#they actively keep their history and culture alive and well but many things were lost

[patriamrealm]

This, this silly little thought is what caused the brainworm from the last post. Just Ingo absently solving century long mysteries. One that Emmet has been struggling to solve since he was a kid.

Bonus: Emmet, and Drayden are terrible at telling Ingo basic things about their family. It’s very frustrating for Ingo. Admittedly they don’t tell him in the hopes that enough familiar stimuli will help with him remembering. It does not.

Despite their worries, being told things does not cause sudden memory flashes nor headaches even if he does remember something. Bit of misunderstanding of his amnesia. Really he’d much prefer them stop treating him like glass and just tell him things.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Sorry, non-welsh here: But why is it that so many Welsh people aren't taught about their culture? It just seems from an outsiders perspective that a lot of effort is being taken by Welsh people to keep the language and culture alive and going, so it's slightly surprising that this still happens. And all the best for the south welsh anon, good luck with your studies^^

Yeah, it's the colonialism. With a hefty side helping of imperialism.

England is in charge. They actively do not want us to know - England is heavily, heavily invested in the myth of "all British people are the same", because that's what stops us leaving, and allows them to keep perpetuating the incredibly exploitative national situation we're in. Here's a fun example: when I was sixteen and doing my GCSEs, in my English Lit class I finally got to study a Welsh poet. Just one. He was an Anglo-Welsh writer, of course, they wouldn't have shown us anything in the Welsh language (fairly, the subject is English after all).

But we got to study him because, according to the British syllabus for English Lit, teachers were allowed to pick three foreign poets to show to the class, to compare with British writers.

And Welsh writers were considered foreign.

...

Yeah, let that sink in. We were Welsh children, in Wales, and our nationally created syllabus told us we were foreign.

But it's just as well it did, really - because otherwise, there would have been no scope to teach us whatsoever.

The same thing happened with the history syllabus. Dedicated teachers taught us a little bit of Welsh history, but did so in the part of the syllabus that was essentially the 'wild card', where they could pick an area they wanted. Naturally, the only bit we therefore learned was the fall of the kings of Gwynedd, and the annexation of Wales by England.

That in itself was fun. Here's the version of the death of Llywelyn Ein Llyw Olaf according to the official syllabus I was taught:

It's 1282. Llywelyn, the last Prince of Wales (side note, that's also a deliberately misleading translation designed to make it seem like the Welsh rulers weren't as powerful as English kings - in fact the original translation of 'Tywysog' was 'leader'. But it came to be aligned with the English rank of 'prince'. That's a diversion, back to the story -)

So Llywelyn is riding south, to a big political meet-up - England were increasingly trying to seize the country, so they were difficult times. Even more difficult for Llywelyn, actually. He'd recently lost his wife in childbirth, and unusually for a monarch, he'd married her for love. He was grief-stricken, and not making the best decisions, so when the invitation for the meeting with the Marcher Lords came, he took it.

So, he's the reigning Prince of Wales. He travels south. With fourteen armed bodyguards, plus whatever retinue a monarch sees fit to travel with, plus whatever banners and insignia and regalia a monarch takes.

And at Cilmeri, he runs into A Random English Guy And His Squire, who oh my god you guys! Totally does not recognise Llywelyn! At all! I mean how could he, what with him being an English noble with the ear of the king of England, on holiday in Wales, at a time of war, with all these royal banners and such about? It would be so hard to know!

And unfortunately, they all get into a bit of road rage. Totally understandable!

And the Random English Guy And His Squire ends up killing Llywelyn, and his fourteen armed bodyguards, and his retinue, completely accidentally! Whoopsie! So embarrassing you guys!

But he still doesn't know who it is! But he decides that the head will nonetheless be a great present for the King of England! You know, like a souvenir? It's a totally cute idea, even though this is not remotely the culture or fashion to just give the head of a random guy as a present to English kings! So he chops off Llywelyn's head, rinses it in the stream, and takes it back home.

And THEN the King of England sees it and is like OMG YOU'LL NEVER GUESS WHO THAT IS, lollll! Whoops, we feel so bad now, it was all such a misunderstanding u guys, ah well, we can't be held accountable, we aren't the bad guys who murdered a foreign head of state and annexed their country.

(Because they did then annex the country. And they took Llywelyn's heir Owain, and they imprisoned him in a wooden cage in Bristol Castle for the rest of his life as a zoo specimen for English people to gawk at, and to remind the Welsh of our place.

Owain ap Dafydd was eight years old when he entered the cage. He died at fifty.)

To my knowledge, that version of events is no longer being taught; but to put that into perspective, I am only in my thirties. So that was the official historical account during the 2000s. So, you can see how so few of us know any actual history.

Plus, most traditional Welsh culture was only preserved by the Welsh speakers. The rest of us lost it all. So, yeah - colonialism, basically.

[that-spider-witch]

On “Dead” Cultures and Closed Spiritual Practices: Why Colonialism Is Still A Problem.

Let me start this by saying that, as far as my knowledge of Paganism and Polytheism as a whole goes, I’m what the internet witch community calls a “Baby Witch”. I’m stating this out of the gate because I know there will be lots of people, including witches who have more experience on the craft than me, who might decide to ignore what I have to say based on that fact alone, stating that I’m not knowledgeable enough to give my opinion about this.

Here’s the kicker: I’m a ‘baby witch’, yes, but I’m also a twenty-six year old Venezuelan woman. I’m an adult. I’m Latina. I’m a Christian-raised Pagan,but I’m also a Latinoamerican woman over all other things including that. I grew up on this culture, these are my roots. It is because of this background than I’m writing this post today.

Looking through the “Paganism” and “Witchcraft” tags of this website, I’ve seen a few posts throwing indigenous deities and spirits’ names around on lists alongside deties of open cultures. Yes, you can know better by doing your own research and not going by what just a random Tumblr user wrote on one post (as I hope its the case with everyone on this website), but the fact that pagan beginners are still getting fed misinformation is still worrisome to me.

There’s nothing like reading a so-called expert putting Ixchen (Maya), Xolotl (Nahuatl) and Papa Legba (Vodou) on the same damn list as Norse, Hellenic and Kemetic deities and tagging it on the tags aimed at beginners who might not know better to truly ruin your morning. I’m not mentioning user names here: If you know then you know.

To quote @the-illuminated-witch on her very good post about Cultural Appropriation: 

“Cultural appropriation is a huge issue in modern witchcraft. When you have witches using white sage to “smudge” their altars, doing meditations to balance their chakras, and calling on Santa Muerte in spells, all without making any effort to understand the cultural roots of those practices, you have a serious problem.

When trying to understand cultural appropriation in witchcraft, it’s important to understand the difference between open and closed magic systems. An open system is one that is open to exchange with outsiders — both sharing ideas/practices and taking in new ones. In terms of religion, spirituality, and witchcraft, a completely open system has no restrictions on who can practice its teachings. A closed system is one that is isolated from outside influences — usually, there is some kind of restriction on who can practice within these systems.”

A counter-argument I’ve seen towards this when someone wants to appropiate indigenous deities and spirits is to use the “dead culture” argument: Extinct cultures are more eligible for use by modern people of all stirpes. It is a dead culture and dead religion. It would be one thing if some part of the culture or religion was still alive, being used by modern descendants, but the culture died out in its entirety and was replaced, right? They were all killed by colonization, they are ancient history now, right?

Example: “If white people are worshipping Egyptian deities now, then why can’t I worship [Insert Aborigen Deity Here]?”

To which I have two things to say:

Ancient Egypt’s culture was open and imperialistic, meaning they wanted their religion to be spread. This is why Kemetism is not Cultural Appropriation, despite what some misinformed people might tell you. Similar arguments can also be made for the Hellenic and the Norse branches of Paganism, both practiced by people who aren’t Greek/Norse.

Who are you to say which cultures are “dead” and which are not?

Religious practices such as Vodou and Santería certainly aren’t dead, not that it keeps some Tumblr users from adding Erzuli as a “goddess” on their Baby Witch post, something that actual Vodou practitioners have warned against.

Indigenous cultures such as the Maya and the Mapuche aren’t dead, despite what the goverment of their countries might tell you. The Mapuche in particular have a rich culture and not one, but two witchcraft branches (The Machi and the Kalku/Calcu). Both are closed pagan practices that the local Catholic Church has continuously failed to assimilate and erase, though sadly not for lack of trying:

“The missionaries who followed the Spanish conquistadors to America incorrectly interpreted the Mapuche beliefs regarding both wekufes and gualichos. They used the word wekufe as a synonym for ideas of the devil, demons, and other evil or diabolical forces. This has caused misunderstanding of the original symbolism and has changed the idea of wekufe right up to the present day, even amongst the Mapuche people.”

For context, the Wefuke are the Calcu’s equivalent of the Familiar, as well as reportedly having more in common with the Fae than with demons anyway.

This and other indigenous religions are Closed because it is wrong for foreigners to just come and take elements from marginalized groups whom are still fighting to survive and that they weren’t born into. To just approppiate those things would be like spitting in their faces, treating them and their culture like a commodity, a shiny thing, a unique thing to be used like paint to spruce up your life or be special.

I know some of you are allergic to the word “Privilege”, but on this situation there really ain’t a better word to explain it. You weren’t born here, you don’t know what it is like, you are only able to see the struggle from an outsider’s point of view.

If a belief or practice is part of a closed system, outsiders should not take part in it. And with how many practices there are out there which are open for people of all races, there is really no excuse for you to do it.

Why Colonization Is Not “Ancient History”

If you have kept reading all this so far, you are probably wondering “Ok, but what does Colonization has to do with any of this?”

The answer? Everything.

With the general context of culture appropriation out of the way, let me tell you about why the whole “dead culture” argument rubs me the wrong way: Here in Venezuela, we have a goddess called Santa Maria de la Onza, or Maria Lionza for short, whom’s idol statue I have been using to illustrate this little rant. If you happen to know any Spanish, you might recognize the name as a derivative of Santa Maria, aka the Virgin Mary, and you are mostly correct: Her true indigenous name is theorized to have been Yara.

And I say “theorized” because it is a subject of hot debate whether she was really ever called that or not: Her original name, the name by which she was adored and worshipped by our ancestors, might have been forever lost to history.

That’s the legacy of colonization for you: Our cultures were stolen from us, and what they couldn’t erase they instead tried to assimilate. Our ancestors were enslaved, their lands and homes stolen, their artwork and literary works destroyed: The Maya and the Aztec Empire were rich in written works of all kinds, ranging from poetry to history records to medicine, and the Spaniards burned 99% of it, on what is probably one of the most tragic examples of book burning in history and one that people rarely ever talk about. 

People couldn’t even worship their own gods or pass their knowledge of them to their children. That’s why Maria Lionza has such a Spanish Catholic-sounding name, and that’s why we can’t even be sure if Yara was her name or not: The Conquistadors couldn’t steal our goddess from us, so they stole her name instead. Catholics really have a thing with trying to assimilate indigenous goddesses with the Virgin Mary, as they tried to do the same with the Pachamama.

On witchy terms, I’d define Maria Lionza as both a deity and a land spirit: Most internet pages explaining her mention the Sorte mountain as her holy place, but it is more along the lines that she is the mountain. 

You’d think that, with Venezuela and other Latinoamerican countries no longer being colonies, we’d be able to worship our own deities including her, right?

As far as a lot of Catholics seem to think and act, apparently we are not.

The Catholics here like to go out of their way to shame us, to call us “cultists”, to ostracize us, with a general call to “refrain from those pagan beliefs” because they go against the Catholic principles. Yes, the goddess with the Catholic-sounding name, a name she happens to share with a Catholic deity, apparently goes “against Catholic principles”. You really can’t make this shit up. (Linked article is in Spanish)

This is just an act of colonization out of many, of not wanting to stop until the culture they want to destroy is gone. Don’t believe for a second that this is really their God’s will or anything like that, they are just trying to finish what years of enslavement and murder couldn’t. They might not be actively killing us anymore, but they still want us dead.

So no, colonization is not some thing that has long passed and now only exist on history textbooks: It is still happening to this day. It is by treating it as old history that they can keep doing it, and it is by pushing the narrative that our indigenous cultures are “dead cultures” that they try to erase our heritage.

Because we are not dead. We are still here, we are alive, we have survived and we’ll keep on surviving, and our gods and goddesses are not yours to take.

¡Chao! 🐈

[tcm]

Reframing Films of the Past: An Interview with TCM Writers

All month long in March, TCM will be taking a look at a number of beloved classic films that have stood the test of time, but when viewed by contemporary standards, certain aspects of these films are troubling and problematic. During TCM’s Reframed: Classics in the Rearview Mirror programming, all five TCM hosts will appear on the network to discuss these issues, their historical and cultural context and how we can keep the legacy of great films alive for future generations.

Also joining in on this conversation are four TCM writers who were open enough to share their thoughts on their love of classic movies and watching troubling images of the past. Special thanks to Theresa Brown, Constance Cherise, Susan King and Kim Luperi for taking part in this conversation. Continue the conversation over on TCM’s Twitter.

What do you say to people who don’t like classics because they’re racist and sexist? 

KL: There are positive representations in classic Hollywood that I think would blow some peoples’ minds. I always love introducing people to new titles that challenge expectations. 

That said, anyone who broadly slaps a sexist or racist label on a large part of the medium’s history does a disservice to cinema and themselves. That mindset keeps them ignorant not only of some excellent movies and groundbreaking innovation but history itself. 

I think people need to remember that movies are a product of their time and they can reflect the society they were made into a variety of degrees - good, bad, politically, culturally, socially. That’s not to excuse racism or sexism; it needs to be recognized and called out as such for us to contend with it today. But it’s important for people who say they don’t like classics for those reasons to understand the historical context. In particular, we need to acknowledge that society has evolved - and what was deemed socially acceptable at times has, too, even if sexism and racism are always wrong - and we are applying a modern lens to these films that come with the benefit of decades worth of activism, growth and education.

SK: I totally agree K.L. For years I have been encouraging people to watch vintage movies who keep proclaiming they don’t like black-and-white films or silent films. For every Birth of a Nation (1915) there are beautiful dramas, wonderful comedies and delicious mysteries and film noirs. 

 These films that have racist and sexist elements shouldn’t be collectively swept under the rug, because as K.L. stated they shine a light on what society was like – both good and bad. 

CC: First off, fellow writers may I say, I think your work is amazing. I'm continually learning from the talent that is here, and I am humbled to be a part of this particular company. Similar to the prior answers, for every racist/sexist film the opposite exists. Personally, classic musicals attracted me due to their visual assault, creativity and their unmistakable triple-threat performances. While we cannot ignore racist stereotypes and sexism, there are films that simply are "fantasies of art." There is also a review of evolution. In 20 years, what we now deem as acceptable behavior/conversation will be thought of as outdated and will also require being put into "historical context."  What we collectively said/thought/did 20 years ago, we are currently either re-adjusting or reckoning with now, and that is a truth of life that will never change. We will always evolve.

TB: I would say to them they should consider the times the movie was made in. It was a whole different mindset back then. 

Are there movies that you love but are hesitant to recommend to others because of problematic elements in them? If so, which movies? 

TB: Yes, there are movies I’m hesitant to recommend. The big one, off the top of my head, would be Gone With the Wind (1939). The whole slavery thing is a bit of a sticky wicket for people, especially Black folks. Me, I love the movie. It is truly a monumental feat of filmmaking for 1939. I’m not saying I’m happy with the depiction of African Americans in that film. I recognize the issues. But when I look at a classic film, I suppose I find I have to compartmentalize things. I tend to gravitate on the humanity of a character I can relate to. 

KL: Synthetic Sin (1929), a long thought lost film, was found in the 2010s, and I saw it at Cinecon a few years ago. As a Colleen Moore fan, I thoroughly enjoyed most of it, but it contains a scene of her performing in blackface that doesn’t add anything to the plot. That decision brings the movie down in my memory, which is why I have trouble recommending it.

Also Smarty (1934), starring Warren William and Joan Blondell, is another movie I don’t recommend because it’s basically about spousal abuse played for comedy, and it did not age well for that reason.

SK: Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961): Audrey Hepburn is my favorite actress and I love her Oscar-nominated performance as Holly. I adore Orangy as Cat, as well as George Peppard and Buddy Ebsen, who is wonderfully endearing. And of course, “Moon River” makes me cry whenever I hear it. But then I cringe and am practically nauseous every time Mickey Rooney pops up on screen with his disgusting stereotypical performance as Holly’s Japanese landlord Mr. Yunioshi. What was director Blake Edwards thinking casting him in this part? Perhaps because he’s such a caricature no Japanese actor wanted to play him, so he cast Rooney with whom he had worked within the 1950s. 

CC: I cannot necessarily state that I am in "love," but, a film that comes to mind would be Anna and the King of Siam (1946). It is an absolutely beautiful visual film. However, Rex Harrison as King Mongkut requires some explanation. 

Holiday Inn (1942), and the Abraham number...why??? Might I also add, there were many jaw-dropping, racist cartoons.

How did you learn to deal with the negative images of the past? 

KL: I often look at it as a learning experience. Negative images can provoke much-needed conversation (internally or with others) and for me, they often prompt my education in an area that I wasn’t well versed in. For instance, blackface is featured in some classic films, and its history is something I never knew much about. That said, seeing its use in movies prompted me to do some research, which led me first to TCM’s short documentary about blackface and Hollywood. I love how TCM strives to provide context and seeks to educate viewers on uncomfortable, contentious subjects so we can appreciate classic films while still acknowledging and understanding the history and the harmful stereotypes some perpetuated.

SK: It’s also been a learning experience for me. Though I started watching movies as a little girl in the late 1950s, thanks to TCM and Warner Archive I realized that a lot of films were taken out of circulation because of racist elements. TCM has not only screened a lot of these films but they have accompanied the movies with conversations exploring the stereotypes in the films.  

CC: As a Black woman, negative images of the past continue to be a lesson on how Blacks, as well as other minorities, were seen (and in some cases still are seen) through an accepted mainstream American lens. On one hand, it's true, during the depiction of these films the majority of Black Americans were truly relegated to servant roles, so it stands to reason that depictions of Black America would be within the same vein. What is triggering to me, are demeaning roles, and the constant exaggeration of the slow-minded stereotype, blackface. When you look at the glass ceiling that minority performers faced from those in power, the need for suppression and domination is transparent because art can be a powerful agent of change. I dealt with the negative images of the past by knowing and understanding that the depiction being given to me was someone else's narrative, of who they thought I was, not who I actually am.

TB: I’m not sure HOW I learned to deal with negative images. Again, I think it might go back to me compartmentalizing.

I don’t know if this is right or wrong…but I’ve always found myself identifying with the leads and their struggles. As a human being, I can certainly identify with losing a romantic partner, money troubles, losing a job…no matter the ethnicity.

In what ways have we evolved from the movies of the classic era?

KL: I think we are more socially and culturally conscious now when it comes to stories, diversity and representation on screen and behind the scenes, which is a step forward. That said, while there's been growth, there's still much work to be done.

SK: I think this year’s crop of awards contenders show how things have evolved with Da 5 Bloods, Soul, One Night in Miami, Minari, Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, The United States Vs. Billie Holiday, Judas and the Black Messiah and MLK/FBI. 

But we still have a long way to go. I’d love to see more Native American representation in feature films; more Asian-American and Latino stories. 

CC: There are minority artists, writers, producers, directors, actors with the increasing capacity to create through their own authentic voice, thereby affecting the world, and a measurable amount of them are women! Generally speaking, filmmakers (usually male) have held the voice of the minority narrative as well as the female narrative. I agree with both writers above in the thought that it is progress, and I also agree, more stories of diversified races are needed. 

TB: One important way we've evolved from the movies made in the classic era by being more inclusive in casting. 

Are there any deal-breakers for you when watching a movie, regardless of the era, that make it hard to watch? 

KL: Physical violence in romantic relationships that's played as comedy is pretty much a dealbreaker for me. I mentioned above that I don't recommend Smarty (1934) to people, because when I finally watched it recently, it. was. tough. The way their abuse was painted as part of their relationship just didn’t sit well with me.

SK: Extreme racist elements and just as KL states physical violence. 

Regarding extreme racist elements, D.W. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation (1915) is just too horrific to watch. I was sickened when I saw it when I was in grad school at USC 44 years ago and it’s only gotten worse. And then there’s also Wonder Bar (1934), the pre-code Al Jolson movie that features the Busby Berkeley black minstrel number “Goin’ to Heaven on a Mule.” Disgusting.

I also agree with KL about physical violence in comedies and even dramas. I recently revisited Private Lives (1931) with Norma Shearer and Robert Montgomery based on Noel Coward’s hit play. I have fond memories of seeing Maggie Smith in person in the play when I was 20 in the play and less than fond memories of watching Joan Collins destroying Coward’s bon mots.  

But watching the movie again, you realized just how physically violent Amanda and Elyot’s relationship is-they are always talking about committing physical violence-”we were like two violent acids bubbling about in a nasty little matrimonial battle”; “certain women should be struck regularly, like gongs”-or constantly screaming and throwing things.  

There is nothing funny or romantic about this.

KL: I try to put Birth of a Nation out of my mind, but S.K. did remind me of it again, and movies featuring extreme racism at their core like that are also dealbreakers; I totally agree with her assessment. I understand the technological achievements, but I think in the long run, especially in how it helped revive the KKK, the social harm that film brought about outdoes its cinematic innovations.

CC: Like S.K., Wonder Bar immediately came to mind. Excessive acts of violence, such as in the film Natural Born Killers (1994). I walked out of the theatre while the film was still playing. I expected violence, but the gratuitousness was just too much for me. I also have an issue with physical abuse, towards women and children. This is not to say I would not feel the same way about a man. However, when males are involved, it tends to be a fight, an exchange of physical energy, generally speaking, when we see physical abuse it is perpetuated towards women and children.

TB: I have a couple of moments that pinch my heart when I watch a movie. It doesn’t mean I won’t watch the movie. It just means I roll my eyes…verrrrry hard.

-Blackface…that’s a little rough; especially when the time period OF the movie is the ‘30s or ‘40s film.

-Not giving the Black actors a real name to be called by in the film (Snowflake…Belvedere…Lightnin’). I mean, can’t they have a regular name like Debbie or Bob?

-When the actor can’t do the simplest of tasks, i.e. Butterfly McQueen answering the phone in Mildred Pierce (1945) and not knowing which end to speak into. What up with that?

Are there elements they got right that we still haven’t caught up to? 

KL: I don't know if the pre-Code era got sex right (and sensationalism was definitely something studios were going for) but in some ways, I feel that subject was treated as somewhat more accepted and natural back then. Of course, what was shown onscreen in the classic era was nowhere near the extent it is today, but the way the Production Code put a lid on sex (in addition to many other factors) once again made it into more of a taboo topic than it is or should be.

One thing I particularly hate in modern movies is gratuitous violence, and it perplexes and angers me how America weighs violence vs. sex in general through the modern ratings system: films are more likely to get a pass with violence, mostly landing in PG-13 territory and thus making them more socially acceptable, while sex, something natural, is shunned with strictly R ratings. Obviously, there are limits for both, but I think the general thinking there is backwards today.

CC: The elegance, the sophistication, the precision, the dialogue, the intelligence, the wit. The fashion! The layering of craftsmanship. We aren't fans of these films for fleeting reasons, we are fans because of their timeless qualities.

I'm going to sound like a sentimental sap here, ladies get ready. I think they got the institution of family right. Yes, I do lean towards MGM films, so I am coloring my opinion from that perspective. Even if a person hasn't experienced what would have been considered a "traditional family" there is something to be said about witnessing that example. Perhaps not so much of a father and a mother, but to witness a balanced, functioning, loving relationship. What it "looks like" when a father/mother/brother/sister etc. genuinely loves another family member.

I was part of the latch-key generation, and although my parents remained together, many of my friends' parents were divorced. Most won't admit it, but by the reaction to the documentary [Won't You Be My Neighbor?, 2018], the bulk of them went home, sat in front of the TV and watched Mr. Rogers tell them how special they were because their parents certainly were not. We don't know what can "be" unless we see it.

[bamfdaddio]

X-Men Unabridged: Proteus

The X-Men, those beautiful mutants that have sworn to protect a world that hates and fears them, are a cultural juggernaut with a long, tangled history. We’ve been untangling that history for a while, but sometimes, you really want a more in-depth look. Interested? Then read the (un)Abridged X-Men!

(X-Men 125 - 128) - by Chris Claremont and John Byrne

Fun* fact: this particular issue is the oldest comic I physically own.

* for a given value of fun

Something sinister lurks on Muir Isle…

This arc is very much set up like a horror movie. It starts out as a regular X-Men narrative, where Claremont is weaving along several plot threads. We check in with the X-Men in Westchester, we check in with Magneto who has retreated to Asteroid M and we even check in with Xavier in space, who finally learns more about the true scope of the Phoenix and its nature. Finally, we’ve got Jean stationed at Muir Isle, where Moira is investigating the sheer scope of her powers. (She has realized how strong Jean truly is; akin to a god. Her theory is that Jean’s recent power dampening is the result of her human mind trying to cope with her massive power level.) It’s about as everyday as it gets for the X-Men, but, well…

I always thought Jean molecularly restructured her own outfit into the Phoenix-costume whenever she needed to change, but here, she just… wills it away? Also, why did you need an outfit change for this, anyway? Does the costume simply appear whenever she exerts too much of her powers, like an angry forehead vein? So many questions. (X-Men 126)

Other residents at Muir are Polaris, Havok and the Multiple Man, all of them blissfully unaware that something skulks about in the shadows: the remains of an unfortunate captain, whose body has been taken over by something… other.

