce to lose his guardian too.

--

Bruce didn't think he could handle losing another person.

He held stiff in the hug until Alfred pulled away, asking, “where have you been?”

“...I needed to get out,” Bruce says, exhaustion in his voice despite everything. “...and I found something. Do you know what it is…?”

Alfred seemed a little taken aback by the question, but was listening. “That isn't… an explanation, Master Bruce, for what caused this wild goose chase…”

But Bruce ignored him and stretched his arm out first.

Letting Alfred see the cracked mask.

--

… Clark wasn’t sure if this was a safe way to tell. Alfred could lie. He could lie and say he didn’t have any idea what it was.

Even so Clark paid attention to Alfred heartbeat.

It sometimes sounded different when people lied, and sometimes he could tell.

Only sometimes.

--

Maybe it wasn't. But at least Bruce could see Alfred’s face. Could watch his pupils dilate and the sternness of his mouth.

(And Alfred’s heart rate would not change.

It was already beating like Bruce’s. Like it was already in a waking nightmare.)

“It-- it appears to be a replica of one of your father’s artifacts, Master Bruce, but what does that have to do with--”

(Bruce lost his grip on the mask.)

--

Oh no.

Oh no oh no oh no.

Despite being told to stay out of sight Clark found himself starting to lower down whether he caught Alfred’s attention or not.

“Bruce…”

--

He did catch Alfred’s attention.

And Alfred caugh Bruce’s arm, tugging him behind himself defensively and his other arm reaching for something in his suit.

“Who’s there?!”

Bruce grabbed the elbow of the arm in Alfred’s suit, trying to not let him pull it out.

“It's fine! He's a friend!”

--

Clark stopped where he was, putting his hands up in a show of surrender.

Not that flying eight feet off the ground really helped him appear harmless.

Or the ski mask.

--

...Alfred was indeed staring right at him, floating eight feet off the ground in a ski mask.

...but somehow, his heartbeat slowed a little at Bruce’s insistence, and he released whatever he'd been trying to take from inside his suit.

“...you always did have the most interesting taste in friends,” Alfred said, straight-faced.

“...” he looked back at the sixteen year old still grabbing onto his arm.

Even with something like this, it seemed like a long time since Bruce let himself be touched.

“...very well. Both of you. Inside. I want some kind of explanation before bed tonight, but we can't very well do it out here.”

--

… Clark hovered a little lower.

“Is-- is this okay?” He asked uneasily.

Did he trust Alfred?

--

Bruce still looked like he might shake apart.

But he nodded.

He hadn't seen anything but confusion in Alfred’s eyes at the mask.

The only other way to tell would be hard evidence that was surely hidden away or-- or mind reading, maybe.

But right now he just wanted to fall over.

--

“... Okay.”

Clark reached up to pull off the ski mask and bandana.

“Sorry for the startle, sir.”

--

Alfred’s eyes softened a little when he saw the youth under the mask.

“...nothing worse than what I've already been through tonight, young man. Now get inside, the both of you.”

He ushered them in, and locked the door behind them.

--

Clark finally touched down beside Bruce as they walked inside and looked around.

Even the entrance was huge and ridiculous and nothing he had ever seen before.

“Wow.”

--

There was a chandelier in the entryway, flanked by two large split-section marble staircases. There were bright, long carpets and healthy plants on podiums, growing long and beginning to blossom for spring.

This was where Bruce lived, whenever he went home for a long, lonely break.

But Alfred ushered them off to the side, rather than up the split staircase, into a little wooden side door that led to a modest kitchen. It was more modern than the entryway, with industrial sinks and stoves, but Alfred simply used one small burner to put a kettle of water on it, and gestured for Clark and Bruce to take a seat at a small wooden table in the side of the room, where Alfred usually ate.

There were only two chairs. Never any guests to fill them.

“Now,” Alfred said, starting to prepare two mugs for tea. “What is going on? Why aren't you at school?”

--

Clark glanced over at Bruce, then to Alfred.

They were trusting him, right?

“He-- I don’t think he can go back to school, sir.”

--

Alfred’s face grew a little more grave, and Bruce knew what he was thinking, and it curled inside him.

“I didn't fight anyone,” he mumbled, indignant. Hands clenched. “I found the Court of Owls.”

The graveness left Alfred’s face for the concern of someone who thought an argument had been long, long over, and who'd just had it opened up again at the worst possible moment. “Master Bruce, we’ve been over this, the court isn't real.”

--

Clark jumped to his friend's defense.

“They are! We've been digging into it and then they popped out of nowhere and kidnapped him! They threatened him! Tried to kill him!”

--

Alfred watched him, on one hand accepting that this boy had been flying a few minutes ago. On the other hand…

“Master Bruce?”

…

Without making eye contact, Bruce started to tug up his shirt sleeves.

Tug down his collar.

He had freshly-formed bruises ringing around the outside of his arms from where Talon had grappled him and held him still-- and two distinct finger marks on his neck, from where he'd been grabbed and shoved down on the floor, when they'd wanted to cut his wrists.

“Gracious--” Alfred was already leaning in to hover and get a closer look.

--

“... He's not making it up.” Clark said, quieter this time. He watched as Alfred inspected the bruises on Bruce's body.

“I heard him calling for help. They have a huge thing--” he gestured with his hands, “--under Gotham. Like a big underground mansion, and they tried to recruit him, and, so, I busted him out but we knew they'd just come back for him so--” He was rambling now.

--

“Please,” Alfred said, looking away from Bruce, holding a gentle hand to Clark. “Calm yourself. You’ve both had a long night.”

...he slips up and away to fill the two mugs with hot water, and sets them before the two boys steep.

He has no chair to sit on, but so he leans forward on the table, frowning, and looks between them both.

“Tell me everything, from the beginning.”

...and so Bruce does.

How they'd picked up looking for the owls again after the murder in fall. How Bruce had been on his way to the library when he was knocked unconscious. How he woke in a room with people wearing those masks, inviting him to culminate his interest, that they'd locked him away to ‘think about it’ and he'd called for Clark, who came--

But that's where his ability to keep his voice steady stops.

“They said… they said my parents were one of them.”

And he looks at the mask, still lying on the kitchen table between him and Clark, where Alfred had set it after picking it up and ushering them in.

--

Clark fell quiet and let Bruce do all the talking. When his voice started to shake Clark moved a hand out and…

… and he wanted to take Bruce’s hand and squeeze it, but he didn’t want to do that in front of someone he didn’t know. Boys didn’t do that with one another.

So instead he put his hand gently on Bruce’s shoulder.

He didn’t think to ask if Alfred knew if Bruce’s parents were or not, he didn’t know how long he had been around, but he wished someone could tell Bruce they weren’t at least for his friend’s peace of mind.

--

Under Alfred’s gaze, Bruce--

Bruce tugged away from Clark’s hand. Like he'd been burnt.

