#they’re so complicated that any combination of words fails to describe them

[neyxmessi]

[cuntess-carmilla]

On disability and gender

I'm writing this from my perspective as a dyadic TME non-binary lesbian (also mixed but very pale and non-Black, as well as relatively thin). I will group myself with women but like, I'm also not really a woman it's complicated lol. I say this because I can't have first-hand comprehension of all the possible dynamics between gender and disability, and other physically disabled people are very much encouraged to add their own thoughts and perspectives to this post.

I don't feel equipped to speak on how being disabled and intersex impacts gendered experiences because I have too much left to learn, so I'm sorry that I'm not going to go into it. It's not because I don't recognize that struggle, it's because I just don't have the range, so please, if you're an intersex and physically disabled person and you want to expand on this, don't be afraid to do so.

Able-bodieds can reblog but don't speak out of turn.

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For a long time I've been trying to articulate my thoughts and pain on how physical disability impacts our gendered experiences and I think I'm finally starting to get to it.

When you're physically disabled you're immediately stripped of a (willing) gender identity as well as desexualized.

Gender is embodied and performed. You can embody it "incorrectly" and perform it "poorly". Everything regarding the embodiment of physically disabled people is seen as incorrect, and the literal meaning of "disabled" is that we can't perform the same way that able-bodied people can, or at least we can't without severely impacting our wellness.

Disabled men are emasculated. Constructs of ideal manhood are in big part built on things such as physical prowess, never expressing vulnerability, being self-sufficient outside of anything domestic, and conquering women sexually and romantically.

Disabled men are seen as weak, they are seen as pathetic for having visible vulnerabilities or (if their disability isn't immediately visible) for exposing their vulnerabilities instead of "sucking it up". By needing aid, accessibility and carers that do more than what a wife would traditionally do for any man, the sense of self-sufficiency men are supposed to perform is unavailable to disabled men. All disabled people are desexualized and seen as repulsive once our sexualities are acknowledged, and even disabled dyadic cishet men can't escape this. Able-bodied women see them as unfit for any sort of serious romantic or sexual partnership. Not to mention too the traditional role of men as providers and how difficult it is for any disabled person to acquire wealth at all, let alone enough to support more than ourselves alone. The rates of poverty for physically disabled people are fucking astronomical, so most disabled men can't even use that to their advantage in romance and sex to make up for all the other ways in which they're at a disadvantage compared to able-bodied men.

Disabled women fail at embodying and performing every single aspect of traditional womanhood too, but in particular; domestic labor, sexual labor, and beauty standards.

All labor is difficult if not downright impossible when you're disabled. Disabled women who need carers as adults are seen as complete failures because, even as children, but especially as adults, we're the ones who're supposed to be the carers of others, not the other way around. People love to pretend that women are coddled more than men, but nothing breaks that illusion more than being a disabled woman. A woman's needs are supposed to be invisible and self-fulfilled, or else we're whiny spoiled bitches, and guess what that means for disabled women. When we can't perform this pristine role we're immediately marked as failures, we're undesirable and nothing but a parasitic drag in the lives of abled people.

Yes, not all disabled women are straight, plenty of us are bi or lesbians, many are also aro/ace, but the point is that the patriarchy doesn't really give a shit what a woman's sexuality is, because no woman is seen as having sexual agency, so even if we're not straight we're expected to exist to satisfy men sexually. I cannot describe how difficult it is to be sexual, even when you're not ace, if you're physically disabled. Speaking from my own experience, trying to maintain a sex life as someone who experiences chronic fatigue and chronic pain is one of the most frustrating and demoralizing aspects of my disability. I want sex, I want to want sex, to be able to fuck my fiancé, but most of the time I simply can't gather the energy to even feel horny. I feel like such a failure of a lover because of it. Even though my fiancé is patient and understanding with me!

Can you imagine what it is like for disabled women who aren't as "lucky" as me, to have a partner who understands that we simply can't do it all the time even if we do want to? I don't want to go into too much detail about this because it's very painful and triggering to many, but I think you can imagine what happens to a lot of disabled women (and disabled people in general) when we're not satisfying a partner sexually and they get too frustrated by it. Being as vulnerable as we are, nobody cares much what happens to us. More so since, again, physically disabled people are seen as sexually repulsive, so if anyone wants sex with us we're supposed to be "thankful" for it, no matter the circumstances.

As for beauty standards, any woman who doesn't fit traditional beauty standards will know just how badly men treat you when they don't find you physically appealing, and well... Let's just say that a cane or a wheelchair aren't seen by society as particularly attractive, no matter how much the woman using them fits traditional beauty standards otherwise. Then there's female amputees, women with deformities, etc. In my case, I'm a literal mutant. If I don't disguise my tells with corsetry, long sleeves, and so, so much more, my body looks "off", I have been told repeatedly that my body looks "off" my whole life, and I'm one of the least visibly disabled ones! Even regarding body hair it's fucking hell. My collagen is so elastic that when new hair grows it stays ingrown unless I manually break my skin with a needle or a pumice stone (no, gentler ways of exfoliation don't work), but shaving isn't ideal either because my skin is, due to my altered collagen too, literally transparent and you can see the roots of my dark hairs under it even if I shave down to accidentally harming my skin with the blade.

Performing femininity at all is just... It's fucking hell. If it's exhausting for able-bodied women, can you imagine what it is like for us? I can barely manage to shower, by the time I'm done with my hair, makeup and outfit, every bit of my very limited energy is depleted and then I still have the rest of the day to go through. And I LIKE being feminine. I like wearing makeup and wearing the outfits I wear and yet I still dread it when I know I'll have to do more than stay in my pajamas at home.

Also, the perceived fragility of disabled women isn't the type of fragility that is seen as desirable in women. It's not delicacy. Wheelchairs, canes and other mobility aids aren't seen as "delicate" or "demure". Neither is kinesio tape, or compression stockings, or any other sort of medical equipment which, on top of it all, tend to not be very "aesthetic". Our fragility isn't the romanticized type, it's the "wow, you're an useless burden who can't serve me the way I expect you to" type.

When it comes to "binary" disabled trans people (for a lack of a better term) the degendering is even more intense than it already is for their cis counterparts (all that I described above applies to them too). There's a dichotomy of the even heavier denial of their actual genders as men and women due to the combination of their transness and disabilities, contrasting with how even if they were to conform to their assigned genders at birth they'd still be seen as failures at it due to everything I've already stated. There's also the sentiment that their identifying outside of their assigned gender at birth is a sort of consolation prize, something they're going for only because they were failing at being proper cis men and cis women, and thus their actual genders are even more invalidated and effectively pathologized in the most medical sense of the word, which is already a problem for all trans people, but for physically disabled trans people this intensifies the problem even more.

When it comes to non-binary disabled people things get so fucking confusing and infuriating. If binary disabled people get denied their manhood and womanhood, best believe that multigender disabled people (bigender, genderfluid, etc) are denied all aspects of their genders even harder. Not even completely agender disabled people are safe from being seen as failures of their gender identities by people who would perfectly respect the identity of an agender but able-bodied person. The fact that the default gendered status of all disabled people is forcefully degendered makes it so agender disabled people aren't seen as having any agency or self-determination in their (lack of or neutral) gender identity, it's seen as a passive inevitability from their embodiment, so it doesn't really "count", while simultaneously being subjected to the general transphobic bullshit any other agender person would be subjected to.

All of these things already affect white, thin and dyadic physically disabled people. When you add race (especially Blackness and/or being dark skinned), fatness and being intersex into the mix, the ways in which we're degendered and misgendered are off the fucking rails.

We can't fucking win.

[pretchatta]

tripping the light fantastic

The brief was simple: infiltrate an Imperial gala and steal a datachip from one of the guests. Hera's contact had procured them false identities as wealthy socialites as well as providing a description of the target, so all they had to do was show up. Kanan didn't see how this operation could go wrong.

Of course, that was before he knew what Hera was wearing.

Things became a whole lot more complicated after that.

that evening wear series i started in june? i finished it!

rating: teen; kanan jarrus/hera syndulla; 7.5k words

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“Hera, the hovertaxi’s here!”

Kanan tried not to sound too impatient as he called to her from the cargo hold of the Ghost, but he was cold.