But someone else is skulking around in the shadows, too. Jean isn’t aware of it, but a familiar stranger is manipulating her from the sidelines.

I’ve been gaslighting a cosmic force, ask me how! (X-Men 126)

1979 marks the first appearance of the Hellfire Club, though we only meet one member for now: Jason Wyngarde. (Maybe all of this could have been avoided if he’d had a Barbie doll to dress up in black lace as a child, but alas.) ‘Jason’ is a pseudonym and though most people these days know that he’s a familiar villain from the X-Men’s past, the reveal of his true identity will follow later.

Meanwhile, Beast finally gets off his ass to check on the Xavier mansion, even though the X-Men must have been tripping intruder alarms for months now. Still, we do get this sweet moment out of it:

Of course she’s going to be surprised at the sheer amount of plot contrivances that were thrown up to keep all y’all apart for a full year. (X-Men 126)

Beast knows that Jean went to Muir, so Scott immediately goes for the phone. Lorna picks up, but during the call she starts screaming, leaning heavily into the horror genre. She fends off the withering remains of the captain, so instead, ‘Mutant X’ jumps into a duplicate of Jamie Madrox and promptly flees to the mainland on a boat.

Guuurl, that body is snatched. (X-Men 126)

The X-Men (sans Beast) hit Muir Isle, where Moira debriefs them. Moira reveals who Mutant X is: his name is Kevin MacTaggart, her son, who has the terrifying power to warp reality. Because his power is so vast, he burns through bodies at an alarming rate. He can only be contained - or killed - by inorganic metal. In an effort to contain him (and, presumably, help him at some point), Moira locked him in a metal cell. He was kept there, alone, for god knows how long, until Magneto accidentally freed him. They know he escaped the island and, because of his parasitic need for fresh host bodies, Moira posits that he’ll be heading for a big city.

Kevin - who dubs himself Proteus - racks up an impressive body count in the country side, killing 7 people in total. (6 people and 1 dupe? Eh.) He’s a terrific villain, because he’s powerful, has a well-defined weakness and, even though it’s not impossible to emphasize with him -- isolation tends to drive people mad -- the way he discards his victims is truly chilling.

The X-Men chase after him, Wolverine picking up the scent. When Proteus tries to claim him, Logan’s adamantium skeleton repels him. In response, he unspools reality.

I’ve had this trip. I think they call this strain Dragon’s Dynamite. (X-Men 126)

Storm intervenes, but Proteus leaves Nightcrawler and especially Wolverine rattled. Logan’s heightened senses root him in reality more than most, and when Proteus uses his powers, everything is just screaming wrong at him. But nobody is safe: little Kevin MacTaggart turns gravity against Ororo, taking her out as well.

He tries to claim Storm, but Moira repels him, sniping at him from afar. Proteus fears (metal) bullets, knowing they can kill him. When Cyclops realizes Moira’s shooting to kill, he intervenes - X-Men don’t kill, after all. Moira knocks him out with her gun, but Kevin escapes in the confusion. Moira finally realizes where her son is headed, while the X-Men regroup.

In Edinburgh, Moira pays Joe MacTaggart a visit - her husband, Kevin’s father.

The MacTaggarts are definitely in the running for the Xavier/Marko-award for Fucked Up Family Dynamics. (X-Men 127)

There’s a calculating coldness to Moira’s character that I’ve never responded well to, but I like how Claremont fills in the blanks here. It’s part unhappiness, part a deep frustration with her inability to help her own son. I wonder how Kevin was a child, before his mutant gene activated: was he a sweet boy, or one with a cruel streak? Did she fear what he might become?

There’s a few gaps in Claremont’s narrative, but Hickman has drawn on this very well, I think: the Moira X in HoXPoX is equally calculating, equally cold. But how can she not be? How often has she raised Kevin? How often has she had to kill him? How many times has she watched these people, these X-Men, die?

Anyway, Moira’s warning is as effective as anger management therapy for Sabretooth, because Kevin comes by Joe’s office a little while later and snuffs out his dad. Phoenix hears Joe screaming telepathically across the moors, allowing the X-Men to pinpoint him. Claremont also makes sure to show that Jean’s power is steadily growing:

Polaris be like: “No, no, I’m carrying my own emotionally stunted Summers boy, thank you.” (X-Men 127)

Proteus takes Moira hostage as the X-Men confront him. They fight.

Ordinarily, I don’t pay a lot of attention to the fight scenes, because recapping those usually boils down to “Cyclops conks Magneto in the helmet” or “Wolverine snikts Pyro in the gas tank”, but this one is truly great. John Byrne delivers some excellent work, showcasing the scope of Proteus’ powers through his art, his panelling. Don’t just take my word for it:

I love how trippy all of this is. Pivoting gravity, changing an optic beam into flowers… Sure, Proteus might be a callous and cruel SoB, but he’s also one imaginative motherfucker. (X-Men 127)

One by one, Proteus manages to distract or take out the X-Men, either by endangering passers-by, encasing them in amber (Storm) or burying them alive (Banshee). One of my favorite details is how afraid they all are: especially Wolverine and Nightcrawler hesitate before jumping into the fray. For them, this villain is truly beyond their scope.

In the end, it’s Phoenix who manages to drive him back, outside of the center of Edinburg and up an old castle, where there are fewer civilians to threaten. There, on the ramparts, it’s Colossus who makes the final stand: he destroys Proteus’ physical body and realizes that right now, there’s only one thing they can do to stop him. All it will cost is Piotr’s innocence.

Showcasing an ancient Japanese truth: Psychic Pokémon are weak to Steel attacks. (X-Men 128)

Proteus scatters to the winds and the X-Men emerge victorious, though Moira has lost both her son and her husband after this ordeal. Moreover, I think this is the first villain that the X-Men explicitly kill, simply because they have no other options left. This marks the first time that their ideal of mutant rehabilitation fails. What’s worse is that Kevin MacTaggart was essentially nothing more than a supremely screwed up boy who got access to way too much power way too quickly.

I wonder if it would have turned out differently had Xavier been there. (I also wonder if it’s a coincidence that this takes place right before the Dark Phoenix saga.)

I think this might be Claremont’s best arc yet, heightened by John Byrne’s excellent art. Chris deftly mixes horror, action and his usual soap opera elements, serving one cohesive narrative that (for once) doesn’t leave much hanging. Proteus is an excellent villain whose powers work visually (pay attention, MCU) and whose entire being touches on one of the same aspects as Krakoa: can and should every mutant fit into any sort of normal society?

If you have someone who’s interested in vintage X-Men and you want to recommend something that doesn’t require a confusing explanation of all the necessary backstory (and perhaps a crude sketch of the Summers and/or Lensherr family tree), I would recommend this arc.

And the rest, as they say, is Hellfire. 1980 is gonna be a doozy.

[haru-sen]

IAL: Mandalorians 2

Thanks, 3-D Render Anon, with your adorable voodoo dolls.  That was the serotonin I needed.

I should be working, but I’m posting this.  The Mando’a phrases and cultural dishes are from Wookieepedia.  I’ll post the actual translations in the fic, but I don’t have time right now.

You woke up in a tent, your entire body aching.  You were tucked under some blankets, a bedroll under your head.  Your sabers were still on your belt.  

“Query: are you done yet?” HK-53 asked, from overhead.  “Also, are you sure I can’t kill these Mandalorians?”  

“I am going to track down that pacifist module and shove it right up your accessory port,” you muttered.  “Just you wait-”

“Shock: Master, how could you threaten your loyal droid this way?  When did Master get so cruel?  I am very proud of you!”  

Laughing, you held your head for a moment. “What happened?”

“Recollection:  You collapsed. The blue-armored meatbag injected you with kolto, and carried you here.  The black-armored meatbag kept his gun on me, and I made sure neither of them did strange things to your person while you were inconveniently indisposed. It has been a little over a standardized hour since you lost consciousness.”  

You sat up slowly.  The sun was still up.  “Where are we?”

“The witch is alive.”  

You blinked, the black-armored Mandalorian standing in front of you.  He was not wearing his helmet. Tall, with dark skin and clawmark scars across his cheeks, he loomed over you.  He was well-groomed, his beard neatly trimmed, his black hair was immaculately styled.  How did he not have helmet hair?  

Blue scrambled over, also with his helmet off, also younger than you expected.  He was blonde, hair gelled and styled.  What the hell? Did Mandalorians discover the secret to preventing helmet hair?   He smiled at you, with eyes as blue as his armor, his cheeks flushed. “You’re recovering much faster than I expected. How are you feeling?”

“Like I drank Delta Squad under the table again…”  You said, rubbing your forehead.  You had overdone it back there.  Between the terentatek corruption, the Ataru form, and the subsequent wounds, you had pushed yourself too hard too quickly.  

“Jedi drink?” Blue raised a brow.  

“No, we just absorb dew through our pores,” you scowled.

“This Jedi witch is about to get dunked in a lake if she keeps giving me that attitude,” Skull said coolly.  

“Well, I am thirsty,” you said.  

To your surprise, Blue offered his canteen, looked thoughtful for a moment, took a drink, and then offered it again.  “It’s not poisoned.”  

“Disgust: Not poisoned, but definitely contaminated,” HK-53 said.

You hesitantly accepted the canteen, drinking down some of the metallic-tasting water. “Thanks.”  You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. “What do I call you?”

“Reaper,” Skull said. “76.” He pointed at Blue.  “You?”

“Strike,” you said,  climbing to your feet.  The world wobbled, but did not tilt too far on its axis.   You looked around.  This encampment was small, but there was a cold firepit and vehicle tracks. They had not set this up in a couple hours.  They had been in this area for awhile.  

“Strike,” Reaper said, expression grim.  “I think we need to talk.”  

“No, I need to get to Nar Shaddaa,” you said.  

The men looked at each other.  “So do we.”  

“That’s what we need to talk about,” 76 said, crossing his arms.  

You stood there for a moment, a little intuitive nudge already sending your thoughts into overdrive. This was about to get even more complicated. “Because you really like casinos?  Right?” You asked, with a sigh.  

“Because we need to get one of those kids back,” Reaper said.  

“...Of course, you do,” you said, staring up at the sky.  You were glad someone had survived to hire mercs to rescue their kid. And you didn’t really care if the child chose to avoid training on Tython. But you did not need battle-happy Mandalorians ruining your operation.  “Which one?”

“Xenya Itera, human female.” Reaper held out a holo of a little girl with a tiny spherical droid floating over her outstretched hands.  She was dark skinned, her hair in several long tiny braids. She was smiling.  “You can rescue the others, but we are obligated to retrieve her.”  

“And if she doesn’t want to go with you?” You asked, crossing your arms.

“Then she doesn’t have to,” Reaper said with a shrug, surprisingly unbothered by the question.  

“Your bounty?”

“Not your problem,” Reaper said coolly.  “We just need to get the kid away from the Cartels. Simple enough.  Easier too if we go after them together.”  

...Two sensible, non-volatile suggestions from Mandalorian mercs in one day? Was the world coming to an end? ...Or was it a trap? There was a long history of bad blood between Jedi and the Mandalorian clans.  

“What clan?”  You asked suddenly.  

“Excuse me?” Reaper said.

“What clan are you?”

The men looked at you for a moment, like they hadn’t expected that question.  “Clan Ordo.”  

You nodded.  You didn’t have any standing grudges with Clan Ordo.  Hell, you hadn’t really ever dealt with them.  But they weren’t Clan Lok, Rook, Varad, or Viszla, so you were probably good for the moment.  “I can work with that.”

**

“You should be fine with Ordo,” Rogun said, over the comm-link.  “They were one of the clans that backed the Crusader’s Schism, several years back – wanted to side with the Republic instead of the Empire.  Whole thing got crushed by Mandalore the Vindicated, and Ordo was eventually welcomed back into the fold, with honor.  So they likely don’t have the grudge that Lok and Viszla do.  I can’t speak for the individuals though.”

“Good to know,” you said, sitting cross legged in the tent.  “And Talon?”

“...I guess you’re right, Strike.  There are no coincidences.  He’s been spotted on Nar Shaddaa, near the slave markets with an entourage.”  An entourage? Did that mean…?  Rogun gave a rough laugh.  “The Force moves in mysterious ways.”  

“No, the Force is a mean bitch with an axe to grind, usually in my face,” you scowled.  

Rogun guffawed, the lethorns on the side of his head shaking.  “You’re never going to make Master with that kind of talk.”  

You rolled your eyes upward, like that was the only thing keeping you from obtaining the rank of Master.  Ha!  “Just so you know, I got quizzed by the Council on our association.”  

“I’m sure you said nice things about me,” he said, his grin mean.

“I said, your sandwiches suck.”

Rogun scowled back at you.  “It was the best I could do during an active bombardment!”

You knew adult Chagrians often lost their sense of taste due to environmental factors, and maybe that was the reason the food had been awful, but it was rude to point that part out.  “Yeah, well, I talked you up a little too.  Made sure they knew that despite your questionable occupation, you’re a friend of the Republic.”

“Great, so when they come knocking at my door for favors or charitable handouts, I know who to blame.”  

“Just give them one of those sandwiches, that’ll send them on their way.”

Rogun squinted at you.  “It’s a good thing you’re useful, Strike.”

You laughed.  “Thanks, Rogun. Keep me updated on Lord Talon’s movements.  I’ll make you a delicious sandwich in gratitude.”

“Go kiss a sarlaac,” he scowled, and hung up.

“You certainly have a way with people,” Reaper said, hovering by the entrance.  

You had not noticed his approach. How much had he heard?  “That’s me, making friends wherever I go,” you said with a shrug.

Reaper gave a low chuckle.  “You and that mouthy droid.”  

You glanced around, realizing HK-53 had not been over your shoulder for your conversation with Rogun. You got up, a little concerned.

“Relax, he’s shooting bogstalkers with 76.  They were attacking the comms equipment.  I’ve already updated my people. I’m going to finish breaking down the camp, and then we can go.”  

You started to disassemble the tent, watching as HK and 76 sniped at the leathery reptilians that fluttered in the sky.  

“What are you flying?” Reaper asked, packing several weapons into crates.

“The usual – Rendili Defender-class light corvette.  It’ll get us where we need to go.”

“And you think your credentials will be enough to get us through Olaris?” He asked, because the Republic-held city wasn’t too friendly toward Mandalorians.  

“I can, but it might be easier if you leave off the helmets.  I know that’s culturally insensitive, but we’ll move faster if I don’t have to pull rank on a bunch of terrified soldiers and customs agents,”  You shrugged, bundling the tent tightly.

“Sensible,” was all Reaper said.  

**

“So what’s it like, traveling with a Jedi Knight?” 76 asked, lowering his rifle.

“Declaration: That is a broad question, meatbag.  Be more specific,” HK-53 said, rifle aimed at a ferrazid hound, the mutated creature already tearing apart a broke receiver.  

76 laughed.  “Do you get in a lot of fights?”

“Bragging: We get in so many fights.  The number of people who want to kill Master is very high. And it doesn’t seem to get lower, despite how many people we do kill. If I wasn’t so busy killing her enemies, I would want to fight her one day.”  HK-53 paused, its head twitching.

76 frowned.  “Why does she attract such enmity?  Just who are you killing?”

“Aggravation: Master has killed many things, usually enemies of the Republic, but she has also made many rules about what I am not allowed to kill.  It is unnecessarily complicated.  For example, Master generally prefers to let the enemy make the first move of aggression, to ensure that it is adhering to her archaic rules of “moral” combat.  Sometimes she even talks people out of fighting her.  Can you believe it?  She knows they’re her enemies and she lets them walk away! She should just kill them ahead of time, not spare them.  What is she thinking?” HK-53 gunned down the mutated hound-beast.  “But Master is a Jedi, and Jedi have to follow silly rules,” the droid muttered petulantly.  

“How did a...violent murder-happy droid like yourself end up with a Jedi then?” 76 asked.

HK-53 tilted its head, giving 76 a very skeptical look.  “Suspicion: Such flattery. Why are you asking so many questions, meatbag?”  

“I’m just curious about the people I’m traveling with,” 76 said, rubbing the back of his neck.  “It’s not every day I meet a Jedi Knight or such an...enthusiastic battle droid.  It leaves an impression.  There’s a story there.”

HK-53 stared at him, those eyes glowing.  “Satisfaction: We are impressive. You don’t need to know more.”  Turning back to the swamps, HK-53 surveyed the area. “Observation: Oh, it looks like Master and the other meatbag want us to return.”

76 just laughed awkwardly.

**

“Concern: Master, that meatbag was asking a lot of questions about us.”  HK-53 was secured to speeder on the seat behind you.  The Mandalorians were on the other. You were technically using their equipment, but you didn’t exactly trust a bunch of battle-happy maniacs in the driver’s seat.  That included your droid.

You zoomed over marshlands and fields, the Mandalorians riding parallel to you.  

“What kind of questions?”

To your surprise, HK-53 just replayed the recording of the conversation.  Normally, he was all too happy to summarize an interaction, and intersperse his own commentary, but he let it play out without interruption.

“Query: There is subtext that I do not understand, Master.  Is he probing for weakness?  What angle is he coming from?  What does he hope to learn?”

You sighed.  “It could be socially-motivated, but I’m sure he’s also trying to gather intel.  People often let a lot of things slip in friendly conversation.”  

“Query: What did he let slip?”

“Not a lot,” you said, thoughtfully. “But he’s trying to be diplomatic, and he seems to have a personal interest in Jedi.”

“Query: How can you tell?”

“The enthusiasm,” you said. “He’s not just asking for intelligence purposes.  He’s interested in the topic, and he wants to make a good impression on you.  I’m not exactly sure why – Mandalorian mercs aren’t really known for their diplomatic skills, but I think if we talk to him more, we’ll figure it out.”  

“Statement: These Mandalorians are not what I expected.  Normally, we just fight them, and it’s a little difficult, but it’s done.  This change in behavior is...disconcerting.”  

“Yeah, I know.  Nothing about this mission is what we expected,” you muttered.  

**

  “Clean, sturdy, and fast,” Reaper said, looking over your ship.  “Not bad.”  

“Spacious,” 76 said, with a nod.

Given the fact that it was just you and HK-53, the ship was almost too big.  “You guys can make yourselves comfortable in the crew quarters,” you said, gesturing to the rooms.  “Let me know if you need anything.  I’m going to make some calls before we reach Nar Shaddaa.”

But first you needed to change into an intact top, and check your wounds.  Your robe was ruined, and there were three parallel gashes across your low back.  They nearly spanned the entire width of your back, and were each a couple inches wide, and thankfully not too deep.  But they would take a while to heal.  76 was right, you would scar.  Your healing skills just weren’t up good enough.  Still.  

The auto-navigation was engaged, cockpit locked.  You wouldn’t have to take the helm till you reached Nar Shaddaa.  You didn’t exactly trust the Mandalorians on your ship, but you could feel them settling down, sharing one of the two sleeping rooms - there were multiple berths on your ship, but they holed up in one together. And they were behaving. To your surprise, when you reached Olaris, the Mandalorians had tucked their helmets into their bags, and quietly followed you through the spaceport.  HK-53 attracted more attention with his running commentary, but boarding had gone smoothly.  

You put HK-53 outside the comm room and shut the door.  

You first called Master Amari, to give her the update for the Council.  Yes, you were going to Nar Shaddaa.  Also, Orgo the Hutt had a terentatek and had tried to feed you to it.  You did not have time to finish the beast – but you would return to take care of it, after you rescued the children.  You had picked up some Mandalorians – they were also tracking one of the children and on their best behavior.  

Master Amari had been interested to learn they were Clan Ordo, but seemed satisfied with your progress.  You did not mention Lord Talon.  

The next call was less staid.  

“A terentatek, Theron,” you snarled.  “How did you manage to leave out that detail?”

“I don’t keep an inventory of every crime lord’s dungeon!”

“It’s a goddamn terentatek, not a monkey lizard!  How did he even get one?”

“Did you try asking him?” The spy asked snidely.  He lounged on the comm unit, looking nothing like the sickly boy you’d met on Haashimut. “I was too busy trying not to die!”

“Sounds like a “you problem,” he shrugged.  “And stop whining, you didn’t die.”  He grinned at you.  

“No, thanks to you!”

“You didn’t invite me.  You could still invite me,” he said, leaning forward, his eyes bright and too eager.

“Pfft, since when did you care about a dozen potential padawans?” You asked, even though you knew the answer, just like you knew why you had not invited Theron along.  It would get too complicated for a variety of reasons.  “This is barely even Jedi business.  It’s a criminal venture that happens to have Imperial ties – not really relevant to the SIS or your career.”

“...I heard you saw the Grandmaster,” he said, suddenly subdued.  

And that was exactly why you had not invited him.  Theron was a shady son of a bitch on the best of days.  That said “bitch” happened to be Grandmaster Satele Shan was just another level of complicated. There were so many reasons the situation was screwed: she had given him up immediately, his father was “unknown,” and he didn’t have enough force sensitivity to blow out a candle.  His solution? He’d gotten some kind of high end cybernetic implant and gone off to play spymaster for the Republic, instead of working through his feelings.

But there was always an underlying layer of bitter regrets that accompanied his dealings with the Jedi Order.  

“Yes, she looks healthy,” you said, playing it off like it was not a big deal. “It was going to be a disciplinary hearing, but that changed, because I’m just a pawn in some greater philosophical argument.  Or maybe because they needed me to do a job,” you scowled.  “I still annoy her, don’t worry.”  

“Wanna wager which one of us is the greater disappointment?” Theron asked, his smile deceptively cheerful.  You knew better than to answer that question.  “Just kidding, Strike.  It’s obviously you.” He made finger guns.  “She hasn’t given me a second thought.”  

You shrugged, pretending like you didn’t hear the open wound in that statement. “I doubt it’s anything so important.  I just get a lot of lectures from the Council.  You can probably guess what they think about strong emotion and any activity that isn’t meditating in front of a fountain.”  You paused. “Look, do you want to be there when I report back to them?  Like as an SIS adjutant or something?”

Theron let out a harsh laugh. “Are you trying to get kicked out, Strike? You show up to a High Council meeting with the Grandmaster’s bastard offspring in tow?  How’s that going to look?”

“...You’re the one asking to come along,” you scowled.  “Make up your own mind, Theron.  I don’t offer to drag you into stupid Order business, you complain.  I do offer to bring you into stupid Order business, after you ask, and you decline and point out why it’s a dumb idea.  This is why you don’t have friends.”

“You’re one to talk, unable to make real connections because the Order stunted you for the first half of your life. Now here you are, running around with that psychotic defective HK unit, like it will replace what you lost on Corellia, chasing after Lord Talon like he’s the one you’re mad at, instead of-”  

The world narrowed to a single point.  Red light flashed across your field of vision.  

“You need to stop talking,” you said, your voice going cold.    

Theron blinked, his eyes widening.  “...Druk.  Strike, I didn’t mean-”

You cut the connection, the room blurring around you for a moment.  It took a couple seconds for your vision to adjust.  To realize how angry you were.  Sure, Theron was an asshole, but he’d only peeled back the scab on a still-festering wound.  You tilted your head back.

Breathe in.  Hold.  Breathe out.  Hold.  Repeat till the darkness recedes.  

Gradually, your control steadied.  But you sat with that cloud of anger, not letting it go, nor letting it take ascendance.  It was there, a pulsing reminder of your humanity.  

You were going to kill Lord Talon and maybe his apprentice.  Not because you hated him, though you did.  Not because it was the right thing to do, though it was.  You were going to kill him for personal reasons, and unlike the rest of the Order, you were not going to lie to yourself about it.  And if that brought you down, if that decision made you fall, well, you were prepared.  You had taken the appropriate precautions. There would be no Sith Lord Strike.  

There was a ping as you received an incoming message.  It was from Theron. It was only five words.  

I’m an ass.  I’m sorry.

You shook your head, not ready to respond just yet, and left the comm room.  

**

“Is that the best you can do?” 76 laughed, and then there was whumpf, before you heard a body hit the floor.  

You peeked into the bunks, to see the Mandalorians stripped down to their shorts, wrestling on the ground.  Both men were muscular, with noticeable scars from blasters, vibroblades, and even some teeth and clawmarks.  But the tattoos were interesting… Reaper had a full left sleeve, and 76 had some very colorful creatures etched on his back.  Was that a varactyl?  

“See something you like?” 76 asked, glancing over at you.

Reaper looked up at you, narrowing his eyes.  “Or are we being too loud?”

“I wasn’t sure what was going on, just making sure it wasn’t a murder,” you said.  “Carry on then.” You abruptly turned around, shoulders taut.  You would not stare.  And you certainly would not get caught staring.  

“Hey, you seem kind of stressed.  Do you want to spar or something?” 76 asked.  

“That’s not a good idea right now,” you said, tensing.