Alfred didn't find anything strange about that, even though he wished he could.

But he didn't try to touch Bruce either as he knelt down in front of him, face stern.

“Your parents would have loathed any sort of group such as that.”

“You recognized the mask.”

“And I can think of a million reasons why it is a coincidence,” Alfred said. “And surely you could as well, if you weren't exhausted and strung-out right now. So we will forgive that, won't we?”

--

Ah. Okay. Even that was too much, he guessed.

Clark pulled his hand away and set it in his lap, his chest feeling tight and his stomach turning.

“They probably said it so you’d join.” Clark offered, hoping it helped some.

--

Alfred gave Clark a small, approving nod in thanks.

Bruce was just trying to keep the knot down in his chest.

“...right,” he said, as if it hurt to say anything. The doubt had still been put in his mind. “...We hid to find out what to do. And we went back after a while.”

“Why in the world would you do that?” Alfred asked, voice soft, but accepting the continuation of the story.

--

“... Didn’t… think they’d stop trying to recruit him.” Clark added, his hands folded and resting in his lap.

--

“And?” Alfred said.

“...they stopped,” Bruce said softly. “But they might be coming after us, now.”

...Alfred could be a target too, if he wasn't with the owls.

Even if all they really wanted was to make him find Bruce and I looked like a suicide.

--

“We might’ve made them kinda mad.” Clark admitted, then cleared his throat.

He had, really. Bruce had just called for him, it was his fault they had multiple huge holes in their hideout now. And… whatever it was that had happened to Talon.

He thought he had killed him, and he went into the situation being okay with that if it meant saving his friend, but after what he saw…

…

--

(Bruce wondered if it was the first time Clark saw a human body)

(If he knew what it smelled like)

Alfred watched them with a grim face, and said, “I see.”

He sighed stood again, placing his hands on their shoulders. One on Clark’s, and the other on Bruce's, who twitched but didn't pull away.

“I'll be making some phone calls,” Alfred said. “Master Kent, I can't thank you enough for saving Bruce, but you've also put yourself in danger, unfortunately, in the process--”

“They don't know it was him,” Bruce said softly, and Alfred stopped speaking to look at him again. “...Galavan called him a ‘thing.’ A thing I summoned. They don't know.”

--

It still hurt. Being called a ‘thing’.

“Flying ‘n smashing through walls will do that. Heh.” Clark said, and he could feel a piece of himself die.

“I covered my face up so they didn’t know it was me.”

--

Alfred still wore a bit of a frown. Concerned. “Are you certain you could not be identified?”

“...we haven't even talked for two months,” Bruce admitted quietly. “...they don't have a reason to think he'd suddenly help me.”

--

Ah. Yeah. There was that too.

“... Yeah,” he admitted too. “I haven’t been working on the Court of Owls research for a long time now. Haven’t been talkin’ or… anythin’. Don’t think they would think I’d help, maybe. ‘N I tried to be as weird as possible so they didn’t think it was--”

Ugh.

Shit.

He rubbed the back of his head.

“So they wouldn’t think a boring kid from Kansas could do any ‘a that.”

--

….

Alfred gave him a nod of approval.

“That was wise of you. Ignorance is often the best defense,” he said.

He removed his hand from Bruce and clapped Clark’s shoulders instead. “You've done more than could have ever been expected of you, tonight. Thank you for that. You can leave the rest to me.”

And there was something steely and familiar--like Bruce’s--in Alfred's eyes.

A butler, but still someone with a hard will, ready to defend his ward. And confident of doing it.

“For now, what may be best is if you continue to play on their ignorance, and make it seem as if nothing has changed. Do you understand?”

--

“It was Bruce’s idea…” Clark said with a little smile.

(Hide your face. Be so alien they don’t look for a human.)

“Um, yeah, but--”

He looked at Bruce.

“I said I’d stay with him.”

--

Bruce’s eyes fell down, and he couldn't meet Clark’s gaze again, like he knew what was coming.

“That's very noble,” Alfred said. “But it may place you at greater risk, which I'm sure is the last thing Master Bruce wants. Go back to school. Pretend you've just gotten locked out of your dorm and came back late. Bruce and I will spend the night in the safe room and be out of Gotham by morning.”

--

“O-Out of Gotham?”

Clark felt something hard in his throat.

Like he was just told he would never see Bruce again.

--

Bruce said nothing.

“There has just been an attempt on his life,” Alfred said, still calm. Like this was normal. Like it made sense. “It is only prudent we go lie low a while where another cannot be easily made.”

--

Clark’s bright blue eyes were bouncing between the two of them.

“But… you’ll be back?”

--

Alfred looked like he wanted to say no--

“Yes,” Bruce said. Not looking up. His voice was still firm. Hands clasped tightly together in his lap. “...if nothing else, I’ll come see you in Kansas. Okay?”

--

Clark looked at him like he was about to cry again.

“D-Do you know when?”

--

Alfred had stepped back, looking between the two of them, unsure.

“...sometime in summer?” Bruce asked.

...he looked up at Alfred.

Alfred looked back, eyes dark and sad again.

“I’m sure that can be made possible, Master Bruce,” he said softly.

--

Clark wiped at his eyes even though he hadn’t started crying yet.

“... Guess you can’t tell me where it is you’re plannin’ to go, huh?”

--

“We will be in contact with your parents at least, if it seems safe,” Alfred reassured him.

--

Clark took a deep breath.

“Okay.”

He sounded like he was trying to gear himself up for something, and he was.

Gearing himself up to leave.

He pushed off the counter to stand out of his chair.

Hovered there a moment before looking at Bruce.

“You’ll yell if something happens?”

--

Bruce snorted, head still hung.

“Yeah. I will.”

….he was still being protected.

“...take care of Harvey. He’s not going to be doing okay.”

--

“... What should I tell him?”

--

“...you don’t know what happened with me. You were taking a break from studying and fell asleep. Lost track of time,” Bruce said. “...the news will pick up the rest.”

Clark always got the news.

--

Another deep breath.

“Okay.”

…

He wanted to hug him, but judging how he reacted from just the touch with Alfred around he figured that wouldn’t work out well.

“G-... Good luck.” Was all he could manage before starting to walk out of the kitchen.

--

...Alfred glanced back at Bruce, still quiet and head-hung, and said, softly, “I’ll show you to the doorway.”

He followed Clark out of the kitchen.

--

Clark stopped a little so Bruce could catch up, but still didn’t touch him as they walked out of the kitchen and back towards the front door.

And even then he didn’t reach for him, even if he wanted to.

“... You’d better call.” He managed, voice shaking.

--

That was fine.

Clark wasn’t Bruce.

Alfred had seen the boy reach for physical comfort.

So he reached out, instead, placing a gentle hand on Clark’s back.

“We will,” he said. “And he will be fine. And he wouldn’t have gotten this far without your help. So please: take care of yourself a while, now.”