The thin, silken material of his shirt was cool against his skin, and his formal jacket was doing nothing to insulate him against the recycled air of the ship. Hera had told him he’d be fine once they reached their destination, but they would never get there if she didn’t hurry up.

“I’m coming!” came her muffled shout from somewhere above him.

He heard the clatter of heels against the deck and decided to believe her this time, so he walked back down the extended boarding ramp. The spaceport outside was no warmer, but it was a step closer to the extravagant Imperial gala they would be attending tonight. The impractical outfit had been provided by the same contact who had procured their invitations – or, rather, invitations for the two wealthy socialites they would be posing as.

Kanan waved at the taxi driver to indicate they wouldn’t be much longer and got a flat stare from the rhodian in response. He resisted the urge to rub at his eyes; Hera’s contact had insisted that they’d stand out if they didn’t follow fashion trends, and apparently the big one at the moment was glitter eyeshadow. It made his eyebrows itch.

He heard the sounds of someone coming down the ladder behind him and turned back to face the cargo bay.

“I’m sorry,“ Hera was saying, her voice clearer now she was closer. "The straps on these shoes are so fiddly, I don’t understand how anyone could have the patience to wear them every day.”

"You should have said something,” Kanan called back with a grin. Sometimes she really made this too easy. “I’m sure I could’ve helped, I’m great with my fing-”

He was cut off by the sight of Hera appearing at the top of the boarding ramp, the comment dying on his lips. Silhouetted by the light coming from inside the Ghost, one very accurate way to describe her appearance was stunning.

She was wearing a long, sleeveless dress made of the same silken material as Kanan’s shirt, and in the same deep burgundy colour. The V-shaped neckline plunged almost to her waist amidst the elegantly draped material, which clung to her hips and cascaded down her legs. The hem fluttered around her calves, revealing the impossibly high stiletto heels that were the reason for her lateness. They matched the colour of her dress, which contrasted beautifully against her skin.

Kanan gaped at her as all other thoughts fled from his head. He rarely saw Hera without her gloves, let alone the rest of her baggy flight suit; the combination of the dress and so much bare skin was almost too much for his brain to process.

She began to descend the ramp, hips and lekku swaying, apparently unaware of the effect she was having on him. As she drew near he could see she had applied a small amount of makeup – not much, but just enough to enhance her features, plus her own smear of glitter eyeshadow.

She came to a halt in front of him. “So, how do I look?”

He struggled to find an adequate response to her question.

“Words fail me.”

“That bad, huh?“ She gave him a knowing smile, then gestured behind him. "We should get going before our driver gets bored of waiting.”

The thud-hiss of the ramp closing jolted him back to himself. They were leaving Chopper in charge of the ship while they were gone, something that Hera seemed far more comfortable with than he was.

“Right, yeah, let’s go,” he said, shaking his head a little to clear it. He fell in step beside her as they walked over to where the taxi waited.

As Kanan opened the door for her, his hand automatically went to the small of her back to help her in. He aborted the motion with only inches to spare; her dress was completely backless. He jerked his arm back, feeling self-conscious about touching her bare skin, and managed to turn the movement into offering her his arm instead.

Hera took it with a smile as she climbed into the hovertaxi. Kanan followed, careful to sit so that there was still space between them, feeling suddenly warm despite his earlier discomfort. It was dawning on him that the evening ahead might be very difficult – and not just because of their mission.

Their false identities had them attending the gala husband and wife, and he was glad they didn’t need to start pretending until they got to the venue. He knew he hadn’t been subtle in his attraction towards her these past few months, but there was a line between casual flirting and going too far that he had been careful not to cross. Sometimes he thought he saw flickers of what could be reciprocation from her, but she had never given him any indication that she welcomed or returned his feelings and he did his best to respect that.

He had a horrible feeling that he would be getting awfully close to that line tonight.

When they pulled up to the venue, Kanan played the part of a dutiful husband, climbing out first and holding the door for Hera. She gave him a grateful smile as she took his proffered arm and let him help her out; now that the initial shock of her appearance had worn off, he could see that she was struggling without her usual flight suit and boots.

Their destination was a large private home worthy of the title ‘mansion’. It was made all the more impressive by the way it was uplit in the early evening twilight. Though it was in the middle of a bustling city, a narrow border of immaculately trimmed hedges surrounded the house, separating it from the buildings around it. A short flight of steps led up to the open front doors, warm light spilling out in welcome.

“Ready to put on a show?” Hera murmured from beside him.

Their brief was simple: infiltrate the gala and steal a datachip from one of the guests. Imperial suppliers often liked to finalise business deals at events such as these, and tonight ownership of a large consignment of weapons would be changing hands. Hera and Kanan were to locate the seller and swap the chip containing the manifests and shipping details of the sale with a fake, and then transmit the information to Hera’s contact. The shipment would be hijacked and stolen before the Imperials realised anything was wrong. It put fuel and supplies in the Ghost and took firepower away from the Empire, which made it Hera’s favourite kind of operation.

Unfortunately the guest in question was half the reason for the not-inconsiderable security force that was also in attendance tonight. Their disguises would get them in, but it would take a lot of skill and probably a fair amount of luck to grab the chip and then get out. The longer they could go without raising suspicion, the better.

Kanan turned to look down at her, his expression serious. “I’ll follow your lead.”

Her only response was to adjust her hold on his arm, linking them together more securely. He was happy with this; it struck the perfect balance of apparent intimacy, yet she could easily withdraw if she felt uncomfortable. He led her up the steps and to the doors.

The entrance hall beyond might have been described as small and modest by some. Those were the people this event was no doubt for – by Kanan’s standards, it was opulent.

Smooth blue stone lined the walls and contrasted against the golden tones of the floor. The gentle burbling of running water came from a small fountain in the center and echoed off the high, arched ceiling. Ornamental plants in intricately decorated pots lined the edges of the room, many with colourful flowers in bloom, their perfume hanging in the air. A heavy curtain in a rich, deep gold colour hung at the far end, and the faint sound of music could be heard from beyond.

“May I see your invitations?”

A sharply-dressed man in all black had been waiting just inside the door. Pale, slight and human, he couldn’t be a better example of an Imperial if he tried. That image was only reinforced by his companion; standing just behind him was a stormtrooper, silent and imposing.

Kanan affected a look of polite surprise. He had assumed they would give their cover names, maybe present their falsified chain codes. He flicked a glance at Hera, who was looking expectantly at him.

“Invitations?” he stalled, hoping desperately that her skintight dress might yet contain hidden pockets.

“I need to confirm that you are allowed in,” the doorman explained patiently. “You did bring your invitations with you, as requested?”

“Of course we did!” Hera assured him with a smile. “My husband wouldn’t have forgotten something as important as our invitations. They’re in your pocket, aren’t they, dear?”

Kanan tried to remain calm as he widened his eyes significantly at her. He hadn’t put anything in his pockets before they left, and he was pretty sure there wasn’t any chip or card in there already.

“Are they?” he asked.

Hera’s smile became fixed, and he got the distinct impression she was resisting rolling her eyes at him. She stepped forwards, right up to him, and then one of her hands brushed against his hip. Heat flashed through his core in response to her touch. Her hand continued downwards, slipping into his pocket, as her face moved closer to his. It took all of his concentration to hold still.

“Must we play this game at every event, love?” she murmured. There was a low, sensual quality to her already wonderful voice that only stoked the simmering heat in his gut. Before he could think of a way to respond, she leaned in further and her lips brushed the corner of his mouth. It was only the lightest of touches, but his skin still tingled even after she pulled away.

She waved the two slips of flimsi that had just been in his pocket at him, giving him a pointed look.

“Here they are,” Hera said airily to the sentry, passing him the flimsi. “You’ll have to excuse my husband – I married him for his looks, not his brains. But can you blame me?”

The man gave a forced chuckle and looked distinctly uncomfortable as he gave their invitations a cursory glance. Then he gave them a nod and waved them towards the curtained archway.

Kanan let Hera lead him across the atrium. He shook his head slightly; right now, he needed to focus. They had a job to complete, after all.

“I always knew you hired me for my handsome face,” he joked, quiet enough that the doorman wouldn’t hear.