“Why, because you’re still weak from getting your ass handed to you by a Sithspawn freak?” Reaper asked, casually.  “Don’t worry, witch. I’ll go easy on you, if you ask me nicely.”  His grin was savage.  

You turned back to face him, feeling the anger pour off you in waves. “...Mandalorian, do you need someone to humble you that badly?” You asked, your voice low and harsh.  

Reaper laughed.  “You don’t scare me, witch.  Choose your weapons.  And if you need to hide behind your fancy light swords-”

“Practice blades will do,” you said.  “Come on then.”  

Reaper squinted at you.

“You don’t think I’m going to tear up this room, do you?  The sparring mats are on the lower decks,” you said, already heading down.  

**

You picked up two blades off the rack, choosing a full blade and a half-length blade.  The cargo hold was equipped for exercise, as you did not normally transport a lot of goods.  You stretched, ignoring the whispered conversation between the Mandalorians.  

“Oh good, the medbay is across the hall-” 76 said.

“Whose side are you on?” Reaper growled.  

“You’re out of armor, cyar’ika,” 76 murmured. “She’s a Jedi.  The outcome is obvious.”

“Hut’uun,” Reaper spat.  “Verd ori'shya beskar'gam.”

“Don’t be salty because I’m telling the truth, mir’osik.” 76 laughed.

Maybe you should have called HK down here.  He could have translated the Mando’a for you.  Except he’d be calling for real bloodsport instead of just sparring.  And you didn’t need that temptation right now.  

You took a few practice swings, reviewing your forms.  Niman would be the most sensible.  This was just a sparring match. It was an all-around style, and Reaper had a lot more muscle mass than you did.  You did not need to go all out. You swung the longer blade, feeling the air part in front of you.  

Reaper glowered at 76, then stalked over to the weapon rack.  

“Don’t worry, Mandalorian,” you said, your mouth curving in a mockery of a smile.  “I won’t use my witchcraft to beat you.  I’ll do it with my own two hands.”

“You don’t sound much like a Jedi right now,” Reaper said as he stepped on the mat, holding a single vibrosword.    

“What do I sound like then?” You asked, as you began to circle each other.  

“A real soldier,” Reaper said.  “Which is impossible, because everyone knows that the Jedi like to hide in their fancy temples praying for peace, while their soldiers die.”  

You just smiled, the insult gliding right by your ear.  You had made that argument too many times to be offended by it.  Especially when it was from a Mandalorian braggart trying to get under your skin.  But it said everything that this was how an outsider viewed your order.  

You spun your swords, the heavier one in your dominant hand, feeling just right.  The anger boiling under your skin seemed to evaporate.  It was just energy now, ready to power you through another fight.  Your mind slid back into its seat of balance.  

Reaper charged you, lunging forward, the blade cutting through the air in a horizontal arc.  You sidestepped, ninety degrees to the right, just out of his reach.  And while his blade was extended, you slipped around his guard, and dragged your short sword across his back, a thin line of blood appearing seconds later.

He whirled, swinging the sword at you.  You parried with your left hand, and glided forward, under his guard, so close you couldn’t swing your other blade.  Instead, you grinned up at him, and rammed the hilt into his stomach.  

Coughing, Reaper doubled over, glared at you, and then his leg snapped up.  You slid backward, but a half-second to slow.  He kicked you in the chest, and you had to catch yourself in a spin.  It was suddenly hard to breathe.  

He charged you again, blade raised overhead.  

You instinctively raised your swords to parry, catching his blade between both of yours.  You twisted, and the vibrosword flew out of his hands, and landed on the floor of the cargohold with a clatter.  

“Do you yield?” You asked, spinning your swords. “Or would you like a moment to go retrieve your weapon, Mandalorian?  That’s fine.  I’ll wait.”  You grinned. “Because I can do this all night long.”

Reaper stared at you, eyes dark, nostrils flared. He was bleeding, breathing hard, and sweat glistened on his velvety skin, but he didn’t look like he was done.  

“Maybe you’d like to try both of us then?” 76 asked, his eyes narrowed. He picked up Reaper’s sword and then a stave for himself.  He placed the sword in Reaper’s outstretched hand, and took up a stance beside his comrade.  “Tion'ad hukaat'kama?”

You tilted your head back, moving your head from side to side.  76 held the staff like he knew how to use it.   You closed your eyes, feeling the currents of the force flow through you, a picture of the field forming in your head.   They stood side by side, but they would attempt to box you in.  They both had excellent range, but 76 would have the advantage of reach.   You could see the range and motion of their attacks before they made them, and while it would be difficult, you were good at this. “What are you waiting for?  An invitation?”

76 lunged first, sweeping the staff at knee-height.  

You leapt over the attack, even as Reaper slid to your right swung the vibrosword in a downward arc.  Elbow bent, wrist pressed to your head, you blocked the strike.

76 struck again, thrusting the staff like a polearm.  

You jumped backward out of his range, disengaging from Reaper’s sword lock.  You spun around toward Reaper, blades outstretched.  

76 swung the staff around, blocking the area across Reaper’s torso.

You struck the staff with a clang, and had to swing your right blade to block Reaper’s counterattack.  You disengaged again, dancing to the side, putting Reaper between you and 76. He tried to swing his sword, but you parried the blow again, and whipped your other blade across his cheek with a little flourish.  

The skin split and instead of countering, he stared at you, with an intensity that made you hesitate.  

From behind Reaper,  76 thrust again, striking you in the side with the staff. You hissed, and kicked Reaper backward into 76.   The blonde man steadied his friend, and together they stayed on their feet.  

You touched your side, knowing that the area would need extra healing later.  But it wasn’t enough to bring you down now. Breathing hard, you took a deep breath and whirled toward them, blades spinning in your hands.  

Still leaning on 76, Reaper didn’t have a chance to take a strong defensive stance.  You caught his vibrosword between yours, and scissored them, sending his weapon flying once more.  You couldn’t quite kick him aside, so you circled around to 76.  You got close, too close for him to use the staff properly.  He could block your blows, but he didn’t have the space to maneuver.  Your blades slid off the staff, but still scraped against his chest, slicing a long gash through the pink skin, the tip of the short sword catching on a gold ring.  

“Haar'chak!” He yowled.  

“Ke'pare!” Reaper shouted.  “Wait!”  

You froze, having not noticed the little gold rings on his nipples. “Disengaging,” you said, dropping your vibrosword, and very carefully freeing the short blade from the piercing.  “Why the hell would you leave those in for a sparring match?” You asked, backing up.  

Wincing, 76 held a hand over the right nipple ring.  “I...forgot,” he mumbled.  

“Showoff,” Reaper said, shaking his head.  

“I’ll get the kolto,” you sighed, setting the blades back in the rack, before you went across the hall to the medbay.  You grabbed the first aid kit and headed back.  

76 sat in the middle of the mats, rubbing his chest sheepishly.  Reaper sat next to him, shaking his head.  

“Hold still,” you said, crouching down in front of him to examine the cuts on his chest.  You cleaned the wounds with a sanitizing wipe and then applied a layer of kolto over the cuts.  You glanced at the nipple.  It was pink and a lot more swollen than the other one, but still intact.  You hadn’t torn the piercing or cut anything off. It wasn't even bleeding. Squeezing a little more kolto onto your thumb, you rubbed it lightly against his nipple.

76 stiffened, inhaling sharply as you put the healing gel on him.  He was breathing hard now, chest and face flushed from the exertion. He watched you with hooded eyes, teeth clenched.  “Do you patch up all your conquests?”  

“No, normally there isn’t enough left to fix,” you said, meeting his gaze.  

He studied your face for a moment.  You could feel the heat pouring off him.  He leaned closer.  “So I’m one of the lucky ones?”

“Very, you almost lost that piercing and more.” You said, your mouth suddenly dry.

“It’s still sore, maybe you could put some more kolto on it,” he purred, a very knowing smile on his face.

“No, I think you deserve to suffer a little for your stupidity,” you said, backing up.  You glanced at Reaper.  “Do you need kolto?”

“Go on then,” Reaper said coolly, sitting up straight.  

You crouched back down in front of Reaper, keeping him partially between you and 76.  You worked quickly, your fingers lightly tracing the scar on his face.  He watched you sullenly, as you quickly applied the gel.  And then he turned around, silently giving you his back. His skin was hot under your fingertips, and you tried to seal the wound quickly, very conscious of 76’s hungry gaze. You slapped a bandage on it, and he turned back around, plucking the kolto out of your hands.

“Let’s see those ribs,” Reaper told you calmly.  “76 hit you pretty hard.”  

“I can take care of it myself,” you said.  

“No one’s going to pounce on you,” Reaper said.  “And even if they did, you could handle them.” He did not look at 76.  “Now don’t be stubborn and try going up that ladder with your ribs cracked. That’s just foolish.” There wasn’t any of the previous malice in his voice, just a gentle chiding that reminded you a little of Master Amari.  

Sighing, you unfastened your sash, and peeled back your robes, wincing as you touched your left side.  

His head tilted to the side, Reaper applied the healing gel to your bare skin, his warm hands gently massaging it into your left side.  You bit your lip, placing a hand near there as you tried to convince the bones to knit back together correctly.  

Between the kolto and the little bit of force healing you could manage, the pain began to subside.  

“Better?” Reaper asked, his palm still pressed to your side, close to your hand.  

“Yes,” you said, swallowing roughly.  “I should be good.”  

Reaper bowed his head.  “You won, Jedi.  I am...humbled by your prowess.” He nodded to you, giving you a slight smile.  “But I would like to try against you again later.  Perhaps barehanded next time.”  

You remembered seeing them rolling around on the ground, wrestling.  Your breath caught.  “You’re welcome to use the sparring mats,” you said, pulling away, closing your robes and tying off your sash.  “But I need to go meditate.”  

“Will you join us later?” Reaper asked.

“...We’ll see,” you said, glancing at 76, who lounged on his side, one hand cupping his sore pectoral.  

76 winked at you.  “Feel better?”  

You blinked, having already forgotten why you’d agreed to spar in the first place.  “Yes, thank you, but I really need to go meditate.”  

“I can think of some other things that would help you out,” 76 said, looking you up and down with a smile.

“I really should go,” you said, already halfway out the door.

**

“I need to go meditate?”  Really?  That was your best excuse?  It worked, but still…

Grumbling you, shut yourself in your quarters, limping to the fresher for a shower.   It was quick, and you changed into another clean robe – today had been hard on clothes – and then settled on your floor cushion, still feeling the force run through you.  

You did not contemplate the temple fountains, nor the forests of Tython, nor any Jedi object.  You stared out the window, into the void of space, the stars twinkling in the distance.  You fully expected flashes of red light, or even that dark haze that settled over your mind when you really got to thinking about the past.  

But the force continued to move through you in strong currents.  It was like sitting up to your shoulders in a warm ocean.  The world took on a soft gray glow, and you let yourself drift.

It was the most peaceful you had felt since Corellia.

**

“Knight Strike, are you occupied?” 76 asked over the intercom.  

You opened one eye, focus settling back into your body.  “Do you need something?”

“We took the liberty of making a meal, and thought you might be hungry,” he said.

You blinked. “Oh, I’ll be down in a minute.”  The offer took you by surprise.  HK-53 had said nothing about them moving around the ship. You rose, tightening your robe, and left your quarters.  

A warm savory scent hit you as you opened the door.  The entire deck smelled of rich spices and sauteed aromatics.  It was coming from the conference room – the one you used as a makeshift dining room back when… Back when there had been more people on your ship.  

The Mandalorians were inside and had set up hotplates and a kettle on the table.  Reaper was back in his polished black armor, sans helmet, stirring a pot. He did not look up when you came in.  He just lifted a battered spoon to his lips and tasted the stew or maybe it was a casserole?  If so, it was heavily sauced.    

76 stood over his own battered iron skillet, an amber colored cake within.  He cautiously poured some syrup over the cake.   Then he cracked open a bottle and poured an even more generous amount of dark liquor over it.  “It’s almost done!”  

“If you want to cook, I have a small kitchen setup in my quarters-” You paused, realizing that maybe you did not want them traipsing in and out of your bedroom.  

“Oh? Really? I would like to see that,” Reaper said, looking up and smiling at you, heat in his gaze.  He lifted the spoon from the pot, offering you a taste of the bright orange stew.  It had chunks of mystery meat, vegetables, and what looked like beans.  It smelled like fire, smoke, and peppers, clearing whatever spacedust might have been clogging your sinuses.  You hesitantly took a bite.  It was savory and hot. The layers of earthy and smoky spices blended well together and even though you were still chewing, you wanted another bite almost immediately.

Even if you had never tasted this dish before, there was something immediately comforting about it.  The meat was smoked.  The vegetables had likely been dried and reconstituted in the sauce.  The “beans” were actually some kind of grains, soft and fluffy with just the right amount of chewiness.  “That’s very good,” you said. “What is it?”  

“Tiingilar,” Reaper said, watching your face.  “It doesn’t burn too much, I hope.”  

“The seasoning is excellent.  I’m very fond of peppers,” you said, raising a brow.  Was he hoping that it was too much for you?  That seemed a possibility.  You had beaten him in combat, so he was going to compete with you in other ways.  Still, if it meant that he cooked a nice dinner, you wouldn’t take too much offense.    

Reaper just smiled at you.  “You are full of surprises.  The last non-Mandalorian I fed this to accused me of poisoning her.  It was...too hot for her delicate mouth.”  

“She wasn’t as well-traveled as Knight Strike,” 76 said, flipping his skillet and dumping the cake onto a battered metal plate.  “Uj'alayi. It’s a traditional dessert,” he told you, pulling out a combat knife and slicing it into six pieces.  “It can be made in our helmets.  Reaper insisted that I use a pan this time.” He winked. “But I think the helmet adds to the flavor.”

“Interesting,” you said, glancing at Reaper, who just chuckled.  “Should I get-”

“No need! We have tiingilar, uj’alayi, and behot tea.  Plenty of food to go around,”  76 said proudly.  He paused, gesturing to the table.  

“And I have a few extra bottles of kri’gee and narcolethe, if you’re interested,” Reaper said, a little too innocently. “Now I think he is trying to poison me,” you said, because you weren’t an idiot.  Those liquors were very potent.  

“I have some extra ne’tra gal,” 76 said, gesturing to the bottle he had.  “It’s a much nicer ale.”  

“It would go well with the uj’alayi,” Reaper said, setting a bowl of his spicy stew in front of you.  He poured you a mug of tea.  Then he began doling out portions for himself and 76.

76 put a slice of cake in front of you, along with the open bottle of ne’tra gal.

You took a sip of the sticky sweet ale.  It was more potent than you were expecting, but it was Mandalorian alcohol.  You then took a small bite of the dense cake.  It was rich and sticky, filled with dried fruit, nuts, and some kind of sweet syrup.  The syrup had carmelized a little on the outside of the cake, but the inside was almost too sweet, except for the ale that soaked in.   You washed it down with more of the ale.    

76 watched you eagerly.  “What do you think?”

“It’s rich,” you said.  “But the ne’tra gal does go well with it.”

“It was originally army rations – lots of calories for a march,” Reaper said.  “We thought you might enjoy some traditional Mandalorian food.”  

“That was very kind,” you said. “It’s delicious.”  

“Do Jedi have tasty traditional food?”  76 asked.

You sat with that for a moment. “...It’s actually kind of bland,” you sighed.  “Nutritious, but not fancy.  They don’t want us to be “distracted” by such things.”  Back in the day, Theron had smuggled you candies, snack foods, and even alcohol.  You felt a twinge of annoyance.  Back in the day, Theron hadn’t been such an asshole.  “I like trying new things though.  I had to sneak around in Coruscant – make it look like I was only stopping because I needed “sustenance.”  Not because the food stall smelled delicious.”

“We are not encouraged to be easily distracted by food,” Reaper said with a frown.  “But there is no harm in enjoying it.”  

“...Jedi aren’t supposed to “enjoy” things,” you muttered.  “Well, they can, just not…too much.”

“What counts as “too much?” 76 asked, taking a big bite of cake.  

You shrugged.  “That’s a philosopher’s debate.  But we’re meant to focus on denying most temptations.  Want and attachment lead to other negative emotions, which lead to hate, which leads to the Dark Side.  Let me summarize it for you: everything fun leads to the Dark Side.”  You rolled your eyes and took another swig of ale. “Depending on who catches you, that lecture can go on for hours.”

“Enjoying cake leads to becoming a Sith Lord?”  76 chuckled.  “I want to eat more.  Will that get me my own lightsaber?”  

You laughed.  

“Your Order has a real fear of this Dark Side,” Reaper said, sipping his tea.  “It seems a little convenient, like a method of control.”  

“The fear is legitimate, but the safeguards are controversial.”  You took another bite of his spicy stew.  “It’s complicated.”  

“So what happens when a Jedi goes to the Dark Side, becomes dar’jetii? Why is this so dreaded?  I have met the dar’jetii of the Empire.  Some are reasonable.  Many are not.  But they are not Jedi, and they are not so much more fearsome.”  Reaper’s brows furrowed.

“We’ve fought dar’jetii,” 76 said, chest puffed out.  “And we’ve won.  Didn’t get to keep the lightsaber though.  Captain got it.”  He gave you a rueful smile.  

“I assume dar’jetii means “Sith.”  And that’s part of the problem.”  You took another sip of tea, staring at the wall.  “There are two different understandings of the terms.  The political difference is that Jedi are force-sensitives who work for the Republic.  Sith work for the Empire.  It is an overly-simple explanation.” You held the mug between your hands, its warmth comforting.  

“That is how we understand it,” Reaper said.  

“Then you have the philosophical definitions.  There are two sides to the Force, Light and Dark.  The choices you make in life determine your alignment.  There are Imperial Sith, who are fair-minded and compassionate.  Even if they may not follow the Jedi Code, they are of the Light, though it would be unwise of them to advertise that.”

“And there are Jedi who are cruel and bloodthirsty, and they are of the Dark?”  Reaper asked.  “Your Order allows this?”

“No, they do not.  In fact, they are dismissed from the Order, and sometimes they are imprisoned.  Sometimes it is...worse.”  You did not look at them.  

“That seems like a tactical disadvantage,”  76 said.

“...It’s more than that.”  You switched back to the ne’tra gal. “Sometimes singular choices can swing a Light-side Jedi to the opposite end of the spectrum.  They go from honorable, kind, and patient to violent, cruel, and despotic in seconds.  Falling is a sudden kind of madness. Often they turn on their friends and allies, killing the people they swore to protect. Sometimes they recover who they were and regret what was done.  Sometimes they just become monsters.”  

“What causes it? I haven’t heard of Sith having such experiences often.” Reaper asked.  “Do they fear an inverse effect?”

You laughed, imagining that for a moment.  “No, I guess I haven’t heard of a Sith suddenly being filled with an uncontrollable sense of altruism.  At least, not to the same degree.  They may switch sides or work to seek redemption, but these are conscious choices.”

“So what makes Jedi so much easier to influence?” 76 asked.  

“Well, the Sith Code does encourage a certain amount of violence and backstabbing, but that’s the question, isn’t it?  The Jedi Order thinks if we, as individuals, keep our distance from the world, do not get attached to others, and live like ascetics, we can avoid falling.  If we just follow their rules, and live in our cloisters, we will be safe.”  The bitterness of your words surprised you.  

“Is there no middle ground?”

You took another bite of the stew.  “That’s also complicated. Allegedly, there is.”  You thought of the Gray Jedi. “But it is not an explanation accepted within our Order.  I have witnessed people falling.  It is...horrible to see someone you have known your entire life changing into the antithesis of themselves.”

“So if...attachment makes them fall, what brings them back?  Do you appeal to their honor?”  76 asked.

“Maybe,” you said, because you would give a lot to find the answer to that question.  “I think...reminding them what they found to be so important can help.”  You thought of Nomen Karr.  “But sometimes they are just in denial.  They think they are infallible, they think that excuses whatever actions they take, and that accumulation of corruption combined with their own hubris destroys them.”  You sighed.  

“What causes this madness?  The revelation of their own hypocrisies?” Reaper pressed.  

“Force users are...vessels.  The Force runs through us, it is like a constant stream of energy.  That energy can manifest in different ways.  Light Side users have certain powers, Dark Side users have others.  And then there are some abilities that are so rare, it’s hard to say where they come from.  Those are the extremely talented few: I have a friend who can heal broken minds.  But I have no idea how to do such things.  I am just a better-than-average fighter.” You smiled wryly.  “But one of my teachers has a theory.  Jedi spend so long keeping out the Dark, that sometimes, if we lower our guards, if we make an emotional choice toward the Dark, suddenly we have opened ourselves up to an outpouring from it.  Some of us do not know how to cope and that system shock is too much too quickly, and then we swing to the opposite side.”  

“So maybe you should do a few bad things, to keep your mind safe,” Reaper said with a shrug.  “Easy enough.”  

You laughed.  “...maybe.  Or maybe that slow acceptance of corruption just makes it easier to fall.  That’s a high-risk theory for me to try to prove.”  

“So what is an example of how a Jedi falls?” Reaper asked.

You sat there, knowing it wasn’t any of his business, and that you were drinking too much.  But it was not a secret.  And he wasn’t actually asking about your past. “Say you go into battle, and you really hate the person you are fighting.  You have thought long and hard about how they need to die.  You know that it is against everything that your Order has taught you, and you don’t care.  They might want him as a useful prisoner, but even if he surrenders, you are going to kill him.  Or perhaps, you are going to disobey orders – you will pursue him off the battlefield, even if it means leaving your comrades or charges behind.  There are many ways.  But I think it comes down to, you will look at your choices, you will know that what you choose is wrong, and you will do it anyway.”  

Reaper snorted.  “That doesn’t sound evil: foolish and undisciplined maybe.  But killing certain enemies is sensible.”

“But if it throws off your sense of self…”  76 rubbed his chin.  

“That is a problem we do not have to deal with,” Reaper said, brow furrowed.  “Perhaps the cost of sorcery is too high.  Or perhaps Jedi are weak-minded.  Their strictures are too rigid; the conditions they set are unreasonable.”  

“This fear of attachment and strong emotion,” 76 mused.  “How are they as parents?”  

“...Jedi are good caretakers, but not good parents.  Because Jedi are not supposed to marry or have kids, so we usually recruit externally,” you said, trying not to think of Theron.  

Both men blinked.  “What?!”

“We’re warrior monks,” you muttered.  “Or supposed to be.  There are exceptions, but in general, marriage and other romantic attachments are not encouraged.”  

76 and Reaper exchanged meaningful glances.  

You could feel the judgment.  You finished your ale, suddenly wishing for more.  

“So no sex?” 76 asked, his eyes wide.

“...We’re not supposed to,” you said, looking at the table, suddenly embarrassed.  

There was a long moment of silence.  

“But you don’t always do what you’re supposed to, do you?” Reaper asked, his voice warm and amused.  

You bit your lip.  “That’s really not your business.”  

Reaper gave a low laugh.  “I didn’t think so.”  He tilted his head to the side, resting his chin in the palm of his hand.  “There’s no shame in indulging or abstaining.  But something tells me that you’re not the type to shrink away from a challenge.”  

You crossed your arms, staring hard at him.  Did he need another lesson in humility? “What are you trying to say, Reaper?”

“I’m saying, if you choose to indulge, we’re both interested,” he said plainly, and took another bite of his tiingilar. “And if you don’t, we respect that too.”  

You nearly choked on air.  

“But we’re a package deal,” 76 said, his expression uncharacteristically somber.  

“...Wait, are you married?” You asked, because it was easier than processing what Reaper had just offered.

“Promised,” Reaper said, giving 76 an appreciative smile. “But this one has fought at my side for years, and that matters more than any words spoken.”  

76’s cheeks burned pink.  He gave Reaper a warm look.  “Traditionally, we can just say the vows whenever: in person, over comlink, through letters, and it’s done. But our clan wants to be there to witness it and throw a big party, which isn’t exactly traditional – they usually can wait till afterward.”

“But certain clan-members are insisting that they should attend,” Reaper said.

“And if we didn’t make the allowance our sisters and the Captain would never forgive us,” 76 said with a sigh.  “You don’t cross the Captain.”

“And our sisters are unreasonable and very good with their flamethrowers,” Reaper said.  

“Oh,” you said, like it all made perfect sense.  They were about to be married, but they wanted to invite you to their beds?  How did that make any sense?  You groped for words. “That’s lovely.”  

“You could come too,” 76 said.  “There will be plenty of food.”  

“...Uh…” You blinked, not sure how to process the proposition, the wedding invitation, and the entire situation.  

“76 and I take pride in performing well, be it fighting, cooking, or other recreational activities,” Reaper said smoothly.  “If you’re concerned, we’d be happy to give a demonstration.”  He leaned over, one arm around 76’s shoulder.

76 nodded happily. “You can think of it as exercise or stress relief.”

“Or you can just watch, if you like, we don’t mind,” Reaper purred, stroking 76’s hair.  Those thick metal gauntlets tightened into a fist, pulling 76 closer.   Reaper leaned over, pressing a hard kiss to 76’s neck.  

The blonde man moaned.

But Reaper was watching you, those dark eyes glittering.  

“...I should go meditate,” you said, abruptly standing up and retreating from the room.