“What you can do is very impressive. But you can’t be older than Bruce. Be careful out there.”

--

Clark cleared his throat and nodded.

He would try.

…

He didn’t look at Alfred or the manor as he stepped forward and pushed off, a burst of air being the only thing that broke the silence as he flew back to school.

Clark listened to Bruce’s heartbeat get quieter and quieter.

--

...it would finally, fully fade as he returned to Gotham Academy, far out of the three-mile limit of his hearing.

…

Alfred would shuffle Bruce into the saferoom. Phone the police. Inform them that Bruce had been located. That there had, indeed, been another kidnapping and it seemed, this time, a threat on his life. That he was taking matters now on his own.

He gave a description of a man matching Galavan, but expected nothing to come out of it.

He called the school to berate them shortly of letting Bruce be kidnapped on their grounds. That Bruce would not be returning after such incompetence.

...he called the airport, and purchased two tickets, and packed their bags.

By morning, as promised, they would be gone, leaving behind everything in Bruce’s dorm room and a sweep of press activity come the breaking day.

--

The hardest part was trying to act like nothing had happened.

He had to lie to Harvey, spin the story he had fallen asleep and got locked out like Bruce had suggested, but had no idea what happened to him.

Lying to the press was somehow… harder.

Maybe it was because of peer pressure, or maybe because he wanted to be a journalist someday, but having to pretend he didn’t know and even telling them he hadn’t spoken much to Bruce in over two months was hard.

He was crying less about a broken heart and more through worry over what might have happened to his friend. Clark knew that if he yelled now, wherever he was, he wouldn’t be able to hear him.

But that didn’t stop him from listening anyway.

…

He helped Harvey as much as he could, tried to be some sort of support for him and at least help him academically. It was just them now. The room was empty. And quiet. And he hated it.

But he just had to breathe and get through it. Get to summer.

Look forward to that phone call or visit.

--

Harvey wasn’t doing great in the aftermath. Bruce hadn’t been wrong.

He’d been… happy, earlier in the year. Reserved as it was. He’d been doing okay with Bruce, and Tommy, and getting to know Clark-- and having three whole friends.

Now, the two he he’d had for almost three years were both stripped away in just a few months time, and summer was coming.

And he had no time to let himself break down.

Where Clark cried, Harvey grew distant and shut down anything that wasn’t the polite tour guide who showed new students their rooms and introduced families to a place that would beat their children for making noise after-hours.

…

It was a good two weeks before the media attention died down.

…

He’d go back to Kansas without hearing a word from either Bruce or Alfred, and start the summer alone.

[nautiscarader]

Nautiscarader’s Wendip Week day 3: Prank War

geez, this one took a while. I apologise, and let’s hope next one will arrive faster

 (ao3)

============

Someone standing outside of The Mystery Shack might have thought that the living room contained a very predictable lighting bug, or at least that someone inside was broadcasting a rather boring Morse code message using light signals.

In reality, it was just Wendy and Dipper, slouched on the sofa, surfing TV channels, giving each of them at most three seconds to entertain their bored minds. So far, none of them stood up to the challenge.

But as Wendy continued the only physical activity she had the energy for, i.e. pressing one button, something finally caught their attention.

- "What's up everyone? It's your boy, the Prankster Prancer!"

A loud, obnoxious, blonde man in his twenties, wearing spiky, gelled hair rode into the shot on a fake unicorn, face-hugged the camera, filling the wide-angle lens and made both Dipper and Wendy jump in their seats as loud horn noise shook the air around them.

- Wait, I thought this guy was only on the internet! - Wendy raised her brow - Did he escape to the real world?! - Come on, who in the right mind would give him a show? - "So, first of all, thanks to our station, The Cheese Network, for giving me the chance to entertain you guys..."

Dipper and Wendy groaned in collective understanding.

- "...and for giving us some cheese to pay for our last week's prank!"

The screen dimmed and the camera changed to an aerial shot, containing not only fires and flood, but also several military helicopters.

- "So last time we did some EPIC prank during the gender reveal party and we've made a hole in the ozone hole!"

The man made extra effort to extend every vowel in the last word, to an equally obnoxious collection of sound effects.

- Wow. That looks... bad. Even by our standards. - Wendy watched the footage. - Yeah. Good thing this dude stays away from us. - "And now it's time to reveal the next place for our EPIC PRANK!"

The man took a baseball bat and unceremoniously smashed the unicorn doll in half, and stuck his hand in the fake guts, revealing an envelope.

- "And this one is a suggestion from my top commentator on-line, that girl leaves comments under every single one of my videos, so I could not ignore her request".

The envelope was opened, and suddenly, a girl's voice began reading it.

- "Dear Prankster Prancer. I love your videos, and how creative your calamity can be..." - Wait a minute - Dipper sat up, as his eyes widened in horror - Is that- - "My name is Mabel Pines, and I am staying in a small town called Gravity Falls, in Oregon...".

Dipper and Wendy looked at each other and understood each other at once.

- Barricade the doors!

But it was too late. As Dipper ran towards the lobby, the door were smashed to the ground, seemingly under the power of the air horns, and flooded the Shack with lights. The same blonde man walked inside, as if he owned the place, leading with him Mabel Pines.

- What's up birches? Is that how you call people living in the middle of a forest? - he shoved his face to the camera again. - More like, in the middle of nowhere! - Mabel added, high-five'ing him - Thankfully, me and my Prankster Protégé are gonna rock this place! - he shouted.

Dipper Pines stood up and cleaned himself from the dust and debris, watching as the two rock their heads to some aggressive tune.

- Hold on a minute! Mabel, why did you invite him here? If anything, there's too much going around in here! - Ugh, this is my little brother, Dipper. - Mabel rolled her eyes - I'm-I'm not little! - Dipper stomped in place - We're twins!

Somewhere behind him, Wendy snickered.

- What, you just look adorable when you're angry.

Dipper turned back and stormed towards his sister.

- Mabel, do you have amnesia or something? Gravity Falls is full of amazing things! We've been on treasure hunts, found all sorts of monsters in every lake, glade and a cave... You wanted to date a zombie on out first day here! - Yeah, sure, kid, as if I could just walk into a forest and find a dead body... - the Prankster took a sip of soda, looking somewhat nervously. - Mabel, we've seen living dinosaurs here! - Yeah, like I can see one now!

The Prankster pointed to the kitchen and very confused Grunkle Stan in his pajamas.

- What in the DMV is going on here? - Check this out, a living fossil!

The Prankster jumped towards Grunkle Stan and unceremoniously took a selfie with him.

- Oh no, my eyes! The light is coming towards me instead of the other way around!

Stan cried when flash of light blinded him, and with a sleigh of hand, the blonde man undid his belt, causing Stan to nearly trip and fall, if it wasn't for Wendy.

- Hey, you! You're not a prankster, you're a jerk!