He expected her to laugh it off as she usually did at his attempts at flirting, to gently remind him of the line that existed between them. Yet again, Hera threw him off balance.

She shot him a small smile as she took his arm. “Well, it wasn’t for your ability to check your pockets.”

He was unable to come up with a response as she led him beyond the curtain.

The gala was in full swing on the other side. A huge ballroom stretched before them, towering columns of more pale blue stone holding up the arched ceiling over a curved white dancefloor. The music came from a live band at the far end, and guests in gowns of all colours swayed and twirled over the dancefloor in time with the beat. Precious gemstones glittered under the soft lights, along with shimmering makeup and body paint akin to the eyeshadow Hera and Kanan wore.

Those who weren’t dancing were talking and mingling around the edges of the room. Small droids wove between them, carrying trays of drinks and canapés. Hera snagged them each a drink from a passing droid and they began to slowly make their way through the crowd.

Kanan caught snatches of conversation as they passed, mostly inane chatter with the occasional obsequious flattery or plain flaunting of wealth. He knew without a doubt that every single person present cared only about themselves; the whole event was a sickening display of the extreme inequality that was not just present but practically encouraged by the Empire. He almost felt disappointed that this was a stealth mission and not an opportunity to cause chaos.

They completed their circuit having managed to make only minimal interactions with other guests, and found a space to stand in. The part of the crowd nearest the entryway moved too much to allow them to survey the whole room effectively, so they ended up next to one of the columns about halfway around the dancefloor. It made watching the entrance difficult, but they had a decent view of the rest of the ballroom.

So far, none of the guests present were the person they were here for. Kanan didn’t have a description of their target but Hera had told him they would have a golden sunburst emblem displayed prominently on their outfit. The riot of colour made spotting something that would normally be so distinctive difficult, but they had both been looking and were yet to see the sunburst.

The curtain moved and Kanan craned his neck to see who the newest arrival to the party was, but the ladies’ matching black dresses held no additional colours.

“Let’s dance,” Hera said suddenly from beside him.

Kanan turned to stare at her. “What?”

She was scanning the rest of the room anxiously. “Everyone else seems to be having at least one, and I don’t want to stand out. Plus, we’ll have a better view of the entryway from the dancefloor.” She dumped her empty glass onto a passing droid-table and grabbed his hand. “Come on!”

Kanan barely had a moment to put down his own half-finished drink before she was dragging him towards the dancefloor.

“But I don’t know how to dance!” he protested after her.

It earned him a sceptical look over her shoulder. “How can you not know how to dance? It’s easy, just follow my lead.”

She found them a space amongst the twirling couples and turned to him, still holding his hand in one of her own. He briefly noted that they did in fact have a great view of the entrance from here, and then she stepped in close and his attention narrowed to only her.

The heels brought Hera’s face high enough to be very close to his; her breath ghosted over his cheek. She placed her free hand on his shoulder, and through the thin material of his shirt he could feel her fingers were still cool from where they’d been holding her drink. He didn’t know what to do with his other hand, and in his indecision it hovered awkwardly.

She rolled her eyes at him.

“Here,” she told him, releasing his shoulder just long enough to place his hand on her waist. His fingers brushed the soft, bare skin of her back and he had to resist the urge to touch more. His whole body felt suddenly very hot.

“Now try to follow my feet with yours,” she murmured.

It took Kanan a few moments to register her words. He could feel the heat of her body radiating through the thin silks of their clothes, and the sweet smell of her perfume filled his nose. He wanted to either push her away or pull her closer; it was agony having her so close, and yet not close enough.

Hera started to move, leading the steps of their dance, and Kanan’s brain struggled to keep up.

“Kanan,” Hera hissed as he stumbled, almost standing on her foot.

This wasn’t working. He needed to focus, or they’d start drawing attention to themselves.

Kanan took a deep breath and cast his mind back to a place he’d sworn he’d never return to. He wasn’t touching the Force, not quite, but it still felt wrong to call on the old meditation techniques. He felt the wash of calm sweep through him as he emptied his mind and regulated his breathing. The Force hummed in response, so close and so ready for him to take it, use it, draw strength from it. But he held himself back from going that far. All he needed was to ground himself.

Emotion, yet peace.

How ironic that, after years of denying his past, it was the Jedi code that he most needed now.

Kanan ignored the irony of his predicament as he followed the movement of Hera’s feet carefully, trying to stay in time with them without getting underneath the sharp heels. Fortunately the steps were simple, and it wasn’t long before they settled into a rhythm.

He managed to keep it together as they slowly traversed the dancefloor. Between focusing on his breathing and on Hera’s steps, he had no awareness of anything else; the contact could have been dancing right next to them and he wouldn’t have noticed. But their cover remained intact, and Hera had eyes sharp enough for both of them.

Once Hera saw that he was keeping up with her, she experimented with something different. She released his shoulder and spun away, still holding his hand. Her dress flared out around her calves as she moved, revealing more of her smooth, slender legs. Her eyes sparkled with the joy of the dance. Kanan’s heart skipped a beat; she was breathtakingly beautiful.

She twirled back into his arms and he took another deep, grounding breath. He wasn’t sure if it was weaker from the dancing or if he was just getting used to it, but her perfume wasn’t as overwhelming now. This whole semi-meditation thing was getting easier, too; maybe he should try it more often.

“I still can’t see the target,” Hera murmured in his ear, and his concentration broke. That low, lovely voice would always be his undoing.

Fortunately, his feet seemed to have memorised the steps and didn’t need his brain to continue moving.

“Maybe they’re not coming,” he replied lightly, trying hard to keep his voice steady.

“No, this contact has never been wrong before. They’ll be here.” She sounded confident in her assertion, and Kanan really wasn’t in a position to argue.

“Though, if they take much longer,” she continued, “we should check out the buffet table.”

He felt an amused grin spread over his face. “You’re hungry?”

“Starving. I meant to grab a ration bar before we left, but getting ready took longer than I expected.”

Something about her admission made affection swell in his chest.

“I think this dance is almost over,” he said, hearing the song start to wind down and trying to hide his relief. “If you want to keep watch I can go find you some food.”

If she was lucky they might have Gruuvan Shaal kebabs, or even some meiloorun. His mind had already drifted to thoughts of what Hera might like to eat as he started to take a step back, but then her grip on him tightened.

“No – wait – I think that’s them!”

Hera’s arms were suddenly steel, holding him in place as she craned her head over his shoulder. Kanan felt frozen in place.

“Where?” He tried to turn to see for himself.

“Don’t look, just keep dancing,” she hissed. “I’ll try to move us closer.”

The band started up the next song, a slower one with a different beat. Hera let go of his hand to place both of hers on his shoulders. Somehow, she was now even closer than before.

“Put your hands on my back,” she murmured, her lips barely an inch from his ear. “Keep following my steps.”

He did as he was told, his short-circuiting brain incapable of anything else, both hands splayed against her bare skin. It was warm under his palms but he resisted the urge to stroke his fingers along her spine. She had moved closer to him so that her chin rested on his shoulder and her chest pressed against his. The silk did nothing to hide the curves of her body; combined with the touch of her bare skin, it would be easy to imagine there were no clothes between them at all.

Don’t think about that, he told himself sternly. He wondered if Hera could tell he was feeling a lot warmer than usual. He tried meditation again, hoping it would cool the flush in his cheeks, but it was harder than before.

Hera led him in the new dance, slightly easier than the previous one. It was slower and had fewer steps, so it wasn’t long before Kanan could let his feet continue for him. There were more distractions with this one, however; as well as Hera being much closer, every now and then the tips of her lekku would brush the backs of his hands. Whenever that happened it was like the light touch was igniting sparks over his skin. The meditation didn’t seem to be as effective now; he worried that at any moment his hands would start trembling.

“I’ve got eyes on her,” Hera whispered. Kanan felt her breath over his earlobe.

“Her?”

“Mikkian, middle-aged, blue skin. She’s got the golden sunburst on her shoulder; she’s definitely our target.”

He felt Hera slightly change the angle of their movement, guiding them across the dancefloor. The steps lengthened and Kanan needed to focus harder to follow them. If anything, the distraction helped.