[tasiawrites]

Lets Talk Culture

the 7th of February is the independence day of my country (happy 48th Grenada) and while watching the annual parade and a few people from our sister isle partake in celebration while tourists watched I ruminated on our national dish that I had the day before and thought about us, a small island with a dying culture.

Grenada is a Tri-Island state in the Caribbean with a majority black population. we gained our independence from England in 1974. before that, we were a colony of France and Spain that (we were deadass passed around like a hot potato). our countries struggle has been extremely bloody for a small island that now has a very low crime rate compared to Trinidad an island next to us.

from this point there is no structure I'll just be talking but bear with me it will make sense

first and foremost I am doing history in school for no reason other than I can but also so that I can learn. truthfully we don't spend a lot of time talking specifically about Grenada and we spend it talking about slavery. slavery was a big thing here, most of our plantation houses are still intact and maintained. while the general public doesn't talk about it because of blissful ignorance they actively take part in the culture we built off slavery, mainly J'ouvert.

now J'ouvert yeah please stop crediting things that originated in Grenada to Trinidad. they didn't make J'ouvert or the steel pan or oil down. ( i get mad about this thing especially because we do it better and get accused of stealing and Trini oil-down is ass hot ass respectfully) Trinidad is larger than Grenada so most people see our national dish and J'ouvert from there. and we play mass better I have never played J'ouvert before. I hadda give credit Trinidad's fancy mass is one of if not the best in the Caribbean.

every if not most Caribbean culture has carnival and with no bias, ours is the best with Nevis as a runner up. J'ouvert is part of carnival, which each country has during a different time of the year. but not all carnival has J'ouvert.

now this brings us to the crossroad of language, culture, folklore, and tradition. we shall start with language. J'ouvert is a French word and Grenada has patios but most young people including myself cannot speak outside of the common words. we don't know how to speak it because older people wanted to speak without us knowing what they were saying. now the older generation now complains that no young person they know can speak patios when they were unwilling to teach us in our youth when we wanted to learn. which leads to gypsy which i can speak and understand and so can most young people here. though our dialect, patois, and gypsy are languages that our English teachers correct us on every time it is heard. I cannot express how many times I or someone around me has been told to speak proper English when we speak like that, they correct us using the dialect too.

I should start learning patois from a friend's grandmother who is willing to teach from July. it is a dying part of our culture that is dying due to ignorance.

now we talk about culture and tradition together

in Carriacou, one of the three islands that makes up the tri-island state, culture and tradition is kept alive and breathing. their carnival is in February I think I haven't been to one in years and it is a beautiful display of big drum and maypole dancing, parang and band playing, donkey racing, and other fun activities (if you want i can get videos or my people love there to talk about it). they're just good at keeping it alive they teach the younger generations from small and its just nice yall trust me.

Grenada, the mainland, on the other hand, does not preserve or at least not well the significant bits of culture that each parish has. there is the moco jumbie or the jab jab and other things that I will not try to spell because old french is hard. these things have lost significance or people with the ability to do it because people are not willing to teach so in turn people are not willing to learn. I used to play steel pan and maypole dance but I'm too scared to return because it has been more than six years and my sill has been reduced to ash. they were both enjoyable and culturally significant but they will ultimately die out.

j'ouvert will never and neither will jab jab because Grenadians like to be drunk and have fun and not even a pandemic could stop that. jab jab was originally slaves in molasses and tar scaring slave masters in our slave rebellion. but now it's old oil on skin with animal blood in your mouth (think racist depictions of black people except the lips aren't as big). the history is discussed only when you ask and most people who do it don't even know.

Because Grenada was a major export of spices including nutmeg and cinnamon and cocoa. I get cuss because I don't know how to clean spice aka cinnamon for donkey ass. but you scrape the tree bark, cut it around the circumference beat is the peel the cinnamon off he now good firewood. my uncle cuss me because I don't have the skill nor can watch the tree and say 'yes johnny this one good' its not my fault that my childhood was books and trauma. he said at least can care for cocoa and clean nutmeg.

while Carriacou has maroons for getting things done, granda rarely has one. even if we are tight-knit communities we come together to get things done. a maroon was a settlement of runaway slaves but is when a community comes together to do hard work like building a house while singing playing music and then eating and going home because (if you're not black just say itis) niggaritis does hold them.

off-topic but food here is just yes. I went to maroon when I was a child and fell in love with roll rice and roll cucu (god alone know how to spell that but its made from cornmeal)

anyway, folklore here is trauma and I live 'behind god back' so I seen some shit, I heard some shit and I know people who've been through some shit. but if you want I'll tell you about our mythos ( and why most of their names french I cannot spell anything that isn't standard English because our dialect is one of the hardest in the Caribbean to accumulate too because at first, it's like oh yeah I understand because our accent is like Antigua or Jamaica but when you listen you hearing cacapul (fowl shit in patios)).

we go talk about colorism and other affairs in a different post this one is about how my culture outside of its food and Carriacou is dying and no one will do anything to stop it but like I can talk about the murder assassinations and invasion too because you know we had a civil war so bad America came and buried our prime minister in a mass unmarked grave which has not been found. my late grandfather got shot in that and had the scar to prove it.

do with this hot mess of a post what u will I'm just saying I live on a dot that has been through some shit

[tarantula-hawk-wasp]

Til Death Do Us Part ch 1

This will end up on Ao3 eventually  Based on the @maulusque post (Which You Should Read Before Reading This) where Fox and Palpatine end up in a fake relationship and sham marriage because both thinks the other is sincere and that they are manipulating the other but Fox had one hell of a prenup and ends up cleaning house when he divorces Sheev and saves the galaxy 

This is not that story.  This is a failed version of that story I thought up because my two braincells were like Rey Palpatine? That makes Fox her step-grandpa??? and i wanted them to meet. It also is turning into a Sequels Fix It (disclaimer- I kind of take sequels canon about the sheev clones and mash it with my fist until juice comes out and make lemonade and do whatever i want bc they dont explain enough)

Summary:  Fox wakes up from cryo-stasis to a galaxy recovering from the fall of the Empire as the universe’s Bitterest Ex-Husband because he didn’t get to kill Palpatine himself. He’s not going to let some discount clone of sheev ruin things again either, and ends up with a surprise step-granddaughter along the way.  3k words chapter 1/?

Fox should have known better than to attempt out-manipulating the puppetmaster of a galactic war.  What really rankled was how close he had come, his fingers had metaphorically brushed the salvation of the Republic before it had been snatched away. 

The divorce had been more than halfway processed, and Palpatine had grown more and more panicked.  Under the scrutiny of every lawyer on Coruscant, the prenuptial agreement had been airtight, the political powers Fox tried to give himself in it were unlikely to be enforced, but the monetary and titular aspects were to the letter of the law.  

Of course the law only applied to citizens and sentients.  Palpatine cracked down hard against Clone Rights in those last months.  He himself did not publicly utter a biased word in either direction, only ever praising the effectiveness of the troops, but many of Palpatine’s close associates presented strong cases.  People that had been at their engagement party, people who had been roped by tradition into dancing with Fox’s brothers at the wedding, people who had looked him in the eye over an oiled banquet table and praised his wit, became the ones proclaiming that Fox and his brothers had no more inborn rights or legal merit than a droid or womprat. 

Palpatine drew the court case out in circular debates, and last minute rescheduling.  Fox was kept exhausted and worn to the bone between the ramped up tempo of the war, the grueling hours in court, and the new loathing facing him every second he spent at his job in the Coruscant Guard.  Palpatine had dropped any acts around Fox, no longer the doting grandfather of the republic, or enthusiastic geriatric spouse, but bitter and jilted and cruel-tongued.  Some days Fox feared for his life. 

It was that resignation that he would die that saved Fox’s life.  He updated his will -clones were at least allowed those for any non-GAR-issue items they had - and made sure copies were held by numerous offices, and even on other planets.  He appointed Cody and the Coruscant Guard as the main benefactors, Cody had the authority to divy resources up among the rest of the vode, and the Coruscant Guard were both his closest brothers and deserving of any boon he could grant them.  He left a hefty endowment for the cadets and tubies, to find either adoptive families or to raise them without the military training in the event of the War ending.  He left his half of the cultural artifacts that Palpatine had collected to the Jedi for them to distribute as they saw fit. 

Even if Palpatine managed to pierce holes through every line of the divorce documents, he could not deny Fox’s last will and testament.  Palpatine had to keep Fox alive, or else he would lose many of the assets he was trying to keep in his grasp. 

Fox had counted on more time to slip information to the GAR and the Jedi, he had counted on less supervision, and he had counted on Dooku and Grievous lasting for a few more months than they did.  

He failed to prevent Order 66, and as his brothers lost their free-will, he was abducted from 500 Republica.  A drugged dart jabbing through his blacks and unfamiliar hands hauling him onto a ship.  He was put into cryo-cycle stasis. That counted enough as keeping him alive that his will could not be enacted, but kept him and his insider knowledge from challenging Palpatine. 

Forty years later, a decade after the fledgling New Republic finally closed the buried account that dripped credits into the facility Fox’s stasis pod was in, the power couplings shorted out - whatever droid or employee was in charge of maintenance long departed for salaried work.  The pod had emergency protocols to thaw him out with the last of its energy reserves if the power was cut out. 

And so out he had staggered, head aching and bile rising.  His genetically wired resilience and discipline had carried him through the worst of the stasis sickness. 

The computer terminals were easy enough to slice.  Palpatine did not change his cybersecurity strategy over the decades, and Fox knew more than he wanted to of that man’s mind.  What he found was disturbing, but not surprising.  Weapons capable of destroying entire planets, the genocide of the Jedi, the suicidal brothers made into cyborg Dark Troopers, a Galactic Empire.  And cloning, an overwhelming amount of information on cloning. Not just familiar Kaminoan files, but resources from other cloning facilities, Strand-Casts, Splices, Stem-cells- every method explored and combined.  Palpatine had been seeking immortality.

Fox did not let himself think about what year it was, he did not think about the decades Palpatine had marred for the Galaxy, the vode all marching far away without him, the history ripped apart by waves of propaganda.  What he thought instead about was his own failure to sacrifice himself and put a blaster bolt through Palpatine’s wrinkled forehead so many years ago. It rankled quite a bit that Palpatine died while he was in stasis - the bitterness of unfulfilled hatred. But he could find new purpose. He would not let a false Palpatine return and inflict himself upon the healing Galaxy.  

After he left the lunar facility orbiting its dead planet in a nearly-corroded relic of an emergency escape ship, the first goal he achieved was programming a medical droid to excise the control chip from his brain.  Then he started slicing again.  There were still some accounts he had set up during his sham marriage with credits that had decades of interest.  His backup plan to that was selling the material assets he knew either he or Palpatine had stored away in scattered locations.  

Fox bought a ship, blasters, and assembled piecemeal a set of armor.  He bought bounty hunter credentials, keeping his helmet on always to hide any recognition his face might bring.  He stacked crates of rations in the empty bunks in his ship - a Skipray Blastboat - a vessel meant for four was a roomy choice to travel alone in, but still nearly invisible in its ubiquity.  And he went hunting. 

Palpatine’s clones were hard to find, a challenge Fox embraced for its distraction.  He found out some of the pseudonyms running the older facilities, the constructed identities for whatever apprentices, droids, or imperial loyalists were actually doing the work.  That was a mystery Fox was still investigating.  

Sometimes, to find a clone of Palpatine, Fox anonymously set the bounty himself, and then claimed it as well - getting the resources of the minor guild he worked with, as well as a tracking fob. 

Sometimes he killed them. Sometimes it was easy, the compulsions and the personality of Palpatine showing through, and that hated face looking back.  Sometimes they were worming their way into government positions to undermine the New Republic.  Sometimes it was harder, botched strand-casts that held only a passing resemblance to the man, and were without the force or any malignance.  Those, Fox judged on a case-by-case basis.  Were they in politics? How connected were they to any neo-imperialists? He judged each of them by their own actions, he knew the way a clone could be blamed for the actions of another.

He was not the only one after these clones, someone else was also hunting them - off of any official Bounty Hunting channels. And with the karked up Sith tradition of usurpers, Fox could not assume it was an ally. 

Fox’s unknown rival gradually became more than just a nuisance to compete against.  There had been a strand-cast clone of Palpatine’s that bore only a partial resemblance and had been actively undermining some of the networks Fox thought might be connected to the cloning facilities. Fox had been trying to track him down, to talk to someone who might be able to link him to the roots of this operation - he was even ready to offer personal protection - but his opponent had reached him first. 

The man was dead now. As was the woman he had been traveling with.  It was frustratingly suspicious, and Fox was out of other leads to investigate.  He spent a few months slicing and scouring for information about the strand-cast.  The man had boarded a ship from a large spaceport with a woman and a child, had transferred numerous times, and then, at the last port before his death, had only embarked with the woman.  The child had either died prior the the adults’ deaths, or was still alive.  And if the child was alive, they might know where their father had come from.

Shipyard security cameras and life/heat sensors could only tell him so much.  He looked into crew manifests, ration orders, and fuel receipts.  Between fuel logs and hyperspace maps, he created a list of planets between each refueling stop with more fuel purchased and time between than a direct route would necessitate and worked down that, checking for ships matching their vessel’s description docking with false credentials.  Planets with smaller populations were quicker to investigate so he looked there first.  It was a slow process over weeks. 

 Jakku had only a few scattered settlements, and while their ship monitoring was lacking, the local population was likely to have seen anyone who arrived or left. He landed outside of one of the larger trade centers. 

He disembarked his ship and walked towards the mass of tents and shabby buildings. He was wearing only a minimum of armor, and had left his helmet on the ship. His blaster was still displayed in its holster, a weight he felt pressed against his thigh with every step. He wasn’t here as a bounty hunter, but something closer to undercover instead, and if the kid was here he didn’t want to scare or threaten the child prematurely.  He would blend in more as just another spacer. 

He was met by a varied group of sun-beaten and skeptical beings. The welcoming committee seemed torn between distrust and hope for trade. 

“I’m here for information.” He began, showing a flash of credit chips when he pulled out his holoprojector. “About a year ago a ship of this type would have arrived and left a passenger behind.” 

“Lotta ships come in and out…” A thin Caskadag said unhelpfully.  But Fox could see poorly concealed recognition among some of the faces. He mentally debated who to bribe or how else to persuade the crowd. 

Out of sight, there was a shriek of conversation and then the frantic scuffle of running feet over sand.  A girl emerged from a clump of tents and stopped, almost breathless, staring at him. She was young, between six or eight, Fox struggled like most clones with approximating odd numbered years of natural borns, but she was small. 

“Did my parents send you!? Are they gonna come get me?” She asked with bright desperation. She was staring at the holoprojected ship in his hands.  Fox knew this was the strand-cast’s child. 

“I’m here because of your parents.” He said evenly.  He looked at the group of now unhappy onlookers, denied their chance to weasel credits out of him. “Is there somewhere less busy we can talk?” 

“Mmhmm.” She walked him between tents to a clearing edged with waste heaps. Fox opened his mouth and then stopped again, hesitant. 

“Why did my parents send you?” There was sensible caginess warring with hope in her voice.  She kept glancing back to the crowd they had just left. 

“I’m sorry, Rey,” He hoped that what the other workers had muttered at her had been her name, and dropped down to one knee to be on a level with her. “But your parents are dead.  I’m sorry, but they can’t come get you.” 

There was a watery vulnerability to her eyes.  Fox expected a denial, he hated being the one to deliver this news. It was partially his own failure.  

“So… So I’m just… I’m just going to stay here? And - and work for Mister Plutt forever?” She looked wetly at the pitiful tents around them, the sand, the beating sun, the scrap-sorting piles.  Fox looked at her, at the scabs and callouses on her tiny hands, at the stained clothing, at the bones of her arms, at the ring of faint green skin around her wrist.  Force, he had always been weak for the cadets. 

“No, if you want… If you want I can take you with me.”  It was an impulsive offer, but it felt right. 

“You’re not my dad.” She said sulkily. “I’m only supposed to leave if him or mum comes.” 

“No, I’m not.” Fox did some quick thinking about his relationship to Palpatine, his own apparent age, and the fact her father was a clone of Sheev. “But I am your father’s ex-husband.” 

He knew that she had no reason to trust him, and frankly if she had any sense to not get abducted, she wouldn’t.  Fox was ready to pull up a datapad with the copy of his marriage certificate, proof her father was a clone, and a discussion of family trees.  Instead of an argument, she looked intensely at him and he felt a warmth swell around him, like a summer breeze.  Of course the kriffing kid was force sensitive. 

It was pleasant, as far as being probed by the force ever was.  She was bright and gentle and washed over him, so unlike the cloying oil-slick that he had not realized choked his mind for years until he was finally free of Palpatine. He waited, keeping his thoughts on what he had just said, but not so intently as to raise her suspicion that he was hiding something. 

Eventually she nodded. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“I know when people are lying.  And-” She hesitated, squirming a little. “And you feel nice.” 

Fox smiled. Nice was not the word that Fox would have picked to describe himself currently, considering he had spent a better part of the past year hunting down clones of his ex-husband and killing many of them with extreme prejudice. He wondered unhappily at what relative caliber for niceness she was comparing him to. He stood up and paused. 

“So you’ll come with me?” He asked again for clarity’s sake. 

“Mmhmm.” She confirmed, and stepped to his side, reaching up to worm her little hand into his. 

“Do you have stuff to get? People to say bye to?” He asked uncertainly.  He wasn’t sure how this was supposed to go, and right now it felt too easy.  She started tugging him towards the array of scrap-sorters.  

She went to a spot she had clearly hastily abandoned when he had arrived, and picked up a dingy canvas bag and slung it over her shoulder.  She walked back to him and put her hand back in his again.  

“Okay. Now we need to tell Mister Plutt.” She nodded towards a permanent structure at the edge of the scrapyard. 

“Rey, Rey, Who’s that man?” One of the women who had not been in the group that greeted him, skin toughened by sand and sun, rose up from the heaps of metal and brandished a staff at him.  Part of Fox was relieved that at least someone was stopping little girls from getting kidnapped.  The other part of him put on his most charming, non-threatening smile. 

“I’m her father’s ex-husband.  Her parents are dead and I only just found out…” 

The woman glared at him but shifted to look at Rey, softening her gaze. 

“He tellin’ the truth? Do you know this man?” 

“He’s not lying.” Rey said. “And Dad mentioned he had a complix-complexcated past.” 

“Her father and I may have split over our differences, but I’m not leaving his kid to grow up a scrapper beholden to quotas when I have the resources to raise her instead.”  Fox’s honest determination had the desired effect, the woman lowered her staff and nodded, still suspicious but relenting.  

“You’re going to have to pay Unkar for her.” 

Fox frowned and gestured towards his blaster on his hip. “Sure, I’ll pay.” 

“No. I mean it. You try any funny business and he’ll set the guild on you or worse.” The woman was very serious.  “You got enough to pay?” 

“If I have to, I will.” Fox said with finality.  He did not want to buy another being, but he also wanted Rey off of this planet as smoothly as possible. 

The questioning was repeated with Unkar Plutt, who glared with equal distrust to the people outside.  He took Rey aside into his office room, and Fox hoped it was to question her about his claims and if she actually wanted to leave with him.  Fox was concerned by how easy it was for someone to take a child off of Jakku like this, but also acknowledged that this was incredibly convenient for him. 

Plutt and Rey reemerged and Rey walked over and clung to his pant leg.  Fox brushed a hand over her hair. 

“I’m losing years of good labor.” Unkar said callously. “I expect to be compensated.” 

Fox told himself that the credits he handed over were a bribe. Fox swung Rey’s little bag over his shoulder and after a moment of consideration, hoisted Rey up to rest on his hip as well.  She was light and clung round his neck, giggling with surprise in his ear.  

Fox didn’t need to be force sensitive to know that this decision felt right. 

[ruffboijuliaburnsides]

have you ever dressed up for halloween or for like a costume party? what's your favorite thing you've worn? do you like wearing jewelry? do you listen to podcasts?what's an interesting historical event you know a little about? when do you feel the most comfortable? do you have any piercings or tattoos? Are there any you'd like to get? what's one thing you're proud of?

Wow, All in huh??? SO MANY QUESTIONS.

1) Have I ever dressed up for halloween or for a costume party? NNNNNNNNOT REALLY. I wasn’t allowed to do Halloween after the age of like. Five? Because my parents got MORE religious than they’d already been and they decided halloween was evil. And then as an adult I didn’t have a lot of local friends or money so... not really most of the time. BUT! There was ONE YEAR when I was in my mid-20s, that my wife and I went to a Halloween party with some local friends. She was Death of the Endless, we dyed her hair black, I did her eye makeup, there was a cardboard-covered-in-tinfoil ankh necklace and everything. I that year dressed up as Delirium to go with her. I bought fishnets that I tore a couple holes in, had some clompy boots, bought a skirt and shirt at the thrift store, and dyed my hair... like Half of it was red, half of it was just random spots of bleached, blue, and green. (I actually went to a job interview the next day and frantically reassured the interviewer that I was bleaching my hair and dying it a more natural color later that week) It was very fun as a costume tho. OH tho last year for halloween I loaned my wife a purple dress I sewed for myself and we got her some white tights and a white scarf, and I dug out my purple henley and and jeans some bandaids for my face and fingers, and we went as Hawkeye for Halloween. She was Kate Bishop and I was Clint Barton. That was probably my favorite even tho it was so low-effort. 1.5) On its own line, I think this “what’s the fave you’ve worn” was meant to be about the costumes, which I answered above, but IN GENERAL the thing I’ve worn that’s my favorite has been

Do I like wearing jewelry? I do like wearing jewelry! I need to get new earrings bc the ones I had got lost, but I used to always wear like, small gauge horseshoe earrings with the balls that screw onto the ends? I just lost the balls on the ends. I also wear a necklace every day. And I used to have a wedding band but I don’t have one that fits currently and it drives me NUTS bc even years without it I feel  like I should have a ring on that finger.

Do I listen to podcasts? I listen to podcasts off and on! Mostly MBMBAM, The Magnus Archives, The Penumbra Podcast, and Faculty of Horror. We relisten to early WtNV to sleep sometimes, and I keep meaning to catch up on TAZ, but that’s not active yet.

What’s an interesting historical event I know something about? ...Gosh that’s hard. Like, I know some stuff about historical eras or cultures but EVENTS??? Hmmm... I. Fuck. I abruptly cannot think of ANY HISTORICAL EVENT AT ALL. I’m a fucking History Major this is embarrassing. Uh okay so... I can’t think of anything. I’m so sorry. XD

When do I feel most comfortable? When I’m curled up in bed and have Birdie pressed against my back with her arm around my waist. Bonus points for literally any of our other partners in bed as well, but that happens so rarely. :(

Do I have any piercings or tattoos? I DO! Piercings are easiest. I have my left lobe pierced 3 times (though all but the first might be closed) and my right 2 times (tho ditto), and the upper shell of my left ear once (but again, closed). TATTOOS gosh, ok I have, in chronological order: a) a sort of cross between a cross and a peace sign on the inside of my left ankle. I got it when I was 18 and still a Good Christian Girl, my church bff designed it, it stood for peace in Christ, and the only thing stopping me from trying to get a coverup is the fact that it’s REALLY heavy/thick black work, and the location which was really painful. b) the kanji 天使 (which translates to “angel”) on my right inner forearm, over self harm scars specifically. I got this when I was 19 and back living with my bigoted conservative family and suicidal and trying to remind myself that I was loved. I also picked it out of a book and was lucky that book had the right kanji tbh, but I picked it bc my parents wouldn’t be able to read it, and it meant “angel” which was Birdie’s pet name for me at the time, and she was living across the country from me. If I could go back, I would get a different angel-themed tattoo in the same place, but at least I have the proper kanji for it if I’m going to have an ill-advised Japanese tattoo. c) a little curled ivy tramp stamp I picked out of a book in a little tattoo shop on St. Mark’s Place in NYC at like 2am, do NOT ask, it was dumb. Thankfully easier to work into a larger piece if I ever have the money for a back piece. d) text that is now near-illegible (due to the delicate nature of the script and the time since I got it) on the back of my left shoulder. It says “the universe has been waiting for me” in Birdie’s handwriting. It’s a line from Donna Noble’s last episode of Doctor Who, and I had FEELINGS. e) text on the inside of my left wrist that says “alive or dead, the truth won’t rest.” specifically in courier new. It’s a quote from @seananmcguire​‘s book FEED, and Birdie has a matching tattoo on her wrist as well. f) A tattoo of Coyote and the Sun, with color, on the outer side of my right calf. It’s the only colored Tattoo I have. I plan to get a semi-matching tattoo on my left calf that is El-Ahrairah and the Black Rabbit of Inle doing sort of a yin-yang esque circle chasing each other. it’s a Trickster thing, tying animals commonly considered  to be Tricksters with stuff that is meaningful to me. Coyotes have always been important to me, I grew up in Arizona there were always coyotes about and I always loved them, and then Watership Down was a surprise true love of a book when I was a teen.