At the sound of those words, the man stopped laughing and turned his attention, as well as cameras, towards Wendy.

- What's that? We've got ourselves a HATER!

An air horn was about to blow her hat off, but Wendy swiftly grabbed it and twisted it.

- Yeah, that's what I've said, you're a jerk. I like pranking people, but not to hurt them. - And watchu gonna do, leave a mean comment? - No, we're gonna prank you. - Wendy reached and brought Dipper towards her. - Cos we've done some pranking together ourselves! - Like what? - Like... when we've made our friend think his inflatable tube could talk!

The Prankster shot them with a dead stare.

- You know what, I don't even have time to play the "wah-wah" soundbite. But if you want to lose, your call. Tomorrow, we're gonna get an EPIC PRANK-OFF!

And he shot a pose in front of the camera.

- Right, now tell me where's someplace to eat. And they better have unlimited refills. - Lazy Susan is neat. And there's water tower nearby...

And with that, he and Mabel walked off, leaving the small destruction behind them.

- Wendy! - Dipper turned at once towards her - Are you crazy? He has entire film crew! And money! And very little empathy! He's gonna plough through us! - Chill out, man, we're gonna trick him, one way or another.

And she gently smacked the edge of his hat.

- Er, I know you guys like to babble all the time, but I still can't get up. - Grunkle Stan grumbled from the floor.

=============

The next day, Wendy woke up at the break of dawn with unbridled optimism. Dipper less so, and he was a bit nervous when Wendy gathered him and her crew in the small lumberjack shack in the woods to explain the plan of action.

- So, any questions? - she asked

At the same time, every teenager in the small room raised hands.

- So, how does exactly the can of whipped cream is supposed to work with the rake? - Tambry asked - And what do we have to do with the rat-shaped balloons? - Thompson asked shyly. - And can't we just... punch him? - Robbie suggested, mimicking the action. - Ugh, you guys!

Wendy groaned and hid her face in her hands. hearing the murmurs of doubt across the room, Dipper quickly stood up and continued.

- Guys, this jerk is giving us, pranksters, a bad name! We gotta prank him in a way that shows we are better... Because we can do better!

He watched as faces of the older teenagers brighten with his speech. Several of them even smiled.

- Plus he could, like, sue us for millions of dollars, so we gotta stay clean.

With newly gained optimism, the gang rushed to Thompson's van and readied themselves for the prank.

- Thanks, man, for giving me a hand. - Wendy suddenly patted Dipper's back. - Oh, no-no problem. - Dipper spoke, wondering if she noticed his blush.

=========

- Alright, we're all in places.

Wendy spoke to her phone, and observed the places, leaning from behind the wall. Her eyes moved from Robbie, hidden in the abandoned ice-cream stall, to Thompson, on top of a tree, to Tambry, pretending to read a large newspaper, and finally, to Dipper, holding a bag of provisions.

- We-Wendy, I'm not sure if this is gonna work. - Now!

She commanded, as Prankster walked nonchalantly out of the store. He thre away the half-eaten sandwich he just bought and was about to walk into the string that would have activate the whipped cream... if he didn't make a sudden jump.

He then threw something into the stall.

- Oh, crap, it's a grenade!

Robbie stormed out, tripping on the same wire he helped setting up, which resulted in his black hair covered in white goo and sprinkles.

Tambry was supposed attack next, but Prankester was already next to her. He took a bucket of soapy water and dumped it over her, destroying her diguise that covered her pruple hair.

For Thompson, he didn't even have to do much - he threw a mouse toy into the air, and listened how the boy tumbles down, shrieking.

And finally, he took something big and colourful out of his backpack and tossed it onto the street, watching as Dipper and Wendy rush towards it.

- Limited edition Giraffeoala!

They realised the two were after it when it was too late. Their heads collided with each other, just as the elusive plushie was yanked from their hands, back into his bag.

- Seriously, guys? You wanted to outsmart me? There like five of you and you couldn't do it. - Ha! That was a good one! - Mabel emerged from behind his back and did another high-five. - But I couldn't do it without you. - he pointed at her. - Me? But I didn't do anything... - Of course you did.

The Prankster lowered his sunglasses.

- Last evening at that stupid bar. You told me you were friends with everyone here. You told me how one of them likes gloomy, dark places. Like another one is afraid of mice. Like another one never looks away from her phone...

Mabel's ecstatic, radiant smile faded with each word the Prankster spoke, and her eyes, widened from excitation began to fill with tears.

- And, well, you told me what these two dorks are obsessed about... amongst other things. - Mabel! - Wendy and Dipper cried at the same time. - But-But I didn't... - Aw, really? You feel sad for them? LAME. - he pushed her aside and waved for his crew that followed him anyway.

For quite a while, all the small town could hear was Mabel Pines sobbing, until someone closed his arms around her.

- There, there, sis. - Dipper spoke quietly. - I guess you see why were so angry now. - I-I didn't know he would...

Dipper hugged her, letting her cry as much as she wants into his vest.

- It's not your fault, Mabel. - Wendy added, taking a knee and gently patting her. - But-But it is! - Well... Kinda... - Robbie added, and received a cold, piercing stare from Wendy. - Jerks like that like to... use people. And they know that the best ones are those, who are most trusting and kind.

Mabel's sniffing stopped, as Wendy continued.

- But you know what? - Dipper spoke suddenly - I think I got an idea...

He let go of his sister rushed to the Prankster, sitting on one of the toy unicorns, tossing quarter after quarter, while two children in queue began to tear up.

- Hey, you! - Ugh, you again, twerp. What, want me to reveal more secrets about you and your stupid hobbies? Or, like, who is your biggest crush after a toy plushie from the 90s?

Dipper's face reddened, but he remained unperturbed.

- We're not done yet. Tomorrow we're gonna prank you for good. Double or nothing! - Ugh, sure, fine. - the Prankster didn't even look at him - It's not like I can do anything until my lawyers clean up the whole "gender reveal party" fiasco. Like, who cares if the whole state is now inhabitable for life?

==============

By the next morning, the battleground was set. Cameras and tons of equipment surrounded the small grassy meadow in front of the Mystery Shack, where Dipper and Wendy were sitting in their chairs with their arms crossed, both wearing much more confident smiles. And the fact that Mabel was with them added them extra layer of morale.

When the clock struck 12, a mighty roar shook the place, as monster truck drove from behind the tree line, smoking and setting nearby branches on fire. The Prankster Prancer jumped out of it, and, drowned in the flashes of cameras, walked into his place.

- So, are you twerps ready for the FINAL PRANK OF YOUR LIFE? - he roared into the microphone, rolling his tongue back and forth as if he was about to eat it. - Nah, we're not gonna prank you. - Wendy shrugged - But someone else will.

The newly reinstalled door to the Mystery Shack opened, and a new figure appeared. An elderly woman walked out, being led by Grunkle Stan that gallantly helped her, for once not sneaking his hand into her purse.