The band began the final cadence of the song, and Kanan found himself desperately hoping that Hera would let them stop dancing. Maybe even step outside for a minute. Fresh air would be good.

“She’s going somewhere – this is our chance!”

A moment later Hera had slipped out of his arms and was moving away. It took his mind a few moments to catch up, but by then she’d taken his hand again and was leading him off the dancefloor.

With Hera gone, clarity returned to his mind in an instant. They were on the job now: hunting an Imperial for tactical data.

This, he could do.

They were on the other side of the dancefloor to where they’d started, and slightly closer to the curtained entryway. Kanan caught sight of the mikkian woman walking around the edge of the room, staying close to the wall. The sunburst was an oversized brooch on one of her shoulders, contrasting elegantly with the deep purple of her velvoid dress. She reached another curtain and, after a quick glance over her shoulder, she slipped through and disappeared on the other side. Kanan caught a flash of an ornate archway like the one they had entered through and guessed it led to the rest of the mansion.

Hera was still leading him after her, weaving around a table that was in their way. Something caught his eye and he reached out a hand to snag it as they passed, slipping it into his pocket. They reached the curtain that clearly marked the area beyond as off-limits to gala guests and Hera paused, turning to meet Kanan’s eyes. He nodded to indicate he was ready, and she wordlessly pushed it aside so they could follow the mikkian through.

Beyond was a grand-looking hallway. A lush strip of carpet ran down the center and ornately framed paintings hung along the walls. Kanan caught a flash of blue head-tendrils disappearing around the next corner, but Hera was already in pursuit. He wasn’t sure what Hera’s plan was when they reached her; pretend to recognise her and pick her pocket? Knock her out and rob her, hoping no-one would find her before they could get out? Whatever it was, he was ready to follow his captain���s lead.

Something caught his eye, and Kanan nudged Hera. She glanced up at the hidden security cam he indicated and tapped her temple, then winked. It took Kanan a moment to understand, but when he did he nodded with the dawning realisation. There were some types of glitter that scattered light in such a way that it scrambled any sensors trying to detect it; their eyeshadow was not just a fashion statement, but a way to conceal their faces on any security recordings.

Rounding the corner, they found the hallway split as a staircase led up to the next storey of the house. Hera silently pointed to a recent scuff in the thick pile of the carpet on the lowest step. Between the soft surface and the still-audible music from the ballroom their target had the advantage of stealth on them, but there were other ways to track her.

They ascended the stairs in a crouch, but needn’t have bothered. As they reached the hallway at the top they saw a door just finish closing. As quietly as they could, they crept to the door, past more doors, curtains and paintings. Hera was reaching for the handle when Kanan felt rather than heard a presence at the foot of the stairs.

He stiffened.

“Someone’s coming,” he whispered to her.

She quickly glanced around. “In here!”

She grabbed his hand and dragged him behind a heavy, floor-length curtain opposite the door the mikkian had gone through.

It turned out to be covering a small alcove housing some kind of ancient relic displayed on a stone plinth. Hera shoved him into the back of the alcove, wedging herself between him and the plinth and twitching the curtain closed again behind them. It was thick enough to let in no light, so they were cast into darkness.

When Hera didn’t move back, Kanan realised just how little space there was around the relic and its stand. It felt like every inch of Hera’s body was pressed against his, warm and soft and utterly maddening. It didn’t help that, in the dark, all of his senses seemed heightened to compensate for the lack of sight. His mouth felt suddenly dry.

He heard the muffled sound of several sets of heavy footsteps on the carpet, and then the soft swish of the door opening and closing. The sweet scent of Hera’s perfume was in his nose again, though this time there was something else underlying it, something familiar that made him think of home. That was strange; he didn’t have a home. Not beyond the Ghost, if that even counted. Muffled voices brought him back to the present situation, a man’s and a woman’s coming from the room behind the door and another one, nearer but tinny, as though it came through a comm.

“This must be the hand-off,” Hera breathed against his ear, and Kanan had to work to stop his knees from giving out. “Sounds like a guard outside the door.”

“What’s the plan?” he managed.

There was a brief pause as she thought. “On my mark, we stun the guard and then two in the room. I’ll grab the data, you keep watch, and then we get out of here.”

“Got it.” He gave a small nod, forgetting that she couldn’t see it. “Wait – we don’t have blasters.”

“I do.”

She shifted against him and then something warm and soft that felt suspiciously like skin brushed against his hand. He snatched it away like it had been burned

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Getting my blaster,” she replied in a calm whisper. “The only way I could conceal one in this dress was with a thigh holster.”

Oh. Okay. Just her leg. That was all it was, just her bare thigh pressing against his hip from where she’d hitched the dress up. Which he’d just touched. His heart was in his throat.

“On three,” Hera whispered, shifting again as she resumed standing on two feet.

“One.”

Kanan felt the hard edge of her blaster against his shoulder as she brought it up to a ready position.

“Two.”

He reached out a hand, ready to pull the curtain back.

“Three.”

Kanan whipped the curtain aside and they burst out of the alcove. Hera squeezed two shots off at the single stormtrooper standing guard, and Kanan was at the door before they finished hitting the floor. It swung open, and Kanan dived into the room beyond.

He caught a brief glimpse of a pair of startled faces and made a split-second decision to go for the man. He was tall, human, and dressed in the crisp, dark uniform of an Imperial naval officer. A swift blow to the head sent him reeling as Hera shot a stun blast at the mikkian. Before the man could recover, Kanan had stepped to the side so Hera could take him down too. It was all over in seconds, the only sounds having come from Hera’s compact little blaster.

He turned to congratulate her, but Hera was already on her knees beside the mikkian patting her down for the datachip. Kanan strode to the door instead, hauling the unconscious trooper inside before stretching out his senses for signs of anyone else approaching.

A prickle at the back of his neck told him that was sooner than he’d have liked.

“Hera, we’re about to have company,” he warned her.

“Hang on – wait, I think it might be inside–”

His ears caught the soft thumps of heavy boots coming up the stairs.

“Hera!”

“Got it!”

There was a click sound and he glanced back to see the mikkian’s sunburst brooch open in Hera’s hand, revealing a hidden chamber with a small datachip inside. Unfortunately, his next look to the hallway outside showed him a pair of stormtroopers cresting the stairs.

“Hey, you!” one shouted.

Kanan cursed as they started to raise their weapons. He ducked back into the room as a pair of plasma bolts hit the doorframe.

“Time to go!” Hera was already on her feet behind him, and he let her push him aside as she stepped up to the doorway with her blaster ready. She darted out just as the bootsteps reached the door; two shots later and both troopers were on the floor, unconscious.

Kanan grabbed her hand. "They'll have called for help; run!"

He half-dragged her in the opposite direction, continuing down the hallway and away from the scene they had created.

“There goes our stealth,” Hera panted from beside him.

They rounded a corner and found the hallway continued ahead, though there were also stairs leading upwards to one side. Kanan shook his head and led Hera so that they stayed on the same level; they wanted to be going down, not up.

“If we can get back to the main party, we can lose ourselves in the crowd,” he said to her, a plan for their escape already forming in his mind.

No doubt it would not be long before someone discovered the five unconscious bodies they had left behind, but they wouldn’t have a description of who to look for. As long as they weren’t caught anywhere they shouldn’t be there would be no reason for anyone to assume they were anything other than genuine guests.

“Good idea, but first we need to get there,” Hera pointed out somewhat breathlessly.

There was another corner up ahead, and if Kanan’s sense of direction was leading him true they should be on the other side of the ballroom now. If the mansion was somewhat symmetrical, then just here –

“There you go,” he panted as they turned the corner. "Our way back."

At the other end of the hall was a staircase just like the one they’d come up. They raced forwards.

Kanan only got a flicker of warning, but it was enough. He skidded to a halt and flung out an arm to stop Hera just as the tinny sound of a communicator reached them from the stairs.

“–assaulted guests and took out three troopers. Do not let them escape. Repeat, all squads to the Clovis wing, at least one attacker–”

The now-familiar sound of boots on carpet was coming up the stairs.

Hera tried the handle of the nearest door, but it didn’t budge.

"It's locked!" Hera hissed.