Are there any piercings/tattoos I’d like to get? Piercings not so much. Maybe an eyebrow one day idk. Tattoos tho, goddamn, I’ve got SO MANY PLANS. I want to get text tattoos - either part of a larger text-heavy design or separately - of “It’s chaos, be kind”, “You are not obligated to complete the work, neither are you free to abandon it”, and “Do good recklessly”. Other quotes I’m sure but those three specifically. Obviously the Watership Down/Rabbit the Trickster tattoo I mentioned. Also a design from one of the tattoos on one of the guards of the Pazyriyk ice maiden. Also ngl I kinda want to get the sigils for witcher signs on the backs of my fingers. Some people get “THUG LYFE” or “FUCK YOU”, I get “I WILL FUCK YOU UP (in symbolic form)” XD

What’s one thing I’m proud of? The fact that I’m alive. ...Seriously, I’m quite proud of that, I’ve had some shit years in my life, and I’ve nearly not made it more than once. I’m proud as HELL that I’m here. I’m proud that I’m in college. I’m proud that I’m writing again.

Thank you for all these questions! So many, lmao, but I loved it, thank you. ^_^

[creativitycache]

ngl asking for people who self-identify as "antis" is already biasing your results because the term originated from fans being defensive over getting called out (eg the types who sincerely think fandom culture is ""puritan""). fair number of people started to use the term ironically and it might be evening out but overall the post calling for responses on the survey still comes off as something written in bad faith?

I wrote a rather long and involved response and then tumblr ate it. Goshdarn.

Fair warning, this is a hyperfixation and I’m coming off of a migraine so this may not be very cogent. Please read this in the over excited tones of someone infodumping about emulsifiers, with no animosity intended.

So, tl;dr and with a lot fewer links, I’m incredibly interested by your perspective that “anti” originated as a derogatory term.

As far as I am aware, the etymological history of the word “anti” being used pejoratively is coming from some very new debates.

I’m also noting that you had no feedback regarding the content of the questions themselves, which I would be interested in hearing as I am genuinely coming from a place without censure.

The term “anti” actually is a self-descriptor that arose in the Livejournal days, where you’d tag something as “Anti ___” for other like minded people to find. (For example, my cursory google search pulled up 10 Anti Amy Lee communities on LJ).

I’m a self-confessed old. I was back in fandom before Livejournal, aaaall the way back in the Angelfire days. Webrings children! We had webrings! And guest books for you to sign!

I’m going to take a swing for the fences here Anon, so if I’m wrong please let me know, but I’m going to guess you became active as a fan in the past 5-8 years based of your use of the term puritan.

There’s actually a HUGELY new debate in fandom spaces! Previously, it was assumed that:

a) All fandom spaces are created and used by adults only.

b) If you were seeing something, it’s because you dug for it.

These assumptions were predicated upon what spaces fandoms grew in. First you had Star Trek TOS fandom, which grew in 1970s housewives kitchens. They were all friends irl, and everyone was an adult, and you actively had to reach out to other adults to talk about things. (By the way- a woman lost custody of her children in the divorce when her ex husband brought up to the judge she kept a Kirk/Spock zine under her bed. The judge ruled this as obvious signs of moral deficiency. That was in the 80s! Everyone is still alive and the parents are younger than my coworkers!)

Time: 1967-1980s. Is Anti a term? No. Who is the term used by? N/A Is fandom space considered Puritanical? No.

Then, when the internet came about, it was almost exclusively used by adults until The Eternal September. 1993 was the year that changed the internet for good, but even years after that the internet was a majority adult space. Most kids and teens didn’t have unlimited access if their parents even had a home computer in the 90s.

This is the rise of Angelfire, which were fansites all connected to each other in “rings”. You had to hunt for content. If you found something you didn’t like, well, you clicked out and went on with your day because you’d never see it again unless you really dug. This was truly the wild west, tagging did not exist and you could go from fluff to vore in the blink of an eye with nothing warning you before hand. All fannish spaces were marked “here be dragons” and attempts were made to at least adopt the “R/NC-17″ ratings on works to some limited success, depending on webmaster.

Time: 1990-1999. Is Anti a term? No. Who is the term used by? N/A Is fandom space considered Puritanical? No.

In 1999 LiveJournal arose like a leviathan, and here is where the term Anti emerges as a self descriptor. Larger communities began to form, and with them, divisions. Now, you could reach so many fans you could reach a critical mass of them for enough of them to dislike a ship. The phrase “Anti” became a self-used tag, as people tagged their works, communities, and blogs with “anti” (NB: this is at far, far smaller rates than today). Anti was first and foremost a tagging tool used and created by the people who were vehemently against something.

You could find content more easily than in the past, but you still had to put some serious elbow grease into it.

In 2007, Livejournal bans users for art "depicting minors in explicit sexual situations”. The Livejournal community explodes in anger- towards Livejournal staff. The account holders/fans view this as corporate puritanical meddling. The outrage continues as it is revealed these bans were part of a pre-sale operation to SUP Services. SUP Services, upon taking over Livejournal in 2008, proceeds to filter the topics “bisexuality, depression, faeries, girls, boys, and fanfiction”.

The Great LiveJournal Migration begins, as fans leave the site in droves.

Time: 1999-2009. Is Anti a term? Yes. Who is the term used by? People self describing, seeking to create communities based off a dislike of something. Is fandom space considered Puritanical? No.

Where do fans go? Well, in the last decade, they migrated to Tumblr and Twitter (sorry Pillowfort- you gave it a good try!)

What’s different about all of these sites? Individuals are able to create and access content streams. These are hugely impactful in how communities are formed! Because now:

a) finding content is easier

b) finding content you dislike by accident is easier

c) content you dislike requires active curation to avoid

d) truly anonymous outreach is possible and easy (for example, you anon! Isn’t it much easier to go on anon to bring up awkward or sensitive topics? I’m happy you did by the way, and that’s why I keep my anons open. It’s an important contextual tool in the online communications world!)

Now the term Anti gets sprightly. Previously, if you didn’t like content, there was nothing you could really do about it. For example, I, at the tender age of way-too-young, opened up a page of my favorite Star Trek Deep Space 9 fansite and pixel by pixel with all the loading speed of a stoned turtle a very anatomically incorrect orgy appeared.

I backed out.

1. Who could I contact? There was no “message me here” button, no way to summon any mods on Angelfire sites.

2. If I did manage to find a contact button, I would have had to admit I went onto a site that wasn’t designed to keep me safe. I knew this was a site for adults, I knew there wasn’t a way to stop it from showing something. There was no such thing as tags. I knew all of this before going in. So the assumption was, it was on me for looking. (Some may have argued it was on my parents for not supervising me- all I can say is thank GOD no one else was in the living room and my mom was around the corner in the kitchen.)

But now? On Tumblr? On Twitter? In a decade in which tagging is so easy and ubiquitous it’s expected?

Now people who describe themselves as antis start to have actual tools and social conventions to utilize.

Which leads to immediate backlash! Content creators are confused and upset- fandom spaces have been the wild west for decades, and there’s still no sherriff in town. So the immediate go-to argument is that these people who are messaging them are “puritans”.

And that’s actually an interesting argument! A huge factor in shaping the internet’s social mores in the latest decades is cleanliness for stockbrokers. Websites can become toxic to investors and to sales if they contain sexual content. Over time, corporations perfected a mechanism for “cleaning” a site for sale.

Please note there is no personal opinion or judgement in this next list, it is simply a description of corporate strategies you can read during the minute meetings of shareholders for Tumblr, Twitter, Paypal, Venmo, Facebook, Myspace, Yahoo Answers, and Livejournal.

1. Remove sex workers. Ban any sex work of any kind, deplatform, keep any money you may have been holding.

2. Remove pedophilia. This is where the jump begins between content depicting real people vs content depicting fictional characters begins.

3. Remove all sexual image content, including artwork of fictional characters.

4. Remove all sexual content, including written works. If needed, loop back to step 2 as a justification, and claim you do not have the moderators to prevent written works depicting children.

I would like to reiterate these are actual gameplans, so much so that they’ve made their way into business textbooks. (Or at least they did for my Modern Marketing & App Design classes back in the early 2010s. Venmo, of course, wasn’t mentioned, but I did read the shareholder’s speeches when they banned sex workers from the platform so I added them in the list above because it seems they’re following the same pattern.)

So you have two groups who are actively seeking to remove NSFW content from the site.

A) Corporate shareholders

B) People are upset they’re seeing NSFW content they didn’t seek out and squicks them

Now, why does this matter for the debates using the term “puritan” as an insult? 

Because the reasons corporate shareholders hate NSFW material is founded in American puritanism. It’s a really interesting conflation of private sector values! And if Wall Street were in another cultural context, it would be a completely different discussion which I find fascinating!

But here’s the rub- that second group? They're not doing this for money. If there are any puritanical drives, it’s personal, not a widespread cohesive ideology driving them. HOWEVER! The section of that group that spent the early 2010s on tumblr did pick up some of the same rhetoric as puritanical talking points (which is an entirely separate discussion involving radfems, 4chan raids, fourth wave feminism, and a huge very nuanced set of influences I would love to talk about at a later time!)

These are largely fans who have “grown up” in the modern sites- no matter how old they actually are, their fandom habits and expectations have been shaped by the algorithms of these modern sites.

Now HERE‘s the fascinating bit that’s new to me! This is the interpretation of the data I’m getting, and so I’m out on a limb but I think this is a valid premise!

The major conflict in fandom at this time is a struggle over personal space online.

Content creators are getting messages telling them to stop, degrading them, following them from platform to platform.

They say “Hey! What gives- we were here first. The cardinal rule of fandom is don’t like, don’t read. Fandom space has always been understood to be adult- it’s been this way for decades! To find our content, you had to come to us! This is our space! This is my space, this is my blog! If you don’t like it, you’re not obligated to look!”

Meanwhile, at the exact same time, antis are saying “Hey! What gives- this content is appearing on my screen! That’s my space!  I didn’t agree to this, I don’t like this! I want it to be as far away from me as possible! I will actively drive it away.”

This is a major cultural shift! This is a huge change and a huge source of friction! And I directly credit it to the concept of “content stream” and algorithms driving similar-content to users despite them not wanting it!

Curating your online space used to be much simpler, because there wasn’t much of it! Now with millions of users spread out over a wide age range, all feeding in to the same 4-5 websites, we are seeing people be cramped in a technically limitless space!

Now people feel that they have to go on the offense to defend themselves against content they don’t like, which is predicated upon not only the algorithms of modern websites but ALSO talking points fed from the top down of what is and what is not acceptable on various platforms.

Time: 2010-2020. Is Anti a term? Yes. Who is the term used by? People self describing,and people using it to describe others. Is fandom space considered Puritanical? Depends!

So I, a fandom ancient, a creaky thing of old HTML codes and broken tags, am watching this transformation and am wildly curious for data.

Also...I uh....I can’t believe this is the short version. My ADHD is how you say “buckwild” tonight.

Anyways...um...if anyone has read to the bottom, give me data?

[dirthavarens]

Nature (Dragatha)

Fandom: Dracula (2020)

Characters: Count Dracula, Agatha Van Helsing, Original Character(s) Relationship: Dracula/Agatha Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence Word Count: 7,005 Summary: ‘Because you need to feed,’ she told herself too often. Nearly fifty years as a vampire and she still craved blood at every and any given moment. Vampires were like that. Vampires were like a lot of things. 

[READ ON AO3]

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or read below::::

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Agatha Van Helsing never lost control .

A lie she told herself over and over. A vampire cannot betray its nature, not entirely, and she was testimony to that. No creature could overcome baser instincts, not when survival was at stake. 

The war had run her ragged, to the point of weeks without rest or proper feeding. She’d steal away for a moment, trying to find blood that wasn’t tainted by the smell of death. The human had to be alive. The dying were always her safest bet, those beyond chance of recovery, those left behind on the battlefield gasping for breath, the life leaving their eyes. 

Agatha discovered rather quickly that feeding from the dying had more negative side effects than it was worth, but she persisted. Her skin paled, her hair thinned, her hunger grew near intolerable. Times like those, she wished she had Dracula in her head, just so she could argue against what would be his very obvious answer of feed. 

She had tried and failed for forty-five long years, and she hardly wanted him awake to know of the chaos that currently ravaged the world. He would have a field day, taking whomever he so pleased. Scientists working to the bone to produce stronger, faster, more effective weapons of mass destruction. Generals and strategists, black operations agents, spies, warriors on both sides, hungry for bloodshed, for justice, for stability. 

Occasionally, she had argued with him, imagining him in her mind as she wandered the camps at night. He’d tell her to just give in, just a taste, just feed on one truly living soul and be done with it. Any vampire with a brain still in their skull would. It was natural for her to be starved, to want every ounce and then imbibe in even more. She was a vampire, after all, and vampires were not as complicated as she had conjectured.

“Something to eat, a bit of company.”

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

  She had been on the earth for eighty-seven years, over half of which had been spent in a state of undead, dracul, nosferatu; A vampire. 

And the death around her, seeping into her bones, reminded her constantly. Every day another bone to set, another amputation, another transfusion. Blood was around her constantly, stale and fresh, and she felt her patience dwindle by the second. She would bark at nurses, throw instrument trays, snap saws in half with her hands. All to keep her fangs from showing, her eyes from flooding crimson; anything to abate the beast she so vehemently claimed not to be.

Agatha drew in a breath as the morning sun crept into the tent, bathing her pallid face in its iridescence. She hadn’t fed in over two weeks. Too many deaths too quickly. Too much work to do, not enough sleep in the world, and not a second to herself. 

She turned to the clock that ticked away at the wall. Six-thirty, a whole two hours of sleep and she was awake again, ready to take on yet another blood-soaked day. Agatha sat up, stretched, and grabbed at her head, thumbs massaging at her temples. Had she not gone through this several times in the past, she would have never guessed vampires could even have headaches. 

‘Because you need to feed,’ she told herself too often. Nearly fifty years as a vampire and she still craved blood at every and any given moment. Vampires were like that. Vampires were like a lot of things. 

An unfamiliar face walked into the doctor’s resting tent, an accented ‘knock, knock’ sounding before a man presented himself. 

Agatha turned her head to take the man before her in. He was little taller than she was, though that hadn’t said much as she was a particularly tall woman. He was young, his olive uniform without stains, life in his eyes, brunette hair cut neatly under his beret. A french soldier, clearly. 

“Pardon, madame. I thought this was the tent of the off-duty doctors. I’m afraid I may be a little lost.” The young man’s hurried speech gave Agatha’s headache no relief, and her thin patience no quarter. The assumption, however, she was used to. No man wanted to submit his life to the hands of a woman when healthy. They didn’t care whose hands brought them back to life, pleading for the pain to stop, begging for morphine, for death.

She shook the thought from her head and dropped her hands into her lap. “No, you’re in the right place. I’m Dr. Van Helsing, you may call me Agatha. What can I do for you?” 

“I heard there was a lady-doctor!” He straightened his posture. “I am Corporal-Major Mathieu de la Fontaine. Please, forgive my presumptuous behavior?” 

At least he had manners. 

“I was to report for a physical, madame. My platoon just arrived, my lieutenant directed me to your tent,” explained the Corporal-Major as Agatha stood. She made sure not to step too closely to him so soon after waking. The sound of a relaxed pulse in such a high-stress environment would sing too sweetly to her. “If you wish, I can wait until another doctor comes by, perhaps?”

She looked him over and shook her head. “No, that won’t be necessary. Why did he send you to the off-duty tent?” 

Mathieu frowned, his discomfort plain on his face. “The active tents are..” 

“Being used for more pressing matters. I see,” Agatha finished for him and the pitcher of water on the desk. “Might I offer you something to drink while I fetch the forms? We don’t keep them in here.” 

“Oui, j’ai soif. But I have the necessary papers here,” he said as he reached into the pocket of his vest. She grabbed the papers offered to her and immediately started reading over them. “Name, date of birth, all of the information you could need down to my blood type.”

“O-positive,” she muttered to herself. Good. He could possibly be of great use, maybe even save lives. “Do you know how valuable your blood is, Monsieur de la Fontaine?” 

“I heard that vampires prefer O-negative,” he joked with a laugh, his teeth still white and all in place. If only he understood how funny the situation truly was. “I apologize, I shouldn’t make such jokes during war.”

“One should always cling to humor, even in dark times such as these. It makes managing stress a little easier.” Agatha smiled at him and directed him to take a seat on the cot opposing her own. She could hear his pulse as he walked by her. Slow, unperturbed, untainted. “Besides, I think vampires would be more likely to choose victims based on who they are and not what type of blood they have.”

She poured him a glass of water, handed it to him, and continued reading over admission charts. He had earned his rank quite rapidly early in the war, but clearly had time to rest between then and now. How that was possible with the Nazis having nearly seized all of France was beyond her, but she would not question it. 

He was twenty-seven, approximately 180 centimeters, 80 kilograms, no visual or hearing impairments. No history of breathing trouble, was vaccinated for Polio…

The more Agatha read, the more she wondered why he had even been in need of a physical. Or why he was even in a war at all. He had a law degree from the University of Bordeaux. 

“Alright, Corporal Major,” she began as she strode to a small filing cabinet filled with extra supplies. “I’m going to have to ask you to strip.” 

His physical went without a hitch, though Agatha could hear his pulse like it was beating in her own ears. He carried an interesting scent, most of the French did. History was important to them, culture, and all of those sweet indulgences she had refrained from in life.

“Van Helsing,” he started as he fixed his beret in place. “That is not an English name.”

“No, it isn’t. My family is Dutch. I guess you can say I’ve lived in England most of my life.” Most of her afterlife, at least. 

“How fortunate for us that you are here. My life could be in no better hands, I’m sure of it. I’ve never seen anyone with such a steady posture,” he returned with another smile before leaving the tent, completed forms in-hand. 

Agatha realized then that she had been holding her breath during the examination, careful not to take in too much of the young man. She did not need to know his plans, where he was going to be, when he’d be alone.

Her day passed with agonizing slowness, each action seeming tedious as she cleaned infections and set up infusions. Infusions. She had to make a note of de la Fontaine, to suggest him to another possible donor, but did not want to imply she wished to do the task. 

By the end of her shift, she was covered in a slew of liquids ranging from blood to she wasn’t quite sure, but it smelled worse than death. And a vampire knew the stench of death better than most. The sun was setting in the sky and she knew what awaited her. She had a full night to herself, a full night of rest, a full night of hunger. 

“Dr. Van Helsing!” 

A newly familiar voice caught her attention as she went to hit the nearest body of water. She needed to feel clean, if only for a moment.

“Corporal-Major. How are you settling in?” She did not want to see him right now, but was polite all the same. 

“Very well, all things considered. I saw you working earlier and thought maybe you could use a drink?”

If he only knew.

Agatha shook her head and watched his smile drop a little. How hopeful and full of life the young were. She would be lying if she said that she didn’t wish he would hold to it. “I’m afraid I’m in desperate need of some form of cleaning.” 

“The baths are usually occupied with the men,” Mathieu returned with a frown, his smile gone. 

“And most don’t mind when a woman walks in, I assure you,” she noted, her words sardonic. Even a four-hundred year old vampire had more control of his tongue than they did. “I have somewhere private I like to go.” 

“Perhaps after?” He was a persistent thing and Agatha turned the idea over in her head. 

While she did not drink alcohol, or at least hadn’t tried to, since receiving Communion nearly half a century ago, perhaps there was no harm in the company of a few happy faces. After all, humans were social creatures and his life would most likely be snuffed out on the battlefield. Agatha had been a friend of death at this point and knew she would be able to handle it should he grow on her.

“Perhaps,” she echoed. 

He gave her the information of where he would be and who he would be with if all went according to plan. She nodded, made sure she stressed that there was a possibility of her absence, and continued her trek away from camp. 

There was a waist-deep creek a couple hundred yards from camp, hidden amongst trees too thick to fight through. It was her private place to bathe, to think, to escape the gurgles of the dying. When she came to it, she stripped bare and sank into the cool water, mindful to not step on any possible life underfoot. 

Agatha closed her eyes and let her chest still as she submerged herself in the water, her body sinking to the bottom. Of all the benefits being a vampire had, being able to lie at the bottom of that particular creek was squarely number one on her list at that moment.

She was still for nearly half an hour, her mind playing memories like films in a theatre. Some were her own, others were his, and all of them eased her tense muscles, an unfortunate side effect of not feeding. She could find an animal, surely, but they provided little energy. There were many ways Agatha could feed. The dying, the sick, those too weak to carry on. She could steal donations.

She wouldn’t. The dying still had living blood, but they were exhausted, often emotional and frantic. The ones resigned to death already tasted as such and she would be sick for days after feeding on the ill.

She considered drinking from the Germans, but she would sooner be staked than dine on a Nazi. To hear those thoughts in her head...No, bullets would suffice. Mortars would suffice. She would sooner let the streets run with their blood than dare to feed from one.

The answer was plain, but she refused. She was more than a beast. She knew herself and understood the rules by which she lived. Agatha had taken an oath as a doctor to help any life in need. She could not feed on the living, she mustn’t, and her fists clenched as she rose from the water. 

Agatha breathed in and opened her eyes to see the sun had at last gone to rest. Dark enough to wash, dark enough to relax, dark enough to sneak back to base without anyone noticing; her clean uniform a blessing for which she’d never be grateful enough. 

She caught sight of new faces as she entered the camp. All varying ages, some clearly lying to make themselves older, others very obviously lying about medical conditions, not that the lieutenant-colonel cared. He had lives to waste ever since the Americans joined a few months prior. Those were the truly fresh faces, the ones ready and eager for blood, for glory.

Their enthusiasm wouldn’t survive the week, but hopefully they would.

She spotted the Corporal-Major among some other new individuals and cursed herself when he met her eye and waved her over. Agatha knew she had belabored her answer, but apparently that had meant little to the young man as he reached down and pulled two bottles of wine from a sac.

“I know we’re not supposed to have them, but I couldn’t resist. English wine doesn’t...settle right.” A laugh, the other men joining in. They were French, too. Mathieu looked to Agatha. “Lady’s choice. Red or white?”

“I enjoy both,” she said reflexively, damning herself. They weren’t her words. “Enjoyed, I should say. I don’t drink.”

“Mon amie!  That won’t do. Middle of a war and you don’t drink? How ever do you settle your nerves?” His response earned him an impartial smile. “You’ll return to your husband a hysterical mess.” 

Her husband?

She glanced at her ring and felt something ache inside of her, overriding her hunger for a moment. The weight pressed upon her chest and burrowed into the pit of her throat. He was definitely no husband. She wouldn’t even begin to entertain such an idea. It was entirely laughable. 

“Ah, Dr. Van Helsing, je désolé,” de la Fontaine’s voice broke through her thoughts and she blinked at him, confused. “You must miss him very much.”

She did.

“He’s probably sleeping. It seemed to be his favorite pastime before I left.” She brushed the subject off, burying the memory of him as best she could before smiling at Mathieu. “Red.” 

“I knew you were a woman of taste. Now that we’ve made the important decisions, I would like to introduce you to some members of my platoon.” 

She learned the names of each man, all coming from different backgrounds but all ready to get back into the action. They were confident, placing much on faith, and as the cork popped out of the bottle, they cheered. 

Mathieu handed her the bottle first, a grin on his face. 

It struck her then, that in the months she had been there, no one once invited her to do such a thing. Naturally, she had patients in for consultations, follow-ups before they were flown out of the zone. Occasionally, a man would wander into her tent and she would be forced to break a finger or two, secretly delighting at the snap of their quick but effective punishment. 

They’d say nothing, of course, lest they compromise themselves in the process. 

She reached for the bottle and breathed the scent of the wine in. The spirit smelled nearly unrecognizable to her, bitter, too harsh. An idea struck her then. This was nothing more than another test. 

Can vampires drink alcohol or consume anything that was not blood?

She brought the bottle to her lips and took a slow sip, letting it soak her tongue before swallowing. 

Her stomach churned almost immediately and she swore she could hear his voice calling her foolish. She handed the bottle back, her hand coming to her mouth, before she hurriedly shuffled away. Agatha bent over, grabbing at the nearest object to support herself as her body purged itself of the wine. She looked to her right, to see that it was Mathieu holding her steady and immediately felt embarrassed, searching for an excuse. 

“Are you alright? I know the English don’t have taste, but it couldn’t have been that bad.” He was a poor liar and even worse at hiding his emotions. His concern might as well have had flashing neon lights pointing to it. Agatha heard his quickening pulse drumming wildly. The rapid tempo of the deep pumps of his heart.

“I’ll be fine. I haven’t eaten since yesterday? The day before? I should have known better than to try alcohol as my first meal,” she explained, not entirely lying. She couldn’t remember the last time she fed. She wiped her mouth as she fixed her posture. “I think it would be wise if I retired for the night.” 

Mathieu nodded, let her go, but did not move away from her. “Let me assist you back to your tent. I will not see a sick woman go unattended.” 

“I appreciate the concern, but I am a war physician and have been through much worse than a stomach ache. I will be fine. Please, return to your men and give them my warm wishes.” Agatha would not be alone with someone so healthy now that her stomach demanded proper feeding, snarling furiously at her. 

He gave a moment’s pause, frowning at her, but acquiesced to her wishes. She could feel his eyes on her back as she walked back to her section of camp. 

The sounds of the camp layered in her mind as she tried to find sleep, turning restlessly upon her cot. Everything within her pushed her out of bed and she sat up, her stare empty as she tried to cling to rationality. Logic could not play here, logic would tell her to feed. Rationality considered the great possibility of consequence.