And when she looked up from behind her glasses, the confident smile on Prancer's face disappeared at once.

- Grandma?! What-What are you doing here?! - Oh, don't you know? - Grunkle Stan rushed with explanation - We, old folks, all know each other. And I simply couldn't let her miss her grandson's grand day! - I'm so glad I can see you, Archibald!

The elderly lady used her cane to hook him by his neck and brought him into his arms, despite his best efforts to avoid any interactions.

- G-Grandma, don't- don't call me that! - Why not? - she continued, seemingly ignoring her grandson efforts to escape her tight hug. - I am your grandma, and I will call you by your full name, Archibald Roderick Sebastian Eugene!

Somewhere behind them, Dipper, Wendy and Mabel were having the time of their life, trying to hide their laughter.

- So, wait, his initials literally make him an... - Grandma! Make them stop! They-they are laughing at me! - Nonsense! Those young folks told me all your fans would love to see me talk about you. So I've send them some photos via the eclectic mail!

The blonde man looked to the side at Wendy and Dipper's faces. Their wide smiles told him everything, and in the act of ultimate desperation, he gently shook his head, silently mouthing his plea. He then looked at Mabel's, but hers was filled with spite.

In response, Mabel simply pressed a button.

The enormous screen behind them lit up, showing an adorable newborn blonde boy in diaper, giggling at the baby rattle.

Several more followed, showing his equally naked body in progressively embarrassing positions.

The screen changed, and the same boy was now three-years old, wearing a strict haircut as well as a bowtie. And the worst part was, he looked happy.

The Prankster Prancer fell to his knees, as tears began rolling from his eyes, which his grandma quickly dried with her handkerchief.

- Oh, yes, I do tear up a little at this one too. Oh, but the next one makes me so proud!

Prancer's eyes widen, if possibly even more, and throwing away all the pretence, he rushed to Wendy and Dipper and began begging them for mercy. But it was for nothing. He knew they have seen the photo already.

And with another press of a button, a seven-year old Prancer was shown, wearing a blue cardigan, sitting in an armchair with a big book in his hands, smiling at the camera, proudly showing his braces.

The scanned photo displayed a title, written in crayon over it.

"I love school!"

Flocks of birds flew into the air from the nearby trees in response to the shriek that reverberated the air, full of remorse, despair, and unmistakably, defeat.

- Nooooo!

The Prancer hit the ground with his fists, for which he was quickly reprimanded by his grandma ("You're going to make them dirty!"), while Wendy and Dipper high-fived each other, before giving Mabel a warm hug.

=============

- So I guess that will teach him? - Dipper asked Wendy as the two lay on the sofa, flicking through the channels again. - Pfh. I wish it did. - Wendy reached for her phone and showed Dipper a familiar blonde man waving his arms uncontrollably. - "What's up Prankster Pros? It's ya boy, and I've got this sweet book deal full of my MOST EMBARASSING photos! Look at that baby bottom! Only for $99.99..." - Geez, I guess they never learn. - Nope. But at least he's not here...

For a while the room dimmed every few seconds, as Wendy searched for anything interesting, but something else was on Dipper's mind.

- So... about those Cuddle Buddies...

The remote fell out of Wendy's hand.

- Uh, yeah, so, I just...

She shied away and mumbled her answer, until she saw a polite smile on Dipper's face.

- So, like, remember ever since you wanted to win that Duck Panda for me? I... kinda got into them, you know. Not like, obsessively collecting them, but... you know. - Yeah, I do. For cuddling.

The two looked at each other and exchanged the same, warm smiles.

- So which generation you like the most? - Well, gen 2 obviously - she rolled her eyes - What? Five is the best. - The best as sucking, perhaps. - Come on, they had changed the lead designer and everything, but they're still Cuddle Buddies...

For quite a while, the channel stayed on, as neither of them bother to change it. And when the night fell on, Wendy and Dipper realised that they might have discovered something new to talk about.

[ot3-watch]

Episode 4: The Snow Job

Will I ever forgive the network for fucking up and ruining the episode order? No. No I will not.

NO, PEOPLE. DESPITE WHAT THE FUCKERY WOULD HAVE YOU BELIEVE, THE SNOW JOB IS NOT EPISODE 9

I never understood how people could just… take someone’s house away.

YES FUCK HIM UP

PUNCH HIS LIGHTS OUT HE ASSHOLE

Episode 2 of “I will never understand money”

WHY IS THERE ANOTHER SAM REFERENCE/?? AND WITH THE FUCKING FLASHBACK TOO I CAN’T

“I had fortune cookies for breakfast” PARKER WHY

“It’s not cereal, it’s a fortune cookie” and yet.. YOU STILL HAD THEM FOR BREAKFAST

HOw… Also… How did she happen to read a fortune that was going to be perfectly applicable? They don’t… they don’t actually work? Right? Fortune cookies are bogus right? Because I’m having chinese for dinner and i need to know what to expect

Ah yes, the start of Nate being too fucked up to function.

They never address his alcoholism well-- either they forget the con to focus on it or they ignore it because he does good work. I hate it

PEOPLE ARE THE WORST!! RETZING IS THE WORST

Why luge? Of all the snow related sports???

I love Eliot being a Lurker and Lurking. He’s so good at it.

These poor ACTUAL lugers. Having their accomplishments overwritten. Aww

Could you imagine if you’re looking at a news article about your recent win and all of a sudden it isn’t your face in the picture anymore? Seriously, that’s gotta hurt.

I remember just being so bored for most of this episode. Like,random parts were great but others…

ELIOT iS SUCH A GOOD GRIFTER

Parker is just… oh my god. “Help… help… -_-”

The random toblerone… were they sponsored? I feel like they were sponsored…

#obvious product placement

All the orange in that house is insane

Like, my mom is OBSESSED with orange but this is… eurgh.

“That’s what made this company what it is today” NO… CHEATING AND ASSHOLERY MADE IT WHAT IT IS FUCK YOU

“It’s coming from inside the house” ah. Horror movies. Fun

Sophie’s accent is sounding very first episode Nigerian… just saying

I think this was one of the episodes that made me… meh about Parker.

NO SERIOUSLY THE ACCENT THING

I CAN’T GET PAST IT

Ah, don’t you love it when US law is so fucked up that people can openly admit to taking advantage of people in trouble and the law is just like “nice carpe dieming there! Here, have a tax break”

Honestly fuck them

“It’s all legal” YEAH BUT IT AIN’T MORAL FUCK YOU

F U C K T H E M

Ah, Nate fucking them over because he’s a DRUNK ASSHOLE

I’m not saying that Nate wanting to help more people is a bad thing but like, could he not have done that without fucking everyone over?

One of my favorite running gags is the random con names that getprogressively more and more ridiculous. ANd then only hearing enough about it to bring up MORE Questions it’s *chef kiss* perfect.