Kanan looked for an alcove like the one they had hidden behind before. There was a matching one here but it held no ornament, only an empty plinth, and so there was no curtain to conceal them. There was no way they’d be able to run back around the corner before they were spotted, and standing here, out of bounds and out of breath, looked far too suspicious for them to be simply wayward guests. After all, what else would they have been doing?

The white tops of a pair of stormtrooper helmets came into view on the staircase.

Kanan had an idea.

“You can forgive me for this later,” he whispered, pushing Hera by the shoulders into the alcove. He desperately hoped she would; it was a terrible idea, but it might just work.

This space was no larger than the one on the other side of the house. His chest pressed against hers as he yanked the tie out of his hair. His other hand still held her blaster which he offered back to her. She took it automatically despite the confusion in her eyes, but he didn’t release it, instead guiding her to hide it under his jacket as he raked his free hand through his now-loose hair.

The stormtroopers had reached the top of the stairs; they’d be spotted any second now. Time to sell it.

A brush of his fingers tilted her chin up towards his face.

“What–”

Her words were cut off as he bent his neck and kissed her.

Time seemed to stop the moment their lips met. The world fell silent, the only sound his heart pounding in his ears, straining after their sprint through the mansion. His awareness shrank to Hera and only Hera. She had frozen against him, though only a moment ago he’d felt her breathing just as heavily as he was. Not that he was breathing any more; time had stopped.

It was a simple kiss, a press of his lips against hers. It was nothing. It was everything. It was Hera.

And then she kissed him back.

He knew it was just the surprise wearing off as her brain caught up to what they were doing. He knew she was just maintaining the cover he’d hastily created for them. But that didn’t stop how right it felt.

The hand still on her wrist gently stroked its way up her arm to her shoulder, while his fingers under her chin caressed the soft skin of her neck, down, until they brushed along her collarbone. Her breath hitched in her throat and her lips parted ever so slightly–

“Hey!”

Time snapped back to full speed as they broke apart. The stormtroopers had reached them and one was pointing a blaster at Kanan’s chest. Well, it would be more accurate to say both of them, as there wasn’t much space in it.

Kanan was breathing again, even more heavily than before, and he knew exactly how he looked with his tousled hair and the startled, almost guilty expression on his face. What he'd intended as a charade had become all too real as his mind was still reeling from the kiss.

“Oh, uh, sorry–” the trooper faltered and pointed the weapon down. “This area’s off-limits to guests.”

Kanan simply stared at him blankly. Of course it’s off-limits, that’s why we’re here.

“There’s been a security breach,” the trooper tried again, “you need to go back to the main ballroom, sir. Ma'am.” He nodded at Hera while managing to not look directly at her; Kanan got the impression that if his helmet had been off, they would have seen his face steadily turning red.

“A security breach?” Hera repeated in a breathy, Ryl-accented voice. Smart; the confident woman she’d been at the door had helped them to get in, but now they needed to be unassuming and easily dismissable.

Kanan sighed. “Just as I was starting to enjoy this event,” he muttered, loud enough for the trooper to hear.

“We need to secure the area. Please move along.” The trooper gestured towards the stairs, but he was already moving to walk past them and his companion was a few more steps ahead.

Kanan stepped out of the alcove but kept one arm around Hera’s shoulders, keeping her close and allowing the hand that held her blaster to remain concealed under his jacket.

“I hope nothing has been stolen,” Hera said worriedly, still with the accent, as they began descending the staircase. “Our host was telling me earlier, he has quite the collection of old Clone Wars relics here. Very valuable to thieves.”

“Probably what the breach is,” Kanan said confidently. “I’m sure they’ll catch the thief.”

They reached the foot of the stairs and he glanced back over his shoulder; the troopers were out of sight. They’d done it. Around the next corner the archway that led back to the ballroom became visible, the music growing louder with every step. Hera made no move to withdraw her arm and stow her blaster.

“That was a nice bit of quick thinking,” she said, back to her normal voice though she kept it carefully neutral.

Kanan couldn’t quite bring himself to look at her. “I’m sorry there wasn’t more time to warn you. Or, y’know. Ask.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She stopped to let him pull the curtain aside, the noise of the music and the guests reaching full volume and washing over them as they re-entered the party. “It worked, and now we’re back to being just two more guests.”

“We’re not out yet,” he reminded her. “C’mon, our best shot is probably right out the front door.”

They weaved through the crowd, Kanan still with an arm around Hera’s shoulder as they made their way slowly back across the ballroom. It almost felt strange that the party had changed so little in their absence, but they couldn’t have been gone longer than half an hour. The band were still playing, the dancefloor was still in full motion, and people still clustered around the edges engaged in conversations.

They reached the curtained archway to the atrium feeling much like they had during that first circuit of the room when they’d arrived. No-one gave them a second glance, too engrossed in their own affairs to spare a thought for two people they didn’t recognise. In a place like this, that meant you were unimportant, which suited Kanan and Hera just fine.

A few scattered guests were lingering around the pool as they ducked around the curtain into the atrium. One of two wafted folding fans at themselves, trying to cool off after dancing. Kanan and Hera were completely ignored as they walked past. The open doors loomed ever closer, along with the freedom that lay beyond.

They were just passing the doorman when his stormtrooper bouncer spoke.

“They’ve accessed the surveillance footage from the halls – the intruders are disguised as guests," he said, his voice tinny through the helmet's comm. "One human and a tail-head. No-one can leave until they’ve been found.”

“Uh oh,” Kanan said softly. The exit was mere steps away.

“Hey, you!” the doorman called over to them. “Stop there!”

Kanan swore.

“Run!” Hera shouted.

They took off as one, tearing down the steps to the street beyond. Blaster bolts hit the hedges as they reached the end of the path and rounded the gateposts, breaking into a sprint. Or, at least, Kanan did; Hera cried out from behind him. He skidded to a halt

“These kriffing heels – I’ve twisted my ankle!” She was still trying to hobble forwards, though at nowhere near the pace she could normally manage.

Behind her, stormtroopers were starting to pour out of the mansion.

“Okay, new plan!”

There was no time for anything clever. Before Hera could protest, he scooped her into his arms and started running again.

To her credit, Hera adapted to her new situation immediately. She still held her blaster in one hand, and as he carried her away she took aim over his shoulder. She wouldn’t be able to hit anything with any accuracy like this, but he knew exactly what she was doing; her shots sent the stormtroopers scattering for cover, allowing him to increase their lead on them.

He darted into an alley. Adrenaline was allowing him to run with Hera in his arms, but it would only last so long before his muscles would register their strain. Now, with no-one watching, was the perfect time to execute part two of this improvised escape.

The Force had been waiting all evening, hovering just next to his awareness, and now he finally drew on it. Kanan leapt, higher than he would have even unladen. He landed on the flat, permacrete roof, and with the Force flowing through his body he was running again.

With no more targets to shoot, Hera's arms encircled his neck, holding on for dear life. Kanan raced over the rooftops, leaping from one to the next over the oblivious pedestrians on the streets below. He’d already oriented himself and was heading to the spaceport. One of the perks of travelling like this was that he could do so in a perfectly straight line. Even if the Imperials tried to shut down the port they’d have to take the long way around to get there.

The scream of a twin-ion engine gave him warning, and he dropped back down to another abandoned alley a few streets over from the spaceport’s entrance. The TIE swooped overhead, searchlights coming on as it entered the zone the Imperials calculated they would still be inside of. Kanan smirked triumphantly.

“Well, that’s one way to save on the taxi fare,” Hera said as he set her carefully back on her feet. He didn’t quite let go of her, aware that she was putting most of her weight on only one leg.

He huffed out a laugh between panting breaths. “Don’t start counting on rides for supply runs.”

She grinned at him. “Of course not, you have a terrible luggage allowance.” She elbowed him lightly in the ribs.

He pretended to look affronted. “Well, if you want your spacious cargo hold back I suggest we get moving.”

Her eyes lingered on his face a few seconds longer, her smile softening with a fondness that echoed in his chest. Then her expression turned serious as she looked towards her injured ankle and took a tentative step onto it. She let out a hiss of pain, but managed to limp to the other side of the alley.

“It’s not too bad,” she said, seeming to find it easier on the way back. Then she started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Kanan asked, confused.