Her nails extended and hardened faster than she had ever felt them. She grit her teeth as she felt them scrape against the metal, screeching unpleasantly. If she let go, and she knew she mustn’t, Agatha would find herself unable to save herself. She needed a minute. 

Just a minute. 

One… Minute… 

Her eyes slipped shut as she drew in a breath and searched for a familiar face. He was the last person she needed to see, the one who would tempt her forward, let go, release the beast. But he was there, nonetheless, staring at her from the sea, the water to his chest in the grey light of morning. 

One…

Her time in Transylvania. Crimson turned black in the moonlight as it poured in from the small window. The pillows stained as a gurgle sounds in a throat, a cry from another. 

Min…

Jonathan Harker before her, telling her the story of Count Dracula as his fiancee sat to her left. She had been such a frightened girl and with great cause. Her basement, her study, her refuge. 

His memory. 

How wonderful she had tasted on his lips. He had torn through a convent, armed and ready with wolves, but for all the entertainment… She was the unexpected main course. And she could feel his teeth sinking into her neck as if they were her own.

...minu…

His blood on her tongue as she suckled at his wrist. 

Breathe.

Agatha shot up, her jaw unclenching as her eyes opened, and looked out into the night. She had been trying to sleep for nearly five hours, but could not stand to be around others any longer. The glorious stench of blood was too close to her and she would not let herself lose control. 

An animal.

She would find something small, something to curb her appetite enough to sleep. The watch was doubled at night and she would have to be careful. Nothing she hadn’t done before, nothing she wouldn’t have to do a thousand times more before this damned war was over, it seemed. 

Agatha found her escape and took it, slipping into the forest and wasted not a second getting as deep as she could. Gunfire sounded in the background, most animals would be hiding, then. She would have to locate them by sound. 

She heard a heartbeat, too close, too strong, too human.

Too soon. 

“Mon amie?” 

Dammit.

“Mathieu, what are you doing out here?” she asked without turning around to look at him. If she looked, he would see, he would know, and she would have to either kill him or drug him. “You should be back at base.”

She heard his weight shift, a sigh leaving his lips as his heart rate settled. So strong, so lively beneath his skin, she could still hear the pump, pump, pumping away in his chest. She raked her claw against the inside of her palm to keep time with it. 

“I could say the same for you,” he replied, voice neither defending nor accusing. “But I could not sleep and decided to inspect our surroundings, see if there were any vantage points for Hitler’s puppets to have.” 

He took a step forward, misplaced his footing, tripped, stumbled, caught himself on a tree. 

Agatha instinctively turned to help but was drawn to his hand. Bark and dirt may have gotten in the way, but the aroma was undeniable. 

She clenched her fists, damning every aspect of her existence, cursing Dracula to stay in his box and rot. They settled on it not having been entirely his fault, but it was easier to blame him when he refused to listen to her, refused to answer her. 

“Nothing to fret over, ju--”

Agatha was inches away from him, his hand in hers as she inspected the wound. It was nothing more than a scrape but the potency of his blood was irresistible. 

“Dr. Van Helsing?” he called, his pulse increasing. She refused to look up, refused to look at him as she stared down at the red in the night. “Your teeth…” 

“Yes, they do that.” She was caught. “I’m a vampire.” 

She turned to him, sparing him nothing as she released his wrist. Her teeth jagged, eyes red, and claws sharp to points… 

“They aren’t real,” Mathieu protested, refusing to believe what was in front of him. Another Adisa. “Dracula is a fictional character, a silly creature from a picture made to scare people.” 

She brought a finger to his lips, silencing him. “I have lain with the Devil and know him plain. And he is far more terrifying than any film will ever be able to portray.” 

He stared blankly at her, unsure of how or where to move. She could smell his indecision in the air and took advantage of it. Agatha threw him to the ground and listened to the way his ribs cracked beneath her force. She grabbed his face in her hand and tilted his neck, holding it to expose as much flesh as possible, her fingers tightening. His jaw snapped under the pressure, the pain causing him to cry out. The sweet note echoing in her ears as she stared at the artery pounding furiously at his throat.

He tried to say something, tried to protest, but she gnashed her teeth into his skin, sinking deep into his artery and drank. She could hear the snap of his neck, as she pushed harder against his smashed jaw. His life flooded into her, his memories, his dreams…

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 Agatha gasped as her eyes opened. The light of the day was fading as she lay tangled up on the couch in her study. Dracula’s naked body curled tighter against her and drew her closer, placing a kiss at her temple. She pressed into him, secretly delighting in the comfort of his hold. 

The study was the darkest room in the house, save the cellar, and he refused to sleep in the box of dirt that she, in fact, brought from Transylvania. Her bedroom had too thin of curtains for him to be comfortable laying in while she slept. 

“Everything alright?” he asked quietly after some time of holding her, his breath creeping over her skin as he spoke. 

“I’m fine, just hungry,” she replied and shrugged out of his grip, immediately missing the warmth and pressure of him against her. 

“Nightmare, I take it?” He sat up after her, following her with his eyes as she stood and took a few steps forward. 

“You weren’t listening?” She turned to face him, genuinely surprised.

“Not this time,” he hummed cheekily, his eyes moving hungrily over her form. “You looked exhausted this morning after our shower. I figured you could use some time to recuperate. I did it for fifty years, I won’t fault you a few hours.”

“So you just what? Stayed on the couch all day?” 

His brows knit together defensively at her question as though trying to think of a smart remark. But his face relaxed as he leaned back against the cushions, sighing in defeat. 

Her dream nearly made her forget that she had finally fished him out of the sea. Seeing him stretching against her couch, faking a yawn, gave her all the reassurance she needed. When he stood and pecked her lips, she was doubly reassured.

“What else was I supposed to do? You are the worst vampire in the history of vampires, one dark room, while the rest of the place is swimming in sunlight,” he shivered, repulsed by the very notion of stepping into the sun. She would break him of it in time. 

Her stomach twisted in a knot and she gave an annoyed breath. Ever since she fed from him the night prior, Agatha hadn’t been able to rid herself of her hunger. Not during their short break, where he begrudgingly accepted the glass she poured him, not before she went to sleep, not now. 

Her reserves were well-stocked once she knew for certain that she was waking him, she would manage.

“You could have gotten up, I would have gone back to sleep. There are plenty of books in here to read and I doubt you would have been bored,” she returned, her voice unintentionally sharp. With a breath, she relaxed. “Come, I’m sure you’re hungry and you need to put clothes on. Neighbors are as nosy as old nuns and I don’t need them asking why there’s a naked man in my home.”

“Get thicker drapes.” He pressed his lips to her forehead and she went tense under him, her stomach flipping angrily again. “I don’t claim to be an expert, but I’m certain you’re supposed to be relaxed after sex, joyful even. Why don’t you tell me about your nightmare?”

“No,” she shot back as she opened the door, ensuring that the sun was down before stepping into the hallway. She took the short walk through the hall and stopped at her bedroom door, knowing full well that it was not going to be an easy sight to see. 

However, Agatha had not anticipated the magnitude of the destruction they caused. It looked like a crime scene.

The sheets were torn, jumbled mess on the floor along with her pillows, both stained with blood. The wood of her headboard had an impressive chunk splintered from it and the mattress was just slightly askew on the frame. She blinked as she stepped inside, immediately gathering the sheets and comforter in her hands. There was no saving them, and she’d need at least a new headboard. Maybe metal. 

Had they really been that rough?

Yes. 

Had she enjoyed herself as much as the heat dripping down to her core at the memory?

More. 

The sheets were discarded, they were dressed, and the room was cleaned. Dracula mainly talked about nothing important, trying to lure her back into the bed. As enticing as the idea was her hunger gnawed at her interminably, closing off her mind to anything else. 

“You really don’t feed from the vein?” he asked as he stood in her kitchen once again, Agatha grabbing the decanter from the liquor cabinet. “Agatha, you know you’re starving yourself.”

“It suffices,” she replied, voice even. The thought of feeding from a living human appealed to her less when he provoked her. “Not everyone is as gluttonous as you.”

“Gluttony or not, you’re still feeling my hunger. You and I both know that you won’t be satisfied until you’ve drunk your fill from the nearest vagrant,” he postulated, his hand covering hers around the thick glass container, the blood within swayed. She released the neck of the decanter, letting him take it and grabbed two glasses from the same cabinet. Two, beautiful, crystal, custom designs etched into them. 

He caught them in his peripheral and felt like marble, a breath. He approved. “But you… you, don’t feed from vagrants, do you? Agatha, have I rubbed off on you?”  

She set the glasses in front of him with little patience, ignoring his poor attempts at getting her to admit to something he already knew. Agatha was a woman of logic, she always had been, but the way he stared at her, a wolf, had her clenching her teeth. Her hunger grew. The tempter, the snake in the garden. 

“No, I don’t. I feed from specifically selected people based on health. Donations.”

“Donations,” he echoed, disappointed as he poured them each a glass. “It’s unlike you to take advantage of people.”

A drop of guilt fell through her and spread through her veins. He spoke the truth, but she had little other choice. Either take the bags or risk taking lives. It was simple but felt wrong, not entirely aligned with the urges gnashing their teeth from within. His urges. 

Damn him.

Agatha looked at the fine crystal, the liquid within causing her to salivate, swallowing as her gaze shifted to the much thicker glass of the decanter. While imprudent and nearly uncivilized, the gifts she had made for them--no, just for him, they were no couple--would remain unharmed. She could feel him watching her, studying her, and wondered what she must look like. Her silence deafening as she stood, motionless, her eyes shifting between the glass and the decanter. Self-control or submission.

“Agatha,” he mouthed, letting his breath form her name as it left his lips. Dracula knew what weighed her down, what bore so relentlessly through her, just as he knew the only proper solution. 

With a breath, Agatha shifted her weight and took the glass he offered. There was a glint of surprise in his expression when she moved her gaze to him. He was only six inches taller than her, but he towered over her, the constant abyss that lured her in.

“Cheers.” He raised his glass to hers, his eyes darkening as he brought it to his lips.She was too busy drinking to make a snide remark about his inability to control his histrionics. 

The liquid streamed down her throat with ease as she finished it quickly. Agatha opened her eyes, having not realized she closed them and saw him still watching her. He hadn’t moved, the rim of the glass resting comfortably at his bottom lip, the blood no closer to his mouth. 

“I said before that I was hungry, it is your doing, after all,” she specified as the grips of her hunger made no attempts to loosen. “Go on, I think you’ll find it to your liking.” 

He sniffed at the contents of his before taking a sip. A chilling grin spread upon his lips, jagged edges of his teeth visible, as he brought the glass down. His claw tapped lightly at the glass as he ruminated on the flavors; his smile grew before he finished it, gluttonous as always. The veneer chipping away.

As if she was one to talk. 

Another glass shared between them both and then another, draining the decanter as Dracula probed her, antagonizing the beast of her hunger. He relented only when the container was empty. 

“Alright, Agatha, have it your way. But I still need to feed properly and I’m sure the people are very much alive, war being over and all that. The victorious afterglow of battle is a beautiful thing, fills your chest with so much...life.” His words sent a chill to the center of her spine, splintering off like lightning through her nerves.

“Surely you don’t think I’m going to let you leave to do as you please?” Agatha watched as he turned on the sink, rinsing his glass out and then hers, setting them carefully into the basin below. 

“No, I don’t. In fact, I expect you to accompany me,” returned the Count with a smirk. “I know you’ll follow me if I decide to leave on my own. But I’d much rather have you at my side while the night is still young.”

“A moonlit stroll?”

“If nothing else. I’ve been in a box for fifty years, I need to stretch my legs, get a taste for what life is like. I need information and your bags aren’t giving me enough,” he said as he stood close to her and took her hands in his. The Count’s thumb traced over the ring on her finger, his face softening almost imperceptibly. 

Against her better judgment, Agatha agreed to his proposal, shoving a flask in her coat before they left, just in case. 

They walked for what seemed like eternity, winding up and down streets, through alleys, all in silence. Agatha thought it wise to keep moving, lest she catch an all too enticing scent on the breeze. She thought for a moment, wondered where they could go, and directed them towards the water. The cliffs were a beautiful sight and mostly peaceful. Since the war, it had been a place for the occasional petty crime. Drug deals, vandalization, indecent exposure twice on the same day, by the same man. 

He seemed preoccupied, lost in thought. His silence disturbed her and she contemplated listening in but tucked her arm under his instead. If they were going to be out this late at night, she might as well take every precaution to not get stopped by anyone. She could feel the flask burning in her pocket; craved what was inside of it, despite knowing she did not need it.

She wanted it. 

His pace slowed when he felt her worm her arm between his side and bicep, hooking into his elbow. No one had done that for centuries, not without prompting, not without his opiate, not without the promise of something more. She would never stop surprising him, even as he could hear the dam of her self-control splinter into ever growing faults. 

She needed to feed.

“Have you finally grown tired of hearing your own voice?” she asked when the silence became too heavy.

“Never.” He wore the grin of an alleycat as they walked farther along the cliff. The water below them churned against the rocks, a sound so familiar she was able to tune it out and focus on his words. “I figured you would want to give me a tour to keep me from draining someone dry. But don’t worry, I’ll be sure to drain your stockpile when we get back.” 

“Of that I have no doubt,” she admitted and pulled her arm from him. He let out a breath of disapproval and pulled her back to him, hand tight around her waist. “Afraid I’ll wand--”

She could smell it. 

Fresh, alive, a numbing song in her head as she struggled for control over the snarling monstrosity within her. How could she have not noticed it earlier? How did she not hear, not know? Dracula had been…

He’d been silent. 

“Count Dracula!” She struggled against him as his other hand came around her and held her back to his chest. “Release me at once.”

“Need I remind you that it was you who led me here? My dear, you’ve been sniffing out something to eat this whole time.” His accusation burned like fire at her ears and she shoved her elbow into his chest. “You can’t fight it forever, you know.” 

“I most certainly can, now release me so I can assess the situation. I’m a doctor and there is clearly someone in need of assistance. Stay here. I don’t want you killing a possible patient.”

He gave an annoyed growl and let her go, Agatha sparing not a second to hunt down the scent. She felt starved, nearly mad with hunger as her feet delivered her to the scene, blood staining the ground black in the moonlight. 

A young woman. Red of hair, short and unconscious on the ground. There was blood pooling from a wound in her abdomen. Agatha knelt beside the girl, no more than twenty-five, and began inspecting her, trying to bring her to consciousness. But her blood sang to the former nun, lilting sweet poetry to the beast within her, mesmerizing, astounding, addictive, alive.

Something in her broke, and her fingers entered the wound. Hot, inviting, untainted. No organs had been harmed, and Agatha curled her fingers, tearing at the flesh of the woman’s abdomen, and brought them to her mouth as she heard an agonized moan from below.

Discordant, pitiful, and a distraction as Agatha lapped every last trace of blood from her fingers. She brought her free hand to hold the girl’s--Anna’s--mouth shut and looked down at the poor thing with blood-tinged eyes. “Please, be still. For both of our sake. I won’t be long.” 

‘ Don’t be slop-- ’ 

She shut him out of her mind as she clamped down on the girl’s carotid. With a snarl, Agatha tore it from her neck and descended upon the human’s neck, drinking deeply, greedily. Her hand dipped into the wound once more, tearing it open, wanting to feel as the body went limp from the inside. 

There was a surge of energy in her veins, a gnawing that told her to drink deeper, every drop, every last whisper. And she obeyed, clutching at the open wound, crawling under the skin to be closer to her heart. So shallow, so nearly empty, but the organ persisted. Agatha pressed down, cracking ribs between her fingers as she dug, face parting from the woman’s neck as the blood began to bitter. 

Only when she could feel the very nearly still heart, did Agatha’s hand steady. With her mind in a frenzied haze, she gripped the organ and tore it from the corpse. The final shreds of life that drizzled into her throat were magnificent, directly from the source, not the vein. Her fangs sank into a valve, ensuring the last drops were not spared, when she heard him behind her, a low, approving rumble sounding in his chest.

He lowered himself beside her with a hand at her back, careful to fix his attire as he crouched. Agatha released the heart and dropped it to the lifeless body below. Her eyes were nearly black as she panted before him, blood hot on her breath and teeth covered in bits of muscle and shards of bone.

“You may understand the rules of the beast, but not even you can turn your back on its nature,” Dracula finalized as he reached for her face, cupping her bloodsoaked cheek. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you waking like that again.” 

She was beyond shame, drenched in the blood of another, as she looked upon him. Stilling in his hold, Agatha was unsure if she should lean into his touch or snap his wrist. Her body made the decision for her as she fell back, away from the corpse, and away from him. She swallowed as her eyes befell the horror of her work.

It reminded her of an infamous killer who had stalked the streets nearly sixty years prior. She had caught wind of the massacres in a letter from her detective friend, asking if it could possibly be the work of a vampire or other supernatural being. It was possible, but the man was never caught and went silent after completing his work.

“Pull yourself together, Agatha. You’ve seen much worse than this,” he started absently as he scooped the body from the ground, tucking the heart in the cavity she created. Dracula peered over the cliff, sizing the distance, and let the corpse plummet into the frothing waters below without sticking around to see if it hit the bottom. “There you go. Back on your feet. Feeling better?”

She stood as he turned around and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. It did little to fix her appearance, but the way Dracula looked at her would convince a blind man otherwise. She shivered at the sight, curling in on herself as she swayed between disgust and satisfaction. He was right. A beast can only deny its nature for so long, but she was more than such a creature.

She had to be. 

[zrtranscripts]

Radio Abel, Season Eight

Part 4 of 5

~

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Hello ci-ti-zens! Welcome back to Radio New Hope.

ZOE CRICK: This is a very special edition of our show, listeners.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: That's right, Zoe! [laughs] It's our first broadcast since Fort Canton became the seat of the UK government. We’re only a few feet away from the office of the prime minister, Amelia Spens. [sighs] Prime Minister Amelia Spens. [laughs] How did this happen again?

ZOE CRICK: There's never any one factor that determines who rises to power, Phil.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Uh, for the benefit of any listeners not up to date with current affairs, uh, can we list the -

ZOE CRICK: An understandable predicament, given the post-apocalyptic demise of the 24-hour news cycle.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: - can we list the factors that led to Amelia's appointment?

ZOE CRICK: Opportunism...

PHIL CHEESEMAN: ... And?

ZOE CRICK: I'm thinking.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: I thought you said there was never any one factor.

ZOE CRICK: You know, I think Amelia's a special case. Most world leaders aspire to the job, for better or worse, but Amelia only ever wants what's best for Amelia, whether that's nabbing the last reservation for an exclusive spa treatment -

PHIL CHEESEMAN: - or seizing control of a country.

ZOE CRICK: Exactly.

~

PHIL CHEESEMAN: [sighs] Listeners, I realize that the phrase “seizing control” had some negative connotations, and I'd just like to explain what I meant when I said that's what the prime minister did to the UK. There was a power vacuum and no one else was up to the task, so Amelia stepped in.

ZOE CRICK: I'd also like to clarify what I said. Amelia does only want what's best for Amelia, but right now, that's what's best for the country, too.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: We hope.

ZOE CRICK: Amelia wants to live in a UK with hot running water, a plentiful supply of luxury goods, and no V-types. If she's the best person to make that happen, then her being in power is a good thing for all of us.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: And on that note, here's a song that always puts me in an optimistic mood.

~

ZOE CRICK: Radio New Hope is still fully independent and completely unbiased.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: I wouldn't call your veto of progressive art rock unbiased.

ZOE CRICK: Phil, many of our listeners are out scavenging for supplies and running away from zombies. We don't need to make their lives any harder. My point is that our proximity to the prime minister has no bearing on our editorial stance.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Oh, definitely. The fact that Amelia's just down the hall and controls the penal system doesn't affect what we say in the slightest. I hardly ever think about how easy it would be for her to kick me out of Fort Canton and leave me to the V-types.

ZOE CRICK: The only person who'll do that is me the next time you try to put on some King Crimson when I'm not looking. Amelia said a strong government has nothing to fear from a free press.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Might have been a test.

ZOE CRICK: She knows if we suddenly started spouting propaganda, our listeners would get suspicious. As long as she lets us carry on as normal, she looks confident, like she's got nothing to hide.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Which she hasn't. Probably.

~

ZOE CRICK: Do you really think that's necessary, Phil?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: It's journalistic ethics, Zoe. We've got to disclose it.

ZOE CRICK: [sighs] Go on, then.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Listeners, one of Amelia's first acts as prime minister was to give us a new studio.

ZOE CRICK: It's hardly new.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: It's a lot nicer than what we were in before. Less sticky.

ZOE CRICK: To explain, listeners, Amelia is building a scale replica of the House of Commons at Fort Canton. Just like the original, it's furnished with green leather seats. Although most of the leftover building materials went to settlements more in need of refurbishment than Fort Canton, no one else wanted the green leather, so we've got it. All of it. Everything in this room is green.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: It's... a very relaxing color?

ZOE CRICK: In moderation. [sighs] I feel like I'm broadcasting from the depths of the swamp.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: The important thing is that our new upholstery wasn't payment.

ZOE CRICK: Are you satisfied?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: I think so. We can't be too careful about this. Transparency's critical.

ZOE CRICK: Oh, perhaps, but it's hardly the most exciting way to fill the airwaves. Here's some music to lighten the mood.

~

PHIL CHEESEMAN: We hope that's made it clear, listeners. Radio New Hope has no official affiliation with the prime minister, so you can stop filling ROFFLEnet with requests for new laws. We can't help you with them.

ZOE CRICK: And in many cases, we wouldn't want to.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Yeah. To whoever wrote to us under the username Undying_Love, no, I don't think human/zombie marriage is going to be legally recognized anytime soon.

ZOE CRICK: I also think it's also safe to say that if and when the DVLA is back up and running, zombies probably won't be eligible for driving licenses.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: To be fair, we have received some reasonable requests, uh, it's just that we can't do anything about them. We're just broadcasters.

ZOE CRICK: That's right. While it's wonderful that so many of you are politically engaged, you need to direct your efforts towards the right people. If there's something you want discussed in parliament, contact the leader of your settlement.

~

ZOE CRICK: I'm glad that's cleared up. I must say, it's a relief not to be talking about politics for once.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Not that politics isn't important, listeners, it's just that Zoe and I haven't really had a break from it since Amelia became prime minister.

ZOE CRICK: If we're not bumping into settlement leaders in the canteen, we're tripping over King Jamie's retinue when he drops in for his weekly conference with Amelia.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: We can't even get a cup of tea without getting caught up in an argument about V-type policy.

ZOE CRICK: Oh, it's exhausting.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: So allow Radio New Hope to be your refuge from current affairs.

ZOE CRICK: Here's a song with absolutely no political message at all.

~

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Since we're not talking about politics, let's catch up. Uh, Zoe, what have you been doing recently?

ZOE CRICK: Well, last night I went to see Amelia to -

PHIL CHEESEMAN: No need to go into too much detail.

ZOE CRICK: - borrow a David Attenborough DVD.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Oh.

ZOE CRICK: She says they keep her children entertained, but I'm not sure they fully appreciate the lion cubs of the Serengeti. Anyway, I never even got to ask her for it because she was too busy arguing with the representative from the Psychoanalysts Enclave. The UK Alliance hasn't really figured out taxes yet, but Amelia's interpreting the concept loosely. In exchange for services, she wants control of all the dirt the Enclave acquired prior to the apocalypse.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Purely to keep it confidential?

ZOE CRICK: Of course.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Oh, that's sort of like... It's politics, really, isn't it?

~

ZOE CRICK: All right then, Phil, what non-political activities have you been engaging in?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: I've been researching Alan Parsons.

ZOE CRICK: Don't you know everything about him already?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: I'm putting together a biography. It's important that the history of significant cultural figures isn't lost. To make sure my information’s correct, I’ve been cross-referencing my sources with the fan community on ROFFLEnet. It's just that there aren't that many Alan Parsons fans -

ZOE CRICK: Who’d have thought?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: - because many of them died in the apocalypse.

ZOE CRICK: I'm sorry.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: The point is that because there are only a few people left with expertise in classic progressive rock, everyone else on the message board figured out who I am and that I work near Amelia.

ZOE CRICK: So you can't even escape politics on the Alan Parsons forum?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Exactly. I've been bombarded with questions for her, things she hasn't addressed in her own broadcasts. I printed them out, actually. [paper rustles] Here, you can take a look.

ZOE CRICK: You know, some of these aren't bad. I wonder if Amelia would come on the show and answer them.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: I always secretly wanted to host Question Time.

~

ZOE CRICK: Listeners, I'm very happy to announce that the prime minister Amelia Spens has agreed to appear on Radio New Hope and answer some of your questions.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: I won't ask how you convinced her.

ZOE CRICK: I didn't have to. She said it would be good for her image.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Really?

ZOE CRICK: Yes. She says the population sees her as intelligent, refined, and sophisticated, but that those qualities make her hard to relate to. According to her, appearing on Radio New Hope will increase her appeal to people who don't care about personal grooming and who haven't read a book since the apocalypse.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Is that what she thinks of our listeners?