I feel like Nate was just mad he didn’t have a role to play in the con so he had to change it so he could play a character.

Why does he look like fred from scooby doo

SO not only are we getting commentary on the real estate market, but we’re also getting commentary on the health insurance industry.

Ah yes, drink while driving. That’s smart.

Ah yes, Assault by a law enforcement official. That’s smart

“Organ failure, death, death like symptoms”

I LOVE HARDISON HE’S SO SMART

I love it when Eliot says smart things and everyone looks at him like *little kid voice “wait a second…. Who ARE you?”

Eliot in scrubs is very hot.

“Death scenes can be demanding… think of a really sad thing that happened in your life like, oh, i don’t know, when your father died.” HAHAHAHAHAHA

This was one of the episodes that made me not love Parker

Eliot beating Hardison at rock paper scissors is another one of my favorite running gags

“Wow, you can tell. Dead eyes. As if there’s no soul”

See, sophie? Parker’s PERFECT casting.

The OT3 already being perfect.

Eliot just picking Parker up is amazing.

Nate is just the worst I hate him

“I ain’t your daddy”

NO BUT YOU COULD BE MINE

Me? Being a slut for Eliot? Whaaaattt??

NATE IS JUST THE WORST I HATE HIM

THIS IS WHAT HE IS LIKE DRUNK CAN WE JUST STOP PRETENDING IT’S EVER OKAY

I hate when TV shows try to pass alcoholism off as a character flaw but then forget they need to back that up so they can’t let them rehabilitate fully ever because then you have a character that’s missing his fatal flaw.

Like no, fuck that. Five them a real character flaw

And not a flaw that’s not really a flaw that you’re supposed to like them even more because of. AN ACTUAL FUCKING FLAW pLEASE

You can tell it’s Parker that walks into the bank office. Even before the flashback.

Would that work? Signing away controlling interest in the company? Would that really fuck everything over? I feel like things are much more complicated than that.

This seems so complicated and one of those solutions that you need a financial degree in order to understand so I kind of really do not like it. DO I not like it because it makes me feel stupid? Maybe? But it also seems like it shouldn’t work?

It’s one of those “That sounds fake but I don’t know enough about this to disprove it” situations.

Final thoughts: 6/10. Points for Eliot being Eliot and the OT3 being v awesome. ALSO I JUST REALIZED I DIDN’T COMMENT ON PARKER JUMPING OUT OF THE WINDOW FOR ELIOT TO CATCH HER WHICH IS A TRAVESTY SO HERE I AM. COMMENTING. Points off for Nate being the WORST. Points off for a shitty handling of alcoholism. Points off for me not understanding the ending. Extra points for a v cute client family. Extra points for Hardison being v competent. Points off because this is my blog and I don’t have to answer to you and I just found this episode meh okay?

Sam count: 3/4 BLEH

IYS count: 2/4 GOOD

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Won’t You Stay (Part 1)

Summary: The reader is almost ready to start filming her movie, The Dark Woods, with her dad but is nervous but how it will all turn out. She’s feeling better by the first day of filming but when her other lead actor quits, she needs to find a new one and fast...

Masterlist

Pairing: Jensen x Director!reader

Word Count: 2,900ish

Warnings: language, car accidents

A/N: Please enjoy the first of many parts!

______

“Alright, so we’re going to have Ethan run down this hallway here, turn, tight in over his shoulder and push past to go down the way he came to catch sight of the baddie chasing him,” said Mark, your director of photography. You pursed your lips and hummed, walking through the warehouse location, your dad watching off to the side.

“Reverse it,” you said. “I want the supposed baddie’s back, in the first hallway, chasing my dad. Tight in over his shoulder, push past that guy and then get onto my dad. It’s supposed to be scary. I want the chase and tension.”

“You got it boss,” said Mark.

“You sure that’s what you want to do, kiddo?” asked your dad, Ethan. You glanced over your shoulder and raised an eyebrow.

“I want a ‘heart stops beating in the chest’ moment,” you said. “Fear. Prey being hunted.”

“But my character turns out to be the predator in this case,” he said, leaning against the wall.

“Exactly. The audience won’t know until it’s too late. Heart stopping, edge of the seat opening scene. I want them to feel for Hale and then have him flip the tables on them and then flip ‘em right back. I want the hallway shot one long continuous shot too. We might need to work on it some and get in a few rehearsals but it’s what I want,” you said.

“Sounds good. Opening scenes can really make a movie. I can’t wait to start filming next week,” said Mark with a grin. “This is going to get nominated for an Oscar or some shit.”

“I’ll settle for not bombing at the box office,” you said, pulling out your phone to check the time. “It’s starting to get late. I’m good for the day if you guys are.”

“Good with me. I’ll see you bright and early on Monday, Y/N,” said Mark. You gave him a wave as he headed out, your dad poking his head down the hallway again as you walked around one last time.

“I sound like a total bitch, don’t I, demanding what I want to do,” you said. He whipped his head around and frowned.

“No sweetie, not at all. Director ain’t an easy gig. You’re gonna have to know what you want all the time and some days, you’ll have to be a hardass about it. But you’re doing very good with all of your prep work. No one knows this story like you do,” he said.

“Why did I agree to do this,” you groaned, rubbing your hands over your face. “I wrote the damn book. Why did I say I’d direct it too? Direct my own father?”

“Because you love this story. I love this story. Mom and Anthony and Ella love it. You wanted it to get the treatment it deserves. You’re gonna do great,” he said.

“Remind me of this when I’m two weeks into filming and I end up flipping out,” you said. He gave you a big squeezing hug, spinning you around in circles. “Dad.”

“Mhm, sweetie,” he said. “You’re coming over for dinner to relax. No excuses.”

“I’ll take the free food,” you said, resting your head on his shoulder as you walked out towards where the car was parked. “How’d you not be terrified all the time?”

“Terrified of what?” he asked.

“You had me when you were 18. I was nine by the time you were my age. I can’t even keep a houseplant alive and now I’m making a multi million dollar movie and I feel like I’m gonna explode already. I can’t imagine being responsible for a kid,” you said.

“I was terrified to be honest. Grandma and grandpa helped us a lot. The whole family did. Becoming a rising Hollywood star was nothing compared to single dad though. You used to be the center of attention when my buddies would come over. You remember that?” he asked.

“I was your responsibility though,” you said.

“And I don’t regret having you for a second,” he said, kissing the top of your head. “How cool is it that we get to work together? This is going to be great, sweetie. I’ll try to help the hard days not be so hard too, okay?”

“Okay. I grew up on film sets. Hopefully this doesn’t go as bad as I think it will.”