“The whole op was actually not too bad.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Seriously?”

“Sure, we were seen, but they didn’t get our faces," – she gestured to her eyeshadow – "neither of us got shot, and we got what we came for. By our standards this was almost a perfect run.”

He joined in the laughter. She had a point; for them, it was pretty good.

“It’s just a shame we weren’t able to get any of that food,” she added wistfully.

Kanan felt a flash of guilt, even though it wasn't his fault. He'd said he would bring her something to eat, but then they'd been distracted by the appearance of their target. He remembered their pursuit of the mikkian, how Hera had immediately been focused on their mission as she'd led him off the dancefloor.

“Actually…”

Kanan reached into his pocket for the item he’d swiped earlier that evening. They'd passed right by the buffet tables on the way to the curtained archway and until that moment he'd forgotten he had in fact kept his word to Hera.

He presented the meiloorun to her with a proud smile.

She gaped at him for a moment, staring between his face and the fruit in his hand. Then, her surprise softened to something he couldn’t quite read. It wasn't just gratitude; there was a warmth to it, an aching fondness in her eyes. She took a step forward, grabbed him by the lapel–

And kissed him.

For a second he was frozen with shock, one hand holding the meiloorun and the other hanging by his side. Then his mind caught up with what was happening, his arms slid around Hera, and he kissed her back.

It was the same as their kiss earlier, and yet it was also different. It was still Hera, her presence filling every one of his senses, but this time there was nothing held back. Her mouth parted easily against his, her tongue gently tracing his lower lip. His free hand caressed the bare skin of her back, his fingers softly stroking up her spine. She shivered against him.

When she pulled back an inch to breathe, he felt like he was floating.

“Definitely a perfect run,” she corrected herself in a whisper.

He gazed into her shining eyes with awe. It’s always perfect with you, he wanted to say. You’re amazing, you look beautiful tonight, I would do anything for you.

Instead, he kissed her again. Her lips were soft and eager against his.

She already knew.

[letterboxd]

How I Letterboxd #13: Erika Amaral.

Film sociologist Erika Amaral on the blossoming of Brazil’s women filmmakers, the joys of queuing for the movies, the on-fire Brazilian Letterboxd community, and the sentimental attachment of her entire nation to A Dog’s Will.

“It is hard to produce art without institutional support and it is very complicated to produce art during this tragic pandemic.” —Erika Amaral

In the wide world outside of English-language Letterboxd, Brazil occupies a particularly fervent corner. Sāo Paulo-based feminist film theorist Erika Amaral has connected with many other local film lovers through her Letterboxd profile, and for anyone with an interest in Cinema Brasileiro, her lists are an excelente place to start.

From her personal introduction to Brazilian film history, to her own attempts to fill gaps in her Latin American cinematic knowledge, Erika’s well-curated selections are a handy primer on the cinema of the fifth-largest country in the world, and its neighbors. These lists sit alongside her finely judged academic deep-dives into filmmakers such as Luis Buñuel, Glauber Rocha and Sarah Bernhardt.

Endlessly fascinated by how “the history of cinema is all intertwined”, Erika has also written on Jia Zhangke for Rosebud Club, is an Ana Carolina stan, enjoys collecting films directed by women featuring mirrors and women, and, like all of us, watched many remarkable movies during quarantine.

Suzana Amaral (left, rear) with cast and crew on the set of her film ‘A Hora da Estrela’ (Hour of the Star, 1985).

Olá, Erika. Please give our readers a brief introduction to your brilliant Introduction to Brazilian Film History list. I’m so happy to see this list getting popular! I’m a sociologist interested in film and gender studies. It’s been four years since I started studying Brazilian film history but my passion for film is much older. I tried to combine those two aspects in this list; films that are meaningful to me, historically relevant films, and historically relevant films erased from film-history books, for instance, those directed by women. The main purpose of my list is to highlight Brazilian women filmmakers’ fundamental contributions to Brazilian cinema.

I listed some absolute classics such as Hour of the Star by the late director Suzana Amaral, and other obscure gems such as The Interview, by Helena Solberg, which is a short feature released in 1966 alongside the development of Cinema Novo. Solberg’s work was hidden for decades. No-one knew about it. In Brazil, especially in the field of film studies and feminist theories, we are experiencing the blossoming of public debates, books being released, and film festivals that look specifically into films such as Solbergs’s and [those of] many other women directors, including Adélia Sampaio, the first Black female director to release a feature film in Brazil in 1984, Amor Maldito. We need these debates on Letterboxd as well, so I wrote this list in English.

As a representative of the passionate Brazilian community on Letterboxd, can you provide some insight into the site’s popularity where you live, especially for those of us who have not learned Brazilian Portuguese? I feel at home using Letterboxd. Everywhere I see Brazilian members posting reviews in both Portuguese and English. It’s a passionate community. It’s directly related to Twitter where Brazilian cinephiles are so active and productive, always sharing film memes (and even Letterboxd memes). Many content creators are using both Letterboxd and Twitter to showcase their podcasts, classes and film clubs. I once started a talk at a university for film students mentioning that my Masters research project came into life when I watched Amélia, showing my mind-blown Letterboxd review in the presentation. I follow many of those students now and it is so good to be connected. Brazilian Film Twitter and [the] Brazilian Letterboxd community are on fire!

Alexandre Rodrigues as Buscapé in ‘City of God’ (2002), directed by Fernando Meirelles and Kátia Lund.

When uninitiated cinephiles think about Brazilian cinema, City of God is most likely top of the list. It’s the only Brazilian film to be nominated for Best Director at the Academy Awards (despite co-director Kátia Lund being shut out!) and it’s the only Brazilian film in IMDb’s Top 250. After nearly 20 years, is it fair for City of God to represent Brazil? Of course, it is fair for City of God to represent Brazil! The only problem is if we think all Brazilian cinema is exclusively City of God. The film is entertaining, well-directed, has a great cast, but it has some flaws—for example, the aestheticization of violence and misery in Brazil, which scholar Ivana Bentes calls the “cosmetics of hunger”. Even so, it is a great film and it captivated Brazilian and international audiences. We shouldn’t limit any country to only one or two films.

If you enjoy City of God, check my list for Brazilian films directed by women in this period, which we call “Cinema da Retomada”—the renaissance of Brazilian cinema after the economic problems [that] hampered the film industry in the 1990s.

Selton Mello and Matheus Nachtergaele in beloved Brazilian comedy ‘O Auto da Compadecida’ (A Dog’s Will, 2000).

Several Brazilian films have stunningly high ratings on Letterboxd, giving them a place on many of our official lists. This includes A Dog’s Will, which is in the top ten of our all-time Top 250. On Letterboxd, A Dog’s Will reviews are cleanly divided into two camps: Brazilians (who absolutely love it) and everyone else (who fail to understand its popularity). What drives this home-team spirit? People truly love A Dog’s Will! It’s funny, has a fantastic rhythm, and it references many aspects of Brazilian culture, especially regarding north-eastern Brazilian culture. It was shown both as a film and as a miniseries infinite times on the largest and most popular television channel in Brazil. I can’t help mentioning that A Dog’s Will portrays Jesus Christ as a black man and Fernanda Montenegro as Brazil’s patron saint, Nossa Senhora Aparecida. It’s a brilliant moment for Matheus Nachtergaele, one of the greatest Brazilian actors ever.

Can you offer us a ‘Gringo’s Guide to A Dog’s Will’? I love the idea of a ‘Gringo’s Guide to A Dog’s Will’! You need to have good subtitles. The beauty of A Dog’s Will is that it is regional but it was made to be understandable to all of Brazil. You are going to need subtitles that [cover] the expressions, slang and proverbs—not mere translations. I would recommend watching some other films from north-eastern Brazil; Land of São Saruê, Love for Sale and Ó Paí Ó: Look at This. This can help you understand other social and cultural dimensions of Brazil beyond, for instance, City of God. A Dog’s Will is a movie that we would watch on a lazy Sunday afternoon with the family, so we have a strong sentimental attachment to it.

Leonardo Villar bears the weight of a cross in ‘The Given Word’ (1964).