ZOE CRICK: To be fair, reading materials and cosmetics are in short supply.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Yes, and people's priorities have changed. Some of us are more concerned with staying alive than getting our well-manicured hands on the last remaining issues of the Times Literary Supplement.

ZOE CRICK: A fair point. Listeners, to find out what our prime minister's priorities are, send your questions to us over ROFFLEnet.

~

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Zoe, since this is our first prime ministerial interview, do you think we should have picked a more appropriate song than that?

ZOE CRICK: It's too late now.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: People of the UK, we'd like to introduce a very special guest to Radio New Hope. Please welcome our prime minister, Amelia Spens.

AMELIA SPENS: Hello, Phil and Zoe. I must say, I'm glad this is a radio broadcast. This studio looks frightful.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: [sighs] Now hang on. It's decorated with offcuts you gave us.

AMELIA SPENS: Oh, is this where they ended up? I thought we were going to burn them.

ZOE CRICK: We're off to a good start, listeners. Let's have some serious music before we get into the questions.

~

ZOE CRICK: Our first question is from Concerned of Dorchester. “Prime Minister, when democracy is reinstated, will zombies get the vote?”

AMELIA SPENS: “When democracy is reinstated.” [laughs] Phil and Zoe, I hope these aren't all going to be comedy questions.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: I think just focus on the zombie part for now.

AMELIA SPENS: I think we can all agree that one of the few silver linings of the apocalypse is the way outdated prejudices and social orders have been rejected.

ZOE CRICK: Just to be clear, you're not ruling out zombies having the vote?

AMELIA SPENS: Not until I know who they'd vote for. V-types are very intelligent in large groups.

~

ZOE CRICK: This next question is from Sir Augustus Headley Coombs. “Prime Minister, do your duties as a mother hinder your ability to run the country?”

AMELIA SPENS: Quite honestly, if anything, they help -

PHIL CHEESEMAN: I'm sorry, Prime Minister, you don't have to answer that. I apologize on behalf of Radio New Hope to you and to all other mothers listening for airing a question that implies that motherhood might compromise a woman's abilities to do her job.

ZOE CRICK: Quite. We all know that if Amelia's abilities are compromised, it's by her refusal to do anything that might damage her manicure.

AMELIA SPENS: Are you still annoyed about that, Zoe?

ZOE CRICK: Now isn't the time.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: There's really no need to acknowledge this question, Prime Minister. Let's move on.

AMELIA SPENS: It's a reasonable question, and the answer is that dealing with a clutch of screaming children with no control over their emotions is the best training a prime minister could have.

~

PHIL CHEESEMAN: I've got a question from, uh... this person's username is just a string of cat emojis. They say, “Prime Minister, doctors and scientists are increasingly aware of the therapeutic benefits of caring for animals. Simply stroking a cat has been proven to lower blood pressure. Why, even when there's so much evidence that animals make it easier to cope with mental health difficulties, are kitten pens still not compulsory in all settlements?”

AMELIA SPENS: Zoe, did you write this? I told you, if you ever need a way to relieve stress, just come to my quarters and I’ll -

PHIL CHEESEMAN: So that's a no on the kitten pens for now, listeners. Here's a nice loud song to block out the sound of your own imagination.

~

PHIL CHEESEMAN: This question comes from BV, but I'm not sure we should ask it. Zoe, take a look.

[paper rustles]

ZOE CRICK: Hmm, I see what you mean. But if this is a true public forum, nothing should be off limits. Besides, I think the time for editorial qualms would have been before you printed out the entire message board.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Perhaps it wasn't the best use of our paper allowance.

AMELIA SPENS: Oh, just ask it. I've scheduled a hot stone massage after this and if I have to cancel, running out of paper will be the least of your problems.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Um... “Prime Minister, how does it feel to be the most attractive world leader of all time?”

AMELIA SPENS: It's a meaningless accolade.

ZOE CRICK: Of course. We shouldn't judge politicians on their appearance.

AMELIA SPENS: No, I mean there's no competition.

~

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Oh, the next question's also from BV. Uh, this one's a bit more sensible, though. It's about health policy. “Prime Minister, I am the CEO of a corporation with an extensive pharmaceutical arm. I'd be happy to discuss supplies for ministry hospitals. Perhaps over a bottle of Cheval Blanc 1947 Saint-Emilion, and some caviar.”

ZOE CRICK: Wait, pharmaceutical corporation? BV? Is this Valmont? Prime Minister, I don't think this is a genuine request.

AMELIA SPENS: I'm terribly sorry, BV, but a meeting won't be possible right now. I have to be very careful about the relationship between business and government. You understand. More importantly, red wine and caviar is a dreadful pairing. Let me know when you've got some Dom Perignon and then we'll talk.

~

AMELIA SPENS: Zoe, I know that was a dreadful song, but could you at least -

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Hey!

AMELIA SPENS: - but you could at least stay awake for the duration. The rest of us had to.

ZOE CRICK: I was awake. I just like to close my eyes sometimes, or the green gets too much. Anyway, what's the next question, Phil?

[paper rustles]

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Ah, I don't think we need to ask that one.

AMELIA SPENS: Nothing is off limits. Please go ahead.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Um, Outraged of Essex asks, “Prime Minister, does your involvement with Zoe Crick create a conflict of interest regarding your appearance on this program?”

AMELIA SPENS: I don't know, Outraged, do your hobbies create a conflict of interest with your job?

~

PHIL CHEESEMAN: I've got a question from [clears throat] Nice Try, But If You Think I'm Writing My Name In That Box, You've Got Another Thing Coming.

ZOE CRICK: I didn't know ROFFLEnet usernames could be that long.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: “Prime Minister, is it true that you're demanding the Psychoanalysts Enclave give you all their information? Would the details go public? Asking for a friend.”

AMELIA SPENS: Firstly, the UK Alliance doesn't demand anything, it's a negotiation. As for the information, it sounds like its secrecy is valuable to you. Interesting. Write to my office and we'll talk.

~

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Happy and Glorious asks, “Will the king attend the State Opening of Parliament?”

AMELIA SPENS: The State Opening of Parliament took place in the House of Lords, not the House of Commons. Since we haven't built a House of Lords, it just wouldn't be right to reenact such a historically significant ceremony. A shame, as I'm sure King Jamie's speech about self-sacrifice and duty would have been a hoot.

ZOE CRICK: Couldn't you adapt the ceremony for post-apocalyptic times?

AMELIA SPENS: What do you mean?

ZOE CRICK: Before Z-Day, the State Opening of Parliament consisted of several commemorative rituals. For example, the Palace of Westminster cellars would be searched for explosives in remembrance of the Gunpowder Plot.

AMELIA SPENS: And you're suggesting we open Parliament with zombie-themed rituals, is that it? [laughs] Amused as I am by the thought of King Jamie being chased through Fort Canton by a horde of V-types, there are several recent events that it would be best the population stop associating with the office of minister.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: You mean all that stuff with Sigrid?

AMELIA SPENS: It's easier for people to forget if they're not being constantly reminded, Phil.

~

ZOE CRICK: Lance Corporal Kapoor asks, “Is there any truth to the rumor that defense resources are being spent retrieving high heels from the last remaining Christian Louboutin shop in Mayfair?”

AMELIA SPENS: Yes. Politics is all about image, and I need to look stylish yet powerful to intimidate our enemies.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: But aren't zombies our biggest enemies? Do they notice shoes?

AMELIA SPENS: There's a lot we don't know yet about zombies.

ZOE CRICK: On that note, here's a song that'll make us all feel powerful.

~

AMELIA SPENS: Are we nearly finished? All this green is giving me a headache.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Almost. The Truth Is Out There asks, “Is the UK Alliance withholding information about UFOs?”

AMELIA SPENS: UFOs?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Unidentified flying -

AMELIA SPENS: I know what they are, Phil. Listener, was the zombie apocalypse not enough? Haven't you had your fill of government conspiracies? Don't you think if - actually, no, I'm not going to dignify this stupid question with an answer. That's it, I'm afraid, Phil and Zoe. It's time for my massage.

[chair legs scrape across floor]

ZOE CRICK: Wait, there's one more.

AMELIA SPENS: No.

ZOE CRICK: Where is Janine De Luca?

AMELIA SPENS: Oh, Janine. I'm amazed anyone noticed she was gone. Don't worry, listeners. Colonel De Luca is on a secret mission and it's all under control. She and her appallingly drab outfits will be back at Abel in no time. And with that, I'm off.

[door opens]

PHIL CHEESEMAN: I think it's probably time for some music.

~

ZOE CRICK: I think that went... about as well as could be expected.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Yeah, considering it was our first prime ministerial interview, we didn't read the questions before going live, and we're broadcasting from what looks like the inside of a spinach tin.

ZOE CRICK: [laughs] I thought you liked the decor.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: [sighs] Just didn't want to complain. Fort Canton's been a stressful place to work since Amelia became prime minister, but I try to remember that we're all on the same team. Everyone wants to get rid of the V-types and we need to work together, focus on the big things, and not sweat the small stuff.

ZOE CRICK: Hmm. Like how our studio looks like Kermit the Frog's fever dream?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Exactly.

~

[magazine pages rustle]

ZOE CRICK: Phil? Phil, we're live.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Oh, sorry. Uh... [clears throat] Hello, ci-ti-zens! Welcome back to Radio New Hope, where your entertainment is our priority.

ZOE CRICK: Except when we're reading... [magazine rustles] Vogue? Phil, don't take this the wrong way, but I never thought of you as being particularly interested in fashion.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: I never was, Zoe, before the apocalypse. But one of our runners picked this up from a dentist's waiting room during a meds run and I was curious. So fascinating, really, that there used to be this whole industry dedicated to the way we looked.

ZOE CRICK: The people in these pictures had no idea what was coming.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: If they had, maybe they'd have worn more practical shoes.

ZOE CRICK: Yes. [laughs] Good luck running from a zom in those. They're quite fun, actually.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Yeah, they're pretty good, but I prefer these.

ZOE CRICK: Wow! [laughs] Those are quite something. You couldn't wear them to work, though.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Not unless you were this next musical artiste!

~

ZOE CRICK: Welcome back, listeners. Today we're reading Vogue, which is like gazing through a portal into another dimension.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: A dimension where people thought it was sensible to make dresses out of tin foil and feathers.

ZOE CRICK: Mm, I'm not sure sense had anything to do with it. These clothes are about fantasy. They're works of art.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Well, those ones are, but look at this other fashion mag I picked up. [magazine page rustles] This article is called “Summer Must-haves.” It's telling me I must spend 700 pounds on these trousers. And it's next to an advert for some magic cream to make me look young. Now remember, before the apocalypse, a lot of people worried about not wearing the right clothes or that it was a bad thing to look their age.

ZOE CRICK: Hmm, that's a good point. Nowadays, if you see someone older, you know they've probably got some wisdom to share. Always handy in the post-apocalypse.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Exactly! Just yesterday, a teenager asked me where the toilets are.

ZOE CRICK: Hmm, impressive! [laughs] Here's a song by someone even older and wiser than Phil.

~

ZOE CRICK: You know, Phil, how we look hasn't become totally irrelevant since the apocalypse.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Well... yeah. Uh, it's-it's important to look basically alive so that no one mistakes you for a zombie and tries to knock your head off with a baseball bat.

ZOE CRICK: True, but I was thinking more about the way we express ourselves. For example, isn't that a Dream Theater T-shirt you're wearing?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Yes. You know, it does cheer me up to wear a T-shirt featuring a band I like, even if they are all dead.

ZOE CRICK: And I'm wearing socks with cats on them. Every now and again, someone will stop me in the corridor and compliment me because they like cats, too. Then we'll have a conversation about cats and the whole day gets a little brighter.

PHIL CHEESEMAN: They are pretty nice socks.

ZOE CRICK: Thank you, Phil. [giggles] Since we're on the topic, why don't you put on a song for our listeners and I tell you about the morning I spent in the kitten pen?

PHIL CHEESEMAN: Uh, do I get a choice?

ZOE CRICK: Nope.

~

[useless-catalanfacts]

Hie! As a non spanish person with Catalan friends who get really heated up with the subject and cant explain it thru. Why is that they want to separate from spain? And havent they done like 4 or 5 referendum thingies to gain independence and they've all turned our negative or whatever it is that means we wanna stay? I come in peace and hope not to get shouted at like my friends did to me when I asked. Sincerely, the Tall Friend

I think you’re confusing Catalonia with Quebec or Scotland or some other country. We’ve had 1 independence referendum and yes to independence clearly won it. The pro-independence political parties have also been winning the elections every time since 2012.

Let’s start with the beginning.

What is Catalonia? And what was Catalonia?

Catalonia is a country with its own language (Catalan), culture, and history. It developed in the Middle Ages, when it was an independent country.

As you can see, we have two neighbours: Spain and France. As you will probably know, those are two of the most imperialistic countries in Europe (they colonised Latin America, the Caribbean, parts of Africa, the Philippines, etc).

I will try to explain the historical part as fast as possible so we can get to nowadays, but to understand the situation you need a bit of historical context.

Before going to invade lands far away, the European colonial powers invaded their neighbours and fought other European countries. Catalonia, because of its location and importance in Medieval Mediterranean commerce, was targeted.

In 1469, the Queen of Castilla (Spain) and the King of Catalonia-Aragon got married. This was normal at the time and did not mean that the two countries became one. On the contrary, each country remained independent, just that with the same monarchy. It didn’t really matter for Catalonia because Catalonia was ruled by a Parliament (and the king didn’t really have that much power), but Castilla (Spain) was an absolute monarchy (meaning that the King had all power).

With time, the kings and many Spanish people started to really hate Catalans because they were seen as un-Christian for having other forms of government than the Catholic absolute monarchy. And since Catalonia had its own laws and traditions, those were seen as un-Christian and traitorous. Most of the greatest writers, politicians, nobles, etc of the Spanish Golden Century (1500s-1600s) were openly very Catalanophobic.They said Catalans are “the most miserable creature ever created by God”, “a monstruous abort of politics”, “an illness against the kings”, all Catalans were often called thiefs, or that “it is well known the obstinity and savagery of this people [Catalans], the most criminal of all” (all of these are literal quotes). Catalans were also said to be guilty of spreading Judaism in Spain for whatever reason.

(In fact, even nowadays fascist Spanish people often tell Catalans and Basques to “speak Christian” meaning to speak Spanish instead of our languages).

Spain wanted to force all population to convert to Christianism (at that moment a lot of the population, especially in the south, was Muslim), and to become a Castillian (that is, a Spaniard in the modern sense of the word: speak only Spanish, be Catholic, have an absolute monarchy, celebrate Spanish celebrations, etc). This is the moment when Spain did the expulsion of Jewish and Moorish people and when it started its repression of Catalan, Basque and Romani people.

Castilla (Spain) tried to gain as much power as possible in Catalonia, convinced the upper classes of Catalonia that they had to abandon the Catalan language (which they considered a “peasant’s language” and not evolved enough for finer minds), and so the upper classes started to speak Spanish and try to imitate the Spanish way of doing everything. But practically everyone kept speaking Catalan, and Catalonia remained independent (with its own laws, parliament, insititutions, etc).

Until there was a moment where the Spanish monarchy couldn’t stand that Catalonia has such a different political system. In the year 1714, Spain (Castilla) won the War of Spanish Succession against Catalonia and other territories, and proceeded to invade Catalonia and the other Catalan-speaking territories (Valencia and the Balearic Islands).

Spain teamed up with France, which means they were the two most powerful armies in Europe. Obviously, Catalonia-Aragon lost the war, and was invaded.

The invasion meant that Spain could finally do what they wanted with this land: they banned our language and imposed Spanish, they eliminated our traditional laws, they eliminated our institutions and imposed the Spanish absolute monarchy, they imposed Spanish “gobernadores” (governors) to rule our lands, they burnt down whole towns, they closed our universities, they forbid schools for ever speaking in Catalan or teaching Catalan history, they forbid churches to say mass or teach Catechesis in Catalan, they killed many of those who had fought to defend Catalonia from the Spanish invasion publicly to humiliate them (for example, general Josep Moragues was killed after being dragged alive by a horse through the streets of Barcelona and then killed and his head was displayed as a warning in the entrance to Barcelona for 12 years, even with his widow’s begging), among many other things.

Please, see this post for a list of laws made against the Catalan language between the 16th and 19th centuries. And this post for the laws between 1900 and 2016 (when I made the post, I could say more laws now).

After the invasion of Catalonia, the idea that Catalans must be “Spanishized” and that speaking Catalan makes us inferior spread more and more among Spanish people, as did the general hate against us. This is why Catalonia was often victim of Spanish soldiers’ rape, stealing harvest, etc without facing any consequence, because the Spanish kings and officials allowed it.

France also tried to invade us many times, then Spain invaded back, then France, then Spain... but I won’t get into that because it would make this post unnecessarily long.

The worst moment though, was definitely the fascist dictatorship of Franco (1939-1978).

Fascism in Spain adds Catalans (as well as the other national minorities: Romani people, Basques, Galicians, Asturians, etc) to their list of enemies.

Catalonia was always a progressist place, and in the 1930s a huge part of Catalans was anarchist. Fascism made a coup d’etat which they called “a crusade against the reds”, and Catalans were not only targeted for being Catalan but also for being all seen as “reds” (anarchists and communists) and atheists. The anthem of the fascists (called Cara al sol) said “Catalan, Jew, and renegade [atheist], you’ll pay for what you have done”.

The fascist coup d’etat did not triumph in Catalonia thanks to the resistance of the antifascist unions and the Government of Catalonia, which organised civilians militias. Sadly, in the end the fascists won the war (Spanish Civil War) and established a dictatorship. They killed the president of Catalonia and thousands more people who opposed them. Everyone who defended the right to speak Catalan was tortured and killed. Schools were forbidden from teaching in Catalan or mentioning Catalan history, literature, etc. Catalan teachers were fired and either killed (many teachers were leftists) or forced to go to a rural village far away from their home, and schools in Catalonia were replaced by Spanish fascist teachers or people from the Spanish army. These teachers beat the children if they were heard speaking in Catalan. Schools taught the superiority of Spain and the Spanish language and the glory of the Spanish empire. Children were made to sing the fascist anthem and pray every day before starting class. Some Catalan traditions were banned, such as our traditional dance. Many of our traditional songs were also banned, and people even went to jail in for singing them (for example, la Santa Espina). Every family knows people who were tortured and/or killed by the regime, sometimes for no reason, sometimes for their political beliefs.

The dictator died in 1975 and Spain entered a phase known as the “transition to democracy”. Catalonia was given a bit of self-government (not much) and our language was legalised to use at schools.

Even with this, we have whole generations born and raised under the fascist regime who were brainwashed into hating Catalans, Basques, Jews, atheists, etc. And even in Catalonia, there are still people who are ashamed of being Catalan. For example, the neonazis who murdered Miquel Grau and Guillem Agulló (two Valencian young men who were targeted for being independentists) were not from other parts of Spain.

It is scary, because our country is controlled by another one which is full of people who hate us, and the Spanish governments have always (even nowadays) discriminated Catalonia in front of other regions and actively work against us.

Many people wanted to try to be able to keep our language (which was weakened by the fact that it was persecuted for most of the 20th century) and pass different laws. Spain is very conservative, Catalonia is not. If you look at the maps every time there are elections, you can see the voting results in Spain vs. the voting results in Catalonia and the Basque Country are very different.

So the governments of Catalonia have been asking the Spanish government to have a few more control over our own territory (Spain is very centralist, so most power is in the hands of a central government in Madrid). Spain has always said NO. Please see this previous post with a video that explains all the ways we have tried.

Catalans basically were saying “yes, we will be part of Spain with no problem, as long as we’re allowed to speak our language and have some laws to protect women, poor people, etc”. Every time, we had less demands. We were begging that yes! we wanted to be part of Spain but just these little demands! But they never allowed anything. Spain still has a very imperialist mindset, and see our sole existance as a threat (that’s why you get the Minster of Education Wert saying in parliament that “we must turn Catalan kids into Spanish kids”).

So in front of that, people got tired. More and more people saw that the only way we can truly advance to a more equal and democratic society is if people who live in Catalonia can decide how Catalonia should be run, and not just obey the comands of a government in Madrid that has never had any intention of helping our land prosper, and who have an opposite idea of what the future should be like.

So we asked for an independence referendum. Many times. They always said no. So we said “fuck it, we’ll do it anyway”. So we organised October 1st 2017. Spain declared it illegal, searched for the ballot boxes and voting papers for months, sent thousands of military police to beat up voters and steal the ballot boxes with the votes, etc. The police brutality on that day was shameful, and yet the Spanish government and the King said the policemen were honourable for doing so, and many Spanish people gave them support too and greeted the policemen singing “a por ellos” (go get them).

Please, read more about what happened in October 1st and after it in this post.

Even though the police stole votes, physically stopped people from entering the voting schools, etc. 43% of the people of Catalonia voted (in fact, over 50% voted but their votes were stolen by the police and could not be counted). And 90,2% of the votes were “yes to independence”.

Spain’s response? A democratic country would have found the solution to meet with the Catalan goverment and talk about it, maybe find a middle point, listen to the demands of Catalans... But no. Spain’s response was to jail the politicians who had taken part in the organisation of the referendum as well as the leaders of the main civil organisations, more people arrested, and arbitrary imprisonment in . They also took down websites that talked about the referendum and independence, said we had made up that the police had beaten voters (even though over a thousand people had to be hospitalized just on the day of the referendum as a result of police brutality and there are hundreds of photos and videos), and apply Law 155 in Catalonia (which means that the Catalan institutions are dissolved and Catalonia is ruled directly from Madrid. The party at the Spanish gov in that moment was the far right wing PP, which in Catalonia had only gotten 13% of the votes. That is basically a dictatorship).

And now, every time there is more and more repression. Some people ask us if we are not scared of the arrests, jailings, police brutality, etc. Yes, we it’s scary. But not protesting and remaining under Spanish occupation is even scarier. For mental health, I don’t think I could stand the rest of my life seeing how Spanish media treats us. I don’t want to see my grandmother cry when she watches the news because “it’s like Franco again”. I don’t want to see more of my friends in trials for things they have not done. I don’t want to be temporarily arrested again because a policeman saw me wearing a yellow ribbon (symbol of solidarity with political prisoners) and decided I must be up to something.

tl;dr Spain is a fascist state and we want no part in that.

Catalan people want to be treated as equals and this will never happen in Spain. We want to be able to pass the social laws we have voted for (to welcome refugees, equal pay for women, protect the Earth, abolish monarchy, not have political prisoners, stop evictions, etc) and Spain does not allow us to. The only option is independence.

Please, read this previous post and you’ll see how Spain bans Catalonia from progressive laws, and so how independence will make life much better for all its citizens. And hopefully, more Spanish people will realise that life is happier when we respect each other and work in cooperation for a better future.

[common-blackbird]

The Poppy War thoughts

Eversince i’ve played dragon age, i wanted more of fantasy (and just couldn’t finish stolen throne... i just... i’m struggling) so i read the poppy war bc i saw some good reviews about it.

The only thing i knew about the book was that it has a strong anti-war message and it is based on opium wars & chinese mythology. (it has actually elements of any events of history of china combined).

Having binged it in 3 days, my thoughts are scattered, so if you’re reading this: i’m sorry. Everything i say is personal opinion that is open to changes bc this book really did hook me and despite my criticisms, it is good enough to read the sequels so overall i can already say that i really like it.

the shortest version of my thoughts on the book is that it has a good theme with a solid execution, but the characters leave me wanting.

THE PROS

Just like any anti-war themed story, this one has a lot of war in it. But instead of going full-on “war is bad”, the characters here are trained for it and while not explicitly want it, they do not condone it. In fact, the only one who is supposed to frown at the senselessness of the war is the reader themselves with some warnings from 2 characters that serve as a call of moral conscience. But it doesn’t start with the war at all. It starts with an underdog characters making her way up through ranks by her willpower. While she’s exceptionally smart, that doesn’t make her special, and she faces a fair share of failures. She gets into a prestige academy made for training generals and such, but gets pulled into mystical world of shamanism, walking a thin line between godlike powers and madness as well as controlled use of and addiction to opium. Once we discover the gods, the plot turns to war and the main character is a part of it. And this is where the interesting theme comes in as well as world-building.

There are three main powers at play + one that doesn’t directly appear in the story:  the Nikara empire (imagine china), The Mugen Federation (imagine imperial Japan) and the Island of Speer (the warrior people that got enslaved by nikara empire).

From the start there’s mention of genocide of speerling people and the question of why that happened. There are three culprits: the Mugen Federation that commited the genocide; the Nikara Empire that sacrificed and let the Island of Speer fall under the hands of the mugen, so that the westerners would get involved; the Speerling queen that many years ago allowed the Speer island fall under Nikara and get enslaved which, at the very end, resulted in this tragedy.

And while at first it really seems a simple answer of innocence of the Speerling, the doubt is created by the lore: there are gods at play, and the speerling worship one of the most violent gods of all: the god of rage and vengance and fire. A lot of times, the plot suggests that the genocide is the final result of the greediness of gods and the lines between right and wrong become very blurred.

The main question this book posed was: would you, as a leader of your people, take responsibilty and act in the interests of your people and unleash the terrible power that would create hell on earth, or would you, as a human with an access to terrible power, act morally and sacrifice your own people to the most awful suffering imaginable to prevent the hell on earth?