“What do you mean he’s out? He can’t be out. He’s the other fucking lead!” you shouted into your phone late Monday morning. Your dad slurped up his noodles from his lunch at the craft services tent, most everyone going quiet and looking at you. You ditched your plate and went outside to the lot, running your hand over your face. “Where is Gil Nicholas going? He signed-”

“Dropped out. His contract allowed him to do that up until filming started which technically wasn’t until tomorrow so he’s able to do it,” said the casting director on the other end.

“What…” you said, taking a deep breath. 

“Relax, Y/L/N. I’ve known your dad since he was a bright eyed 18 year old kid. I ain’t calling with this kind of news without having a backup plan. There’s this guy out there, Jensen Ackles. He’s an up and comer. He was on a sci-fi horror network show that got the axe after a few seasons. The kid’s good though. Better than Gil for sure. He doesn’t have the name recognition that Nicholas did and this would be his biggest production ever but the kid is used to the horror genre,” he said.

“It’s not a horror movie,” you grumbled. “I’ve never heard of this guy. How old is he?”

“Twenty eight. Been in the business for about ten years. He’s got a good strong look to him. Athletic but soft,” he said. “He’s good looking. The face alone would get some people out to see the film. Get his shirt off and stick that in the trailer, you’ll get people to come see this movie no problem.”

“I wrote the damn book in my childhood bedroom. I published it and sold the movie deal on my own. If I need to get someone naked to sell this story, it doesn’t deserve to be on the big screen,” you said.

“Okay...relax before you blow a gasket. I got some other guys that could play Lyle. We could put together an emergency casting session this evening, see about getting a guy in for the morning?” he asked.

“Alright. Do the session. My dad’s off the rest of the day so see if he’s available for chemistry reads,” you said. “Please.”

“Can do, Y/N. The studio isn’t going to let one of the most popular books of the past few years crash and burn. It’s a goldmine waiting to happen for them. We’ll find the right guy to play Lyle. I promise.”

“Hey,” you said, jogging into the casting studio around 8 that night, catching your dad reading over a page of the script. “How was Ella’s volleyball game?”

“They won. She spiked the ball and hit some poor girl in the face though. She was crying the last time I saw her,” said your dad.

“I’ll call her after this,” you said, closing your eyes. “How’d the chemistry reads go?” 

“Just got that Ackles kid left to do. I’ll be honest. It ain’t been pretty in there. Two hot shots that ain’t worth shit, one that sounds horrible and another that can’t even pronounce full words,” he said.

“Lovely,” you said. “Where’s the Ackles guy then? I thought you guys were expecting to be wrapped up by now.”

“Late. Not the best sign,” he said. You squeezed your eyes shut and tilted your head back. “Go take a walk around the building, kiddo. I’ll talk to casting, see if there’s other possibilities. Worst case, we rework schedules, film anything without a lead while they find one.”

“This is a disaster and it’s only the first day,” you said.

“Y/N. Go on, take a breather,” said your dad. You sighed but went back outside, throwing your head back as you started to walk the block for a few minutes.

A whistle from a dim alley made you roll your eyes as you walked past. 

“Hey, princess. I was talking to you,” said the man.

“Fuck off. Not in the mood,” you said. Next thing you knew a hand was on your shoulder and you were being shoved back against a brick building. 

“Well that’s not very nice,” said the guy.

“Hey!” barked another voice. You both turned your heads to spot a younger guy already looking a little beat up walking down the sidewalk. “Pick on somebody your own size.”

“You want another ass kicking tonight? Looks like you already lost,” said the guy. He turned his attention to the other man but you were still stuck in a dead end alley with him. You tried to brush past him but the guy caught your arm, the younger one staring him down. “Just having a fight with my girlfriend, buddy.”

“I’m not your girlfriend, fuckface,” you said, stomping on his foot and turning around, kicking him in the nuts. He dropped your arm and you ran past to the young guy, standing behind him for a moment.

“Get out of here. Now,” he said. You took off back down the block to the casting studio, ducking into the lobby. Five minutes later you were pacing the halls, trying to get through on the phone to the police when the young guy appeared sporting a freshly bruised cheek. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks. You? I’m trying to get through to the police but they put me on hold,” you said. He gave you a smile and shook his head.

“I’m fine. Rough night is all,” he said as he wiped some dirt off his cheek. He was handsome and looked strong but you could tell he wasn’t the fighting type.

“Busy saving other damsels?” you joked.

“The car in front of me tonight got in an accident. Car rolled and I helped get the driver out. Guy went into diabetic coma for a hot second so that was fun hanging with him until the ambulance got there and then that just happened. Obviously not my night. I’m supposed to be having the biggest audition of my life two hours ago here. Probably a sign it’s not meant to be,” he said.

“Well there’s at least two people out there grateful for you popping up tonight. Maybe your audition will go well,” you said, smiling to yourself. 

“I doubt it,” he said. “I should just go home. They probably won’t even let me anymore.”

“I know some people that work here,” you said, his ears perking up. “Give me your name. I’ll make sure you get your audition.”

“Really? Uh, thanks. I’m Jensen Ackles. I’m supposed to be auditioning for Lyle Sullivan on The Dark Woods movie,” he said.

You stared at him, Jensen giving you a smile. 

“You okay? If you don’t know anyone on that that’s cool, really,” he said. You nodded and said you’d take care of it. You went down another hall and into a large audition room where your dad was talking with the casting director while on the phone with one of his cop friends.

“Hey. Ackles is here,” you said.

“Kid’s two hours late,” said the casting director.

“We’re desperate, not that desperate,” said your dad. “Trust me. If he can’t even show up for an audition on time-”

“He’s the guy that just got that other one to leave me alone on the street,” you said. Your dad immediately put down his phone and looked at you. “He says he helped a guy who was in a car accident earlier and that’s why he’s late. He looks it. I want to give him a chance.”

“Alright. He can have a chance,” said your dad.

“Alright. Ethan, scene 22 again. Y/N, want to watch in here or on the monitor?” asked the director.

“Monitor. I’ll pop back in with my decision,” you said. You went in the back room and sat down, a TV on a small table in front of you. You turned it on and reached across the table, finding one of the pads of paper and pens that were normally there. You jotted down a few things to yourself.

He had the look of Lyle which was a huge plus for you. Short cute brown hair in spiky strands. The signature green eyes. The slight scruff on his cheeks.

He popped in front of the camera, still and quiet as he watched a few people move about. He was tall and had strong arms but there was something innocent and kind about him you couldn’t place. You smiled. Lyle had to be both the soft sweet boy and the tear your throat out with his teeth type. This guy seemed like he could pull that off potentially.

You sat back and watched your dad appear on the screen, shaking hands with Jensen briefly before they started.

Twenty minutes later you leaned back in your seat and stood up. Jensen was good. Nervous around your dad and shy but that was okay. During the read, all of that fell away. He was Lyle Sullivan, far better than Gil had ever played him. Jensen seemed to know just how to play Lyle’s relationship with Hale and it made you wonder if he’d ever read the book.