Religion plays an important role in Brazilian cinema—for example, one of the few Brazilian films to win the Palme d’Or is the masterful The Given Word. Is this connection a part of what makes Brazilian cinema so potent for the local community? Religious symbolism and religious beliefs are extremely significant in Brazilian cinema. Its presence in cinema seems to address our daily challenges, rituals, history, but not always apologetically—as you can see in the despair of Zé do Burro in The Given Word. Religion does not seem to help him. There’s nowhere to run. The spiritual belief, as well as the cross itself, is a weight on his shoulders.

So you see, religion in Brazilian cinema is so potent because we can think beyond it, we can understand how people relate to their beliefs and how sometimes religion can fail a person. That’s what happens when a priest falls in love with a local girl (The Priest and the Girl), when a curse falls upon a man who turns against his people (The Turning Wind), when we teach fear and sin to young girls (Heart and Guts), when religion becomes a determining way of life that does not pay back efforts (Divine Love), when we accept the possibility of going against religious institutions (José Mojica Marin’s, AKA Coffin Joe, films).

We have all these movies fascinated by religion and how it creates meaning in our society. This is just from Christianity, because if we think of African and Indigenous heritage, we have another whole dimension of films to reflect upon, such as Noirblue and the documentary Ex-Pajé.

We have some Brazilian films in our Official Top 100 by Women Directors list, including The Second Mother, which sits in the top five with City of God. Who are some overlooked female Brazilian filmmakers that you want to celebrate and put on our map? Undoubtedly Juliana Rojas and Gabriela Amaral Almeida. They’re both on the horror scene and their work is astonishing. I strongly recommend Hard Labor and Rojas’ latest film Good Manners (if you are into werewolves). I can’t even pick one for Almeida—The Father’s Shadow and Friendly Beast are awesome. Beatriz Seigner’s The Silences—filmed in the frontier between Brazil, Colombia, and Peru—is really impactful. Glenda Nicácio’s films, co-directed with Ary Rosa, are among my favorite recent Brazilian films. Watch To the End immediately!

Eduardo Coutinho’s ‘Twenty Years Later’ (1984).

Brazilian documentarian Eduardo Coutinho has not one, not two, but three of his films in the Official Top 100 Documentaries list, including the all-time number one Twenty Years Later. Can you describe Coutinho’s significance in Brazil? Coutinho is a monument! Coutinho is an institution! Coutinho is everything. His works are of strong political importance, as you can see in Twenty Years Later. A movie he was making in 1964 was interrupted by the dictatorship installed in Brazil, and the main actor and activist, João Pedro Teixeira, was murdered, then his wife Elizabeth Teixeira had to flee and change her identity.

The documentary follows Coutinho and his crew looking for the actors from his movie from twenty years before. Later, his works developed many different tones and formats as you can see in Playing, an experimental portrayal of real women and their personal experiences side-by-side with actresses representing their real-life events as if in a play. Playing was one of the mandatory films to be analyzed for [my] Film School entrance exam, so I had to watch it a million times in 2017. His works are profound studies on Brazilian people and culture—piercing, but also delicate.

Contemporary documentaries are also doing well; Petra Costa’s latest, The Edge of Democracy, was nominated for an Oscar, and Emicida: AmarElo – It’s All for Yesterday was briefly Letterboxd’s highest-rated film late last year. How are these docs tapping into the zeitgeist? Those are both very different films. Emicida is part of a strong and structured movement against racism, against the marginalization of Black people, against limiting the access to art and culture to certain social groups, which is a common practice in the history of this country. Petra Costa’s documentary is another form of reflection on contemporary politics but in a melancholic tone since, recently in Brazil, we have been facing political storms such as the impeachment of ex-president Dilma Roussef, the imprisonment of ex-president Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva (who has recently been declared not guilty), and rising far-right politicians. Not to mention another of our losses, the still-unsolved killing of Marielle Franco, a Black and lesbian political representative. These films have helped us face these difficulties and try to gather some hope for the future.

Bárbara Colen (center) and villagers in ‘Bacurau’ (2019).

How has Brazil’s cinema industry been affected by the one-two punch of the pandemic on top of ongoing social and political issues? And, can you talk a bit about how the acclaimed Cannes-winner Bacurau shocked the nation two years ago, and in what ways the film confronted these problems? This question is challenging because there’s so much happening. At this moment, we have 428,000 deaths [from] Covid and we are still mourning the Jacarézinho favela massacre in Rio de Janeiro. We have very troubled political representatives that are not fighting Covid in an adequate way to say the least, and we have had major cut downs in the cultural sector since, in Brazil, a lot of artistic and cultural projects are developed with governmental incentives. It is hard to produce art without institutional support and it is very complicated to produce art during this tragic pandemic.

Right before this chaos, we had Bacurau. Actually, I have a pleasant anecdote about my experience with Bacurau. Everybody was talking about how it was going to premiere at a special event with the presence of its directors. We had some expectations regarding the premiere because it was going to be free of charge and it would take place at the heart of São Paulo, the Avenida Paulista, in an immense theater.

We arrived at 1pm to form a line and people were there already. I discovered through Twitter that the first boy in line was hungry so I gave him a banana. I had brought a lot of snacks. The line was part of the event, and it got so long you couldn’t believe it. It was great to see so many friends and people gathered to see a movie—and such an important movie! There weren’t enough seats for everyone but they exhibited the film in two different rooms so more people could enjoy it.

I love everything about that day and I think it helps me to have some perspective on cinema, culture, politics and what we can accomplish by working collectively—people uniting to fight dirty politicians, people joining forces to fight social menaces, generosity, empathy, fight for justice and the power of the masses.

The life of 17th-century nun Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz is explored in María Luisa Bemberg’s ‘Yo, la Peor de Todas’ (I, the Worst of All, 1990).

Would you like to highlight some films from your neighboring countries? I have been watching some fascinating films from South America. Bolivian filmmaker Jorge Sanjinés has an extensive filmography and his films were the first to portray characters speaking Aymara. I really like his Ukamau. I also love Argentine director María Luisa Bemberg’s films, such as I, the Worst of All. I’m currently studying Jayro Bustamante’s La Llorona, from Guatemala. I have no words to say how incendiary this film is. You’ll have to watch it for yourself!

Who are three Brazilian members that you recommend we all follow? Firstly, I recommend you follow my beautiful partner in crime and cinema, Pedro Britto. Secondly, a fantastic painter and avid researcher of Maya Deren and Agnès Varda, my adored friend Tainah Negreiros. Finally, I recommend you follow Gustavo Menezes, who is the author of many excellent lists [about] Brazilian cinema. He’s also the co-founder of a streaming platform called Cinelimite, which everyone should take a look at.

Related content

Silvia’s Cinema Novo list

Gabriela’s Cinema Brasileiro master list

Serge’s list of films that have won the Grande Otelo (Grande Prêmio de Cinema Brasileiro for Best Film)

Follow Erika on Letterboxd, Tumblr and in print

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[secret-diary-of-an-fa]

Grisly, Grim and a Fucking Delight: Feedback Review

TRIGGER WARNING: Torture, rape, daytime radio DJs. Don’t blame me, that’s just what’s in the movie.

Wow. Wow and a half. Wow and a half between two slices of thick white whoa. What a fucking movie. I’d say something like ‘they don’t make ‘em like that any more’, but they clearly do, because Feedback only came out a few years ago. I am astonished that I didn’t hear about it until tonight. You see, I was looking for an epic, slow-burn thriller to watch with my girlfriend and glamorous assistant, and I came across this little British movie about a radio talk-show host getting trapped in his studio when a bunch of masked psychos invade the premises. “Neat!” I thought upon reading the synopsis and watching the advert. “It’s Diehard but without schlubby, sarcastic Brits instead of overblown yanks.” As it turns out, I was wrong. Feedback is not an enjoyable but ultimately inconsequential gas pocket of a movie: it’s actually one of the most tense, conceptually horrifying and incendiary pieces of cinema- nay, Cinema with a capital C- that I’ve ever had the good fortune to witness. The more I think about it, the more impressed and enamoured I become. Unfortunately, in order to explain why, I’m going to have to spoil the whole freaking thing. For those of you who actually watch movies based on my recommendations (which would be, maybe, like two of you?) I’ll give you a nice non-spoilery recommendation right now: the acting is on-point, the plot is serpentine but not in a pretentious way, every prop and narrative element is used to maximum effect, the atmosphere gets tenser and tenser without ever letting you catch your breath and it’s exactly as long as it needs to be: there’s nothing missing and not an ounce of spare meat on it. It’s a lean, nasty predator of a movie and, if you let it, it will pin you down and rip out your jugular. I’ve only ever described one other movie as ‘transcendent’- a little psychological horror called The Perfection. Well, Feedback gets that exact same sticker but for completely different reasons. If you’re going to watch it- and you should- stop reading this review right now and go do it. It’s amazing.