There is no right choice: you’re damned if you do, and damned if you don’t.

This is what keeps you going throughout this book. What will the choice be? There are plenty of hints at what is the right choice, and you’re just watching a disaster in the making, which is pretty enjoyable and incredibly frustrating.

Also, there is a gore scene that is so well written that it makes you sick to your stomach. You can’t believe people are capable of that. And yet they are.

Another thing that i didn’t expect but am not against is that, instead of humanizing the enemy, you get one, maybe two hints that the enemy is just a human being. But in general, the enemy is so abstract you feel nothing for them and they commit such atrocities you really don’t want to feel anything for them. It gives a sense of false security in the protagonist’s higher moral ground and makes their choices all the more harder.

The plot moves at a very fast pace which makes the book addicting. the flow of time is quick, there’s no rest, things are happening one after another, you start forgetting you started with the school setting bc you’ve ended up with sieges, massacres, imprisonments and godly realms.

Speaking of godly realms, they are interesting, though scarce, but the way they influence the mortal realm makes you believe in the cruelty and the danger of gods, regardless of what they are. Combination of accessing godly powers with opium was a great choice bc shamaism is often discarded as simply being high. The use of opium in the story was amazing: it is a drug, it is an blessing, it is an instrument, it is a torture device. The gods are deeply intertwined with disasters, and the question of power and suffering gets into frontline because them. It’s mystic, mysterious and hooks you up.

THE CONS: The characters. the characters aren’t much fleshed out and are lacking dynamics between each other, and the main character lacks credibility of her choices.

The main character is a war orphan who hated her foster family as much as they hated her and she made her way to prestige academy. there are 4 important people that become important for her during the book that she meets in the academy: the eccentric teacher, the famous perfect student that is the last of the speerling race, her nemesis and rival rich guy and her very smart friend.

Everyone else is pretty much a plot device. The problem is that, while the main character is interesting in the part of the book where she’s learning and making her way in the academy, she becomes uninteresting when the war starts. In academy she fails a lot, she needs to fight for herself and find alternative ways when everyone is against her. She’s so active. She starts learning bizzare things and is entering the realm of gods that is extremely challenging for her practical mindset. It is so satisfying to read. But once that is over, she becomes a pretty much passive character that observes what is happening around her and rarely does anything of significance until the very end. What really bugged me was that (SPOILER:) She is said to be another speerling, and at one point that is still only a possibility that everyone believes, but does not need to be true, especially since no one made the connection at all, and she herself doesn’t have any connection to the culture, but in the end she becomes radically invested in it for no apparent reason. Her reccuring theme in the beginning is that she doesn’t belong anywhere, but that is, after a while, just discarded theme, bc suddenly, with no apparent reason, she’s all in for a culture she doesn’t know much about.

Her choices would have made more sense if her questioning and regrets were slowly waning as the story progresses. this is about having no choice. This is about bitterness creeping upon you until you see there’s no other answer but the wrong choice. But turns out, she just suddenly feels angry, suddenly feels regret, but suddenly she doesn’t care, but suddenly she does, and that is a recurring cycle. It would have and does make sense for one other character, who in fact did go through a lifetime of suffering and is simply so bitter that everything he does he does out of desperation and spite without making you lose your trust in his humanity. It’s a tragic story. The main character? The amount of empathy she has, second thoughts before she chooses, it just doesn’t make sense that she chooses the same thing over and over. Especially with everything she’s seen. But whatevs. That was my biggest issues. Even knowing she’s going to always make the wrong choice, it could have been more satisfying. It’s obviously intended to make her gradually enraged, but she’s so much in her spectator role, there is no feeling of actual rage from her.

Another thing that makes it inconvincing is that i experience no real loss from her. She had nothing to lose. The first person she’s supposed to lose was the nemesis rich guy whom she regretted that they weren’t friends bc they really function good. Turns out he has a fake death - is actually alive, and not so wounded bc of mysterious reasons. Then he dies again (which will inevitably result in another fake death bc the explanation for the first fake death was left hanging), and her belief in his certain death made her rage turn towards, not the enemy, but her own comander/perfect student genocide survivor, who decided to rather save an enemy soldier for questioning than let her save her comrade.

Then there was the massacre scene where she could have lost her dearest academy genius friend, but it turned out he was a survivor, so again, lot of traumatic scenes for her, but she still lost only the nemesis guy.

Lastly, she loses her commander/perfect student genocide survivor, whom she most of the time didn’t agree with, but did come to empathize  with him bc his story is so tragic, he wants to die. He dies a meaningful death for himself, destroying his own enemy, and that is what hits her the most. Probably bc she felt they were kin by then.

Lastly, her relationship with her teacher is just a moral compass of what she should do, but it’s the only convincing character dynamic that makes her chose wrong, bc she can’t understand him and he’s really bad at explaining things.

OTHER POINTS

the writing style... i like how it’s ambiguous: no clear descriptions, fast pacing, cut-to-the-chase dialogues. On the other hand, there are so many little things that irk me. Most of all is that many times things are mentioned and then explained. like, somebody says an unexpected thing in a dialogue and then the narrative shortly explains the change of stance.

To make an example, there’s plenty of description of what happened after the bad choice, but not once there’s description of what it felt like when what she was warned about happened to her. that happens only after it’s mention in a dialogue. A banal thougth out example: the god tells protagonist she will burn endlessly. Shit happens. We see the world. She meets comrades. She gets judged for her actions. She’s a little sad, a little angry, a little relieved. Then she’s chatting with a guy and he asks her why she needs drugs so much. She answers that needs to rest. And then the narrative starts that ooooh, the god never left her and keeps screaming in her head (even if we don’t see any consequences of her having a god in her head), that she’s constantly in pain and can’t stop burning (even though we are reading from her POV and see nothing that indicates that). I know i should just gloss over it, but i’m so.. needlessly critical, ignore me.

(also there’s a supposed rivalry between her and the guy who’s helping her for the good graces of the commander/perfect student genocide survivor, even though at the time she’s angry at the commander and the book ends with her and the helping guy making  a pact and setting aside the supposed rivalry bc the commander is dead. What did i miss. Where was this rivalry? Why does it end with that???)

ALL IN ALL

it’s a compelling story that lacks a lot in some prospects, but the main theme really gets you going. There is bloodspilling, no actual romance, gore, not-very-convincing friendships, monstrous enemies who are wronged, moraly grey protagonists, grim outcomes and fast pace.

[advernia]

around june of last year, i decided to revive my writing blog as one of the many potential stress-relief methods i could think of.... i didn’t think i’d be able to keep it active for long since work + family duties keep me preoccupied most of the time, but eyyy!!! so far i haven’t lost the motivation to keep going back to this blog, and i even managed to keep it afloat for half a year!!! amazing!!! (•̀o•́)ง

and now here we are halfway through 2020!!! it’s waaaay overdue but here’s a big T H A N K  Y O U  V E R Y  M U C H ! ! ! to everyone and anyone who dropped by this blog last year + all them likes, comments, reblogs...... please know that i’m still i n c r e d i b l y grateful for the support & interest in the content i’ve posted up!!!! tbh my activity’s still hella sporadic so it’s really amazing for me that i even gained new followers.... i’m very honored to have all of you stick around my blog despite my irregularity!!!!!!!! (༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ)

it’s also overdue, but i slowly managed and finally cleaned up the blog like i’ve been meaning to do + changed the blog name to match my ao3 handle for consistency!!! i make no promises to be super active... but i’m sure that i still want to continue writing & keep this blog alive!!!! 

again, thank you all for your time + reading my works!!!!!!  ∩( ´∀` )∩ work commentary on the rest of my works last year follows under the cut!

oct 1 // hero’s journey

a drabble on blanc + oliver about the alices... now that i think of it, calling the first alice first alice is kinda funny considering that alice is really her name... or is it? 

i do hope blanc’s route talks about her a bit, haha! i mean, i wish cybird remembers that they’ve been dropping the occasional background tidbits about her... like for example, her pocketwatch (that she gave to blanc eventually) having a magic crystal engraved into it.... her potentially leaving a fucking globe in the black army’s possession (like... wow... u fell with that thing????????)....

plus, i just find it interesting that she was remembered by cradle as a heck of a troublemaker lol! it also makes you wonder who among the main cast met her, blanc aside... though it’s not stated when exactly she fell into cradle, so maybe only blanc had the opportunity of meeting her...

so does blanc speak of her fondly bc she’s a woman, or is there something else??? has he been frequently visiting the land of reason pre-game??? has he found the first alice’s antique shop / met her again??? does he still try to figure out the reason why there’s a magic crystal engraved into the first alice’s pocketwatch????? hmmmmm......

on another note, it would be hilarious if cybird pulls a peter pan 2......... since we can’t pull off a mother-daughter relationship like wendy & jane’s, what if alice the second is somehow actually related to the first alice?? and while she’s completely different from her predecessor, blanc finds himself falling for alice the second........ just like he fell for the first alice? drama!

that’s just a random thought but kidding aside, i do hope blanc’s route is hella interesting bc i think he���s our mr. exposition for knowing more about cradle itself lol

oct 1 // fair (?) ladies & phony (?) enchanters

a result of going manic a few days after seeing harr’s trailer + route release.... ahaHAHA I’M STILL WILLING TO PLAY UR ROUTE IN JP HARR (if i actually had time to sit down and translate gET REKT)

i liked writing these drabbles and i think they’re cute but tbh they did nothing to ease my curiosity about harr’s route.... if anything else, it became even w o r s e  haha........................

if i think of blanc to have a cradle-centric route, i do hope harr’s route is magic tower-centric! naturally it will be since he’s got history there, but i hope a lot of my questions about the magic tower will be answered.....

will harr’s perspective of the magic tower be in the eyes of a test subject or a disciple???? he was scouted by the magic tower, but it wasn’t stated what he was doing exactly..... going by hints + loki’s & zero’s routes, it’s more of him being a disciple, so there’s bound to be guilt.......

hopefully alice’s characterization in his route is good + we get a fun group dynamic with loki!!! their potential.... the most(?) notorious criminal of cradle, a sought after test subject, and that one girl who nullifies all magic; a renegade trio lurking around the forbidden forest.... what an odd bunch!

oct 4 // god is a five minute hymn

a religious themed fic with lancelot & alice - tbh i don’t even know why religion was the first thing that came into mind when liz and i were talking about cultural differences, lol.

on that note though! i personally like thinking that if ever cradle had a semblance of a religion, it would be polytheistic & nature-centric, and not strictly practiced - the stratocracy of both territories i’d like to think makes it harder for religion to have a voice, much less have one that is practiced by the general population. the only thing general about it is that the religion centers or has magic crystals as an important factor... or something. yeah.

that aside, i think i specifically chose lancelot in this piece for the sole reason that his canonically stated lack of common sense, in my opinion, gives him the curiosity of a child sometimes - there’s no sense of malice or doubt, just the pure innocence of wanting to know something....... religion does that to kids, especially when introduced to it at first.

rereading the fic makes me think of the instances where when faced with dire or unsettling situations, people turn to faith as a life line.... well, i’m not sure if i had that subconsciously in mind when writing alice, but that does give a spin to it....

oct 6 // flow like the river nile

a spontaneous red army-centric fic! it certainly turned out better than i expected... i liked the formatting i used for this one!

if cybird can give us more about the pre-game suitors it would be great, tbh! and while the stuff about them in school is interesting, i’d like to see more about when they assumed their positions + combat scenes! the neutrals are special cases, but knowing more about their living conditions + daily lives is also a treat...

i was thinking of adding one last snippet about lancelot in the eyes of the reds, but i scrapped it out and switched it to alice & lancelot’s conversation about duty - it could’ve worked better if i stuck to using the what is your duty? question, but i scrapped it eventually too. ah well. it does look good enough as it is. 

oct 7 // seeking out phantoms

a mandatory(???) odd one out aka content that’s not ikerev, haha! i missed fe:a all of a sudden...

i never got around to writing properly for this fandom tho, what a shame - i’ve got some bits of pieces in my drafts that looked interesting and easy enough to pick up, and this was one of them.

robin investigating more of their plegian heritage could’ve been a good subplot tbh... i still wish there was something like a paralogue or dlc about it, bc honestly the valm arc goes a bit slow until you get to the future past revelations. ah well.

and gaius bc first husband for the win.... not like i actually had the guts to marry anyone else in my other save files lololol

nov 7 // push me off a bridge (to catch me as i fall)

my longest project of 2019, holy shit! i didn’t know i still had it in me to write something past 10k... i need more of that motivation + energy....

there’s nothing much to say about this since i blabbed about everything in the post-reading notes, but as much as i fought myself to get this done, i really enjoyed writing a long fic again! hopefully i can get myself to write another one this year...

nov 18 // beloved, beloved, let me be clear

18 sentences on zero & alice + macross frontier references! man, when i really got to the point about the earrings i was thinking of sheryl a lot....

kept it in sentences cause i didn’t have enough time to put up a decent ficlet! but i really wanted to get my screaming out of my system....... i used to do sentences + three word sentences challenges before, and doing one again was pretty fun!

but really.... zero’s route kept me happy for days???? their buildup + dynamic was something i was totally w e a k for, no joke..... thank gods the collection event was going on, bc i really made good use of my stocked chapter tickets lolol!

i was especially excited come the ball scene, and that cg..... a h a h a.... i need more of those pretty cgs where i can see alice’s face + costume change....... 

nov 20 // coloring inside the lines

jonah + alice + makeup!!!! tbh this was really fun, i enjoyed writing this one - if i remember, this was a fic that i managed to continuously work on the day i thought it up!

jonah may not be my best boy but tbh i find writing him very easy - i guess it’s because i’m very fond of characters like him!!! those uptight nobles who are as prideful as hell but can definitely live up to their name + are more capable than their bragging suggests... idk if there’s a general trope name for these doods, but i especially like analyzing their motivations + convictions!!!

i liked how i ended it, but i apparently i made an actual ending that’s now a snippet in my drafts - jonah & alice head to the ball, and somewhere along some bystanders’ flow of conversation someone drops a comment about jonah’s lips looking... quite more luscious than usual, lolol. so t h i r s t y. upon hearing this, alice can’t seem to stop smiling for some reason..... 

nov 27 // blue fields, verdant skies

a practice drabble set centric on a ray/alice development that i liked so much i made it into a series - plus, it’s black army content and honestly i need to write more of them! my red army bias is showing whoooooops

it’s a feudal + arranged marriage au, with the latter... being quite spontaneous. it’s those types of marriages where neither have even met - not even once - only to face each other come the wedding... so it’s a given that audiences from both parties are rather curious how this will turn out.

since i had the theme of fate in mind, ray was the automatic pick for the male lead. the rest of the black army is a given and for kicks, i added dean and dalim! i actually want to write about them + mousse, but since i’m still unsure on their characterizations i’ve been holding them off.... but i gave in anyway.....

alice is again named for word count convenience purposes since it’s in actual 100 words aka drabble form! i have planned scenes + an ending already in mind, but going there is pretty hard bc.... i still have to write the scenes in between + resist temptation to expand further on other scenes, haha....

initially i was planning to keep it updated here as well, but any more updates of this are on ao3 instead! the formatting looks better there instead of my blog tbh, and it also gives it a sort of muted tone to the story that works with me!

this is also the 31st fic in this blog, marking an end of the challenge liz bestowed to me lolol - since i brought this blog back to life around june, i was dared that by the end of the year, i should’ve posted more than 15 fics to add up to the initial 15 i had already posted before, thus the numbers on my fics back then.... now that i actually succeeded, i can stop counting lololol!!!! tho hopefully i can still be pretty active this year....

dec 22 // duck, duck, bullet

oliver & fenrir on guns... this probably wins as the most spontaneous idea i had on my head - tbh, i wasn’t even sure where i was going with it at first! but i’m sure i was suddenly thinking about that one detective conan movie.... then it became kid!oliver with a gun.....

i wonder if he tests the bullets at night, when he’s in adult form.... then again, kid!oliver with a gun still works.... say that because he’s a genius inventor, he made some models to serve as his shooting targets.... but another thought that amuses me more is.... blanc does the bullet testing for him!?

lololol i already thought about blanc being oliver’s live target, but i also find blanc with a gun very interesting.......... i mean, blanc certainly doesn’t look like he can fight, but who knows??? i mean, mousse is the former ace of hearts, but i still can’t imagine him fighting..... appearances can be deceiving....

the two aside, i wonder how fenrir even met oliver and got him working on his bullets........ was it through blanc or other connections???? how long have they been seller and buyer???? does anyone else commission anything from oliver?????? hmmmm.....

dec 23 // terms of surrender

i’ve been told by liz + luci + other friends that i needed to practice writing more.... cheesy fluff. i’m not sure if this sirius/alice piece counts, lol. in fact, i think it’s my definition of fluff i see here - and it translates to not exactly fluffy at all!

tho if you want me to be honest about it - when i write suitor/alice stuff, how alice was characterized in the suitor’s route is still my basis for how i’ll write her, and sirius’ alice................ haha......... i think she’s the alice that’s honestly easy to write but i choose to avoid.......... 

i don’t dislike the sirius/alice dynamic per se, tho. i do find it cute, especially if cybird stops emphasizing the issue of maturity in the relationship on alice’s side. i understand - i really do - that it’s a potential issue in the relationship, but...... that’s not the only problem you can possibly have as time passes, right?????

on another note, it’s funny that only sirius gets to be harped about the maturity due to age difference issue - setting aside blanc, who heavens know how old he is, lancelot’s 29 and since alice is presumed to be around ray + fenrir’s age, you could say that she’s 24 or even 23 to be safe.... so that makes a 5 / 6 years difference but it’s never brought up, lol. but i guess it’s because unlike lancelot, the black army’s been making sirius’ age a running gag....

anyway, this piece is pretty decent! i was thinking of something along the lines of mornings between a “married couple”.... there were two scenarios i had in mind, and i opted to write this one out first.... maybe i’ll have the second one posted up here another day.

dec 28 // a chain of black thrones

pre-game!sirius & ray and bc i was thinking a lot about the previous chosen, the former jack of spades!!! i wonder if the armies have a set age for retirement lolol... it would be awesome if there was still a chosen who’s already past his 50s or something, haha!

since sirius was constantly badgered to take on the role of king, i was also wondering about how long the black army was ‘king-less’... i mean, if the tension between both armies was really as great as they say, having no king puts the black army at a precarious position... i also thought that ‘nah, maybe there was a king or something but maybe the black army didn’t like him or something so they insisted that sirius take it instead’ but sirius’ 1st anniv. epilogue says otherwise - there really was a period that the black army had no king, wow. how the heck did they deal with that???? surely the red army saw this as a display of vulnerability....

can the black army’s chosen choose to leave their posts when they feel like it??? when they’re defeated by a challenger, what happens to them - a demotion, or do they serve under the ‘new’ chosen??? does the black army’s chosen change constantly because of their meritocracy + challenger system??? like, how do they deal with that, and do they announce their changes in chosen each council meeting??? each new question just snowballed my curiosity, whoops...

there were so many angles i thought of but i decided to settle for addressing the king-less state of the black army... through the eyes of a veteran who’s probably served many kings throughout his time of service as part of the black army’s chosen.

i gave this jack of spades character a name, actually - garret folner. maybe someday i’ll write him again, bc i actually enjoyed thinking about the present + past chosen interactions - maybe i’d think about that for the red army, but this time i find the black army’s side more interesting for this situation.

dec 29 // steadfast tin soldier

a zero/alice piece for zeroweek - i was about to post pt. 1 as a standalone, but then i just thought about how.... zero bought alice a gown.... but never got to dance with her at the day of the ball..... so i rushed to add pt. 2 haha!

with the addition of pt. 2 it looks cut short tho - i did think of putting a scene in between, but no good ideas came into mind bc i was too fascinated with the dancing scene... i swear at some point i will find myself writing a fic or a part of a fic that’s a dance scene for the rest of the ikerev suitors + alice....

this is the kind of fluff i live for, actually... i’m totally fine with the steamy content cybird throws during events + bonus stories, but if i were to be honest i say.... where’s my non-sexual intimacy????? the simple, wholesome stuff?????????????????

man, i feel hilarious for typing that out..... but well, i guess it’s a matter of different strokes for different folks, lol!

[hong-kong-art-man]

THE HAPPY & SAD LIFE OF THE PUPPET MASTER OF HONG KONG—MAK SIU TONG

There are different kinds of puppets for a show and they can talk, sing and dance to amuse: glove puppet, rod puppet, shadow puppet, finger puppet and string-operated puppet. In Hong Kong, rod puppets and string-operated puppets (sometimes known as marionette) were once popular. Only a handful of very old artists still work in the trade. When they are gone, there is no contrivance on earth which can make puppet shows appear again in Hong Kong…

Man dies but glory lives. This is true not only for soldiers—but also artists. Mak Siu Tong, the greatest puppet master of Hong Kong was born in 1907 and passed away in 1987. He had enjoyed 80 years of fame. Mak learnt puppet art from his uncle in Guangdong Province of China when he was 15. After World War II, he came to Hong Kong to seek refuge. In China, he was a puppet hero. Poor in Hong Kong, he lost his backslappers who are fading out. Mak Siu Tong had to start his career again. He was multi-talented and could control rod puppets, do playwriting and sing. He also performed in Cantonese opera but took up both male and female roles when it was considered by women to be a disgrace to perform publicly in those days. In grave need of money to support his wife & daughter, Mak found the job of a handyman in a factory in Kowloon. Being a ‘nobody’ worker, he could ask for a day off at anytime to pursue his journey for puppet stardom. He accepted offers to perform in the different parts of Hong Kong: remote villages, outdoor playgrounds, party restaurants, temples and theatres. Such performances were usually badly paid. His wife always said, “My dear, please forget about puppets. Find a long-term job which can feed your family well!” Such conversations about reality and unreality normally ended in silence. Puppet shows were the only thing that can make Mak feel alive and passionate. He told his friends, “Puppet art is my life. No matter rich or poor, I must continue at any cost!”

The ‘self-image’ is the key to human dignity. Despite being a worker in a filthy factory, Mak wanted to look like a star when he appeared in the public as a proud and well-dressed puppet artist: a neatly ironed shirt, a pair of blue jeans, a scarf, a painter cap and sometimes a trench coat. He was confident about his profession. Although Mak was fond of cured and braised fatty pork, he tried to eat as little as possible in order to keep his slim body shape.

In his old age, Mak was trying very hard to find an art apprentice to continue puppet art in Hong Kong. He was sad to see puppet shows being abandoned. For him, the disappearing of puppets meant the disappearing of humanity without kindness or taste. As expected, no young boy or girl would respond to his invitation as doing puppet shows as a career would imply extreme poverty which was something to be ashamed of in an expensive city like Hong Kong. Even Mak’s daughter Connie turned down her father’s suggestion that she could become a puppet master. In 1987, before Mak died of scurvy in a hospital, he told Connie, “Most people want a lavish funeral. I want it too. I want my puppets, tools and scripts to be kept and stored up. For me, this is already a lavish farewell!” Connie did keep her promise. Since 1987, she has been keeping Mak’s puppets and meaningful things in a storeroom in Mei Lam Estate, a public housing estate in Shatin where Mak Siu Tong lived because his humble income was not good enough to allow him to buy a private home. Among all the ‘treasures’ of Mak, there were a few rod puppets of several hundred years of age and likely made in the Pearl River Delta region of China. The puppet rods were hollow inside. The eyes and mouth of the puppet were controlled by small sticks. At the request of a French collector in the 70s, Mak went to China to look for puppets of historical value. After shipping the purchased puppets to Europe, the man bequeathed a few to Mak.

Just a while ago, Connie contacted me and said, “The landlord, Hong Kong Housing Authority, will terminate the lease of the storeroom. I cannot afford a commercial storage place. It is tragic that I will have to throw away my father’s belongings. I know his puppets and other possessions are culturally precious. Could you find a museum which is kind enough to take over the riches?” Without the slightest hesitation, I phoned Mr. Terence Cheung, curator of the Hong Kong Museum of History. He promptly went with his colleagues to Mei Lam Estate with me. They found quite a number of exceptional items and some of them would be acquired as museum collections after deliberations. I was attracted by a puppet opera script printed in the 1950s.

Poverty entails hardship and stress. Even now, many artists are poor. People are happy to pay for new clothing and good food but not art. Commercial sectors in Hong Kong seldom pride themselves on supporting and donating to art activities. It may be wrong to tell people to follow their dreams no matter what, because being a miserable artist is not an easy game. On the other hand, for those who are not troubled by the burden of making a living or the satisfaction of succeeding in art is far more important than money rewards, they should close their eyes and dig deep into art, like what Master Mak did.

Someone told me this: every time you do a good deed, you shine the light a little further into the dark. When you are gone, the light is going to keep on shining and will push the shadows back. The life of Mak Siu Tong must be a mixture of happiness and traumas. Yet, he did a good deed for the art of Hong Kong.  The good deed I did for him and his legacies is like raising my hand in salute to a great artist who left us about 30 years ago. We miss such a wonderful master. When Mak Siu Tong disappeared, the puppet art of Guangdong became invisible in Hong Kong. It may be natural. I just meditate about it.