You popped into the casting room, Jensen no longer in there, your dad and a few other people discussing what they’d seen.

“We know what we think. What about our director?” asked your dad as he crossed his arms.

“I want him. I want him real bad,” you said. “He was good.”

“Alright. I think we’re all at a consensus then,” said the casting director with a smile. “We need him in tomorrow morning to start filming though. We need to work a temporary contract out tonight and-”

“Give him Gil’s contract, minus the ability to pull out,” you said. “It’s simple.”

“The studio ain’t paying a small screen, barely has a fan base, guy a couple million dollars,” he said.

“The Dark Woods is a wildly popular book with a built in fan base. Pay the man his money. What’s the big deal,” you said.

“I’m telling you right now, they won’t pay the kid three million,” he said. “He isn’t worth it in their eyes. Your dad is an established, multi-franchise, lead for both TV and movies. There is a reason your father is being paid very well. You earn that in this business, kid.”

“I negotiated my salary and a movie deal, on my own. Don’t call me a kid. I am twenty seven years old and do not tell me I don’t know what I’m doing. Use Gil’s contract and get him signed before he leaves the building,” you said. The casting director stared at you before he got up and left the room. Your dad gave you a look that you rolled your eyes at. “What?”

“You’re gonna be just fine as a director, kiddo.”

“Hey,” you said around midnight when you finally had all of the paperwork settled. Jensen was walking out into the main hall with his agent by his side. “How’d it go?”

“I got it!” he said, all smiles, his agent saying a quick goodnight to him. “Thank you so much for putting in a good word. I can’t believe they even let me audition let alone gave me the role.”

“Well, I just got you the audition. You got the job on your own,” you said.

“Still. I owe you a drink,” he said. He had big bright green eyes, still a bit shy but you could tell his excitement was giving him some confidence.

“I have work very, very early in the morning,” you said with a laugh, his face falling for a split second. “But I will definitely take a raincheck for Saturday night?”

“Alright. Sounds good to me,” he said as he smiled. You swapped phones for a moment, Jensen practically bouncing with excitement.

“You excited about this job, huh?” you asked as you put your phone away.

“You ever hear of The Dark Woods book? I love it. It’s so good. I was super excited to hear they were making it a movie and now I get to play Lyle freaking Sullivan? If you haven’t read it, you got to,” he said. “It’s awesome.”

“I’ll have to take a look sometime,” you said. “I’ll text you sometime for Saturday then?”

“Yeah. This is turning out to be the best day ever,” he said with a smirk. “I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

_______

A/N: Read Part 2 here!

[industrial-horror]

TRILOGY OF TERROR

On March 4, 1975, a strange announcement appeared on television sets across America. Some ABC affiliate stations had decided not to air a made-for-TV film called “Trilogy of Terror” in its scheduled timeslot. The reason? It was simply too upsetting to be shown when it was supposed to air – they were moving it to a slot three hours later that night.

Other stations aired the movie but made sure to offer a disclaimer that it might be upsetting for young viewers, something that was just not done in those days. It seemed hard to believe that a modestly-budgeted network “Movie of the Week” could upset station managers so much that they would become concerned for their viewer’s welfare, especially since two-thirds of the 90-minute movie was basically forgettable. The anthology film starred Karen Black – who’d recently earned an Oscar nomination for “Five Easy Pieces” – in multiple roles. In the first two parts, she played a seductive teacher and a vengeful twin sister but made little impression on viewers.

The third part, “Amelia,” was different, though. Black played a character hoping to impress her anthropologist boyfriend by giving him a gift of an African “Zuni fetish doll,” a frightening looking wooden warrior with a spear. Alone in her apartment, Black’s character finds that the doll is not what it appears to be. He literally comes to life and tries to kill her. As he stabs and slashes her feet, chases her, and hides behind furniture, the audience is unsure whether Black will defeat her terrifying attacker, lose her sanity – or both.

In the decades since the television movie’s first airing, “Amelia” had become an eerie part of the public consciousness. Viewers who saw it in 1975 – or have watched it since – are unable to forget Black’s battle with the little terror. Before she passed away in 2013, Black said that more fans approached her to talk about her fight with the killer doll than all her other roles combined.

Author Richard Matheson was one of the writers of “Trilogy of Terror.” He had come up with the idea for “Amelia” over a decade earlier when he was working on the “The Twilight Zone.” He had pitched a script called “Devil Doll” to series creator Rod Serling, but the story turned out to be too grim for 1960s broadcast standards. Matheson ended up tweaking the idea slightly and using it for “The Invaders,” which starred Agnes Moorehead, as a woman who is terrorized by a group of tiny sinister aliens.

Years later, Matheson often collaborated with director Dan Curtis – who did the original “The Night Stalker” with Darren McGavin – and they came up with the idea for “Trilogy of Terror” and pitched it to ABC. Writer William F. Nolan scripted the first two segments, based on Matheson stories, and Matheson himself scripted “Amelia,” which was basically the story from the abandoned “Twilight Zone” idea.

Matheson figured that “Amelia” would be the standout segment – and he was right. Over the years, when he went in for meetings at studios, he was often approached by executives who confessed to wetting themselves while watching the film as a child.

The studio and Dan Curtis thought otherwise, though. They felt the stunt casting of Karen Black in all three stories – a total of four roles with the twin’s in the second episode – would be the real hook. Initially, Black was not interested in the part. She only agreed to star when her manager was able to secure a role for her then-husband, Robert Burton.

The filming was not without its problems. The production required the use of three puppets, which were not easy to operate. In interviews, Black said that the crew sometimes had to simply throw the doll at her so that it looked like it was moving. Many times, its head of arms fell off when it was supposed to be running. Working with the little terror was often hilarious, not horrifying, she admitted.

But the viewers didn’t see any of the funny stuff. There was nothing to laugh about in “Amelia.” The final part of the trilogy is mostly silent, with Black’s character being browbeaten by her overbearing mother over the telephone and then trying to calm herself with a shower. Once that doll comes to life, she uses everything she can – an ice pick, a suitcase, even an oven – to fight whatever evil has caused it to attack her. In the closing moments, it’s clear that the doll is not yet finished claiming victims.

Oops, spoiler alert.

“Trilogy of Terror” eventually made it to the home video market in the early 1980s, but before that, kids like me had to wait for it to be repeated on ABC. Luckily, they often brought it back so that we could experience the horror over and over again. It would be the fleeting recollections of how we all had to watch it in the late 1970s that caused the movie to develop a cult following. Even though the Zuni doll came back in 1996 for a sequel, it’s the original film that we all know and love.

But not everyone was so fond of it. Karen Black often complained about the fact that people remembered “Trilogy of Terror” at the expense of the rest of her career. “I wish they said, ‘That wonderful movie you did for Robert Altman,’ but they don’t,” she told an interviewer, “They say, ‘That little doll.’”