And now for the spoilers. Consider this more of an analysis than a review. You see, the film reveals early on that the masked psychos invading the studio aren’t just randos with a political or philosophical axe to grind. They have beef with the radio host (whose name is Jarvis, incidentally. You don’t see enough Jarvises, either in real life or in movies. It’s a fun name and grossly underused, but I digress). You see, they think Jarvis’s friend raped a woman, killed another woman and beat the shit out of her boyfriend… and they think Jarvis knows all about it and may even have been involved. They force Jarvis to extract a confession from his friend early on and then kill him live on air, meaning that the rest of the film is devoted to a battle of wills between them and Jarvis as they try to force him to admit complicity, again live on air. Along the way, it’s also revealed that they aren’t just crusaders: they’re survivors of the incident and relatives thereof. Now, from the moment all these pieces were in place, I watched with an expectation of being disappointed. You see, I thought I knew what I was watching: Jarvis is visually and linguistically coded as am older slightly privileged but spiky elitist, so in most movies made after 2010 he’d automatically have been the bad guy (fuck me but do ageing white movie directors love to pretend they’re ‘woke’), while the people attacking him are visually and linguistically coded as youngish (except in one case) and victims, meaning that, in most movies, they would automatically be the good guys (hey, everyone loves an underdog, right?). I assumed I was watching one of those films. You know the ones I mean. One of those oh-so-clever ones that gets you to connect with and root for a character then reveals that he’s a shit-bag and punishes him and- by extension- you the viewer for taking his side. That was clever once, but I’ve now seen it on at least eight separate occasions, and it’s become trite. It’s particularly irksome because the victim-coded characters always get a free pass for their own shenanigans: they can murder, torture, brutalise and dehumanise but it’s always okay because something bad once happened to them. Frankly, I thought that’s what I was in for. Luckily. I was super wrong. That’s like regular wrong, only sexier and with sharper graphics.

You see, Feedback is way too smart to go for a black-and-white good-victims-versus-evil-central-character narrative. Instead, it’s a film about dehumanisation… or is it? You’ll see what I mean. In order to force Jarvis to admit complicity, his assailants don’t just fuck with him and his friend: they straight-up murder an innocent bystander and threaten to murder someone close to the protagonist. They hurt and do terrible things to Jarvis and the people around him, using torture methods that would make fucking ISIS throw up its hands and go ‘steady on, bruv’. They have a version of events that they’re convinced of but have only one unreliable character’s word for and Jarvis has a version of events that they refuse, point-blank, to believe. Jarvis’s story does begin to alter, but it’s never really apparent if he’s actually done something or if he’s just saying he has in order to keep the people around him (and himself) alive. Meanwhile, the ringleader of the little troop trying to extract a confession from Jarvis might be victim, but it also becomes apparent that she’s an unhinged psychopath intent on spilling as much blood as possible for her own personal sense of satisfaction and has as much interest in justice as a black hole has in the history of the stars it swallows up. Hooray! Some fucking moral ambiguity in a movie! I thought the entire industry had just forgotten how to fucking do that!

Much to my delight, Feedback doesn’t stop there. Merely by forcing the audience to make up their own minds about what they think happened and who’s actions are most justified, Feedback is already introducing a level of sophistication alien to modern cinema. But then it goes one step further by also subverting narrative expectations. You see, in a bleak, introspective, what-monsters-are-we-all flick like this, you expect the antagonists’ plan to succeed: you expect the last shot to be of the protagonist broken by the moral blankness of his reality, sitting in the wreckage of his life, unsure of whether he deserves what has happened to him or not. And that would have been a perfectly acceptable way to end this movie. But it doesn’t end like that. Because Jarvis is that rarest of things: a competent and determined dude. He’s not a superhuman. He doesn’t have special training. The flick doesn’t turn into an action movie or anything ridiculous. Jarvis just refuses to accept the bullshit happening to him and systematically works through every possible strategy to extricate himself without caving and admitting culpability that he doesn’t feel. He tries reasoned negotiation. He tries subduing one of the assailants temporarily and using them as a bargaining chip (the minimum necessary force approach), he tries escape and, finally, when all else fails, he uses a combination of psychology, surprise and familiarity with his environment to fight back with lethal force. It’s a considered, intelligent approach and, because his assailants aren’t organised terrorists just ordinary people who may (or may not) have a legit grievance with him, it succeeds and- to cut a long story short- he kills all of them in incredibly satisfying ways. There’s a bit involving a smug, I-can-be-as-evil-as-I-like-because-I’m-a-victim character getting skewered with a pair of scissors that instantly outranks anything in the Saw or Friday the 13th franchises as one of my all-time favourite movie kills (outright all-time favourite still goes to that bit in John Wick 3 with the really creative use of a library book, but that’s off topic).

During the climatic scenes of the movie, Jarvis screams his confession, but- as I said- it might only be a tool to distract his attackers and gain the upper hand while preserving the lives of the people he cares about. Equally, though, it might not. There’s a coldness to the character at the end of the film that wasn’t there at the beginning. Has he just been changed by the trauma of recent events, or are we seeing the facade drop away to reveal the true face of ruthless monster? And here lies the film’s final genius: not only doesn’t it answer this question (ambiguity for the win!) it also seems to suggest that the answer might not matter. Jarvis didn’t prevail because he was innocent- though he might be. His attackers didn’t fail because they became as bad as the thing they sought to fight (though they did). Victory and defeat aren’t defined by moral superiority. The film doesn’t assign winners and loser based on ethical or philosophical standpoint. Jarvis wins because he knows what the fuck he’s doing and his attackers are a bunch of overemotional quarter-wits with a half-baked plan that they can’t even stick to because they get too worked up. Survival, Feedback reminds us, has everything to do with being good at things, and fuck all to do with just being good. At every turn, the film tries to convince us that it has a moral point to make. Characters talk endlessly about truth and lies, justice and injustice… but in the end, it’s all smoke and mirrors. The film doesn’t have a central moral thesis (or, if it does, it’s a profoundly nihilistic one). Its real subjects are survival and will. It’s a study of what happens when two packets of brutal, remorseless determination meet eachother coming in opposite directions. It’s a dissection of the self-preservation instinct and its only real moral is ‘don’t fuck with a smart, grimly determined guy on his home turf if all you have to bring to the table is a short fuse and a big hammer’. Maybe that shouldn’t be refreshing, but in a cinematic landscape where every movie is determined to plant its flag on one side or the other of the political or ethical spectrum, it really fucking is. The fact that it gets you to think about ethical issues and who you believe on route elevates it, but the core of the film- the thing that makes it solid- is that refreshing element of nihilism. Breathe it in, folks: we don’t get many movies like this very often.

[bcbdrums]

Talk To Me

A/N: When you can't sleep at 3:00 AM you write fanfic. Hope it's coherent. Drakgo of course!

FFn link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13632340/1/Talk-To-Me

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The noises coming from the lab had Shego rolling her eyes before the door even opened. The way Drakken was carrying on, it either meant he had discovered a fatal flaw in an idea he had been working on, or else he simply couldn't think of anything and was throwing a tantrum.

Sure enough, when the lab door slid open Shego was met with the scene of at least a dozen crumpled papers littering the floor beneath Drakken's workstation, and the man himself pacing the length of the lab with a furious and frustrated expression as he muttered to himself.

Shego found herself smirking rather than groaning as she had begun to find some of his behaviors endearing as of late. She crossed the room silently, the blue man oblivious to her presence, and she picked up one of the crumpled papers and unfolded it. She was curious as to what was so important this time.

As she glanced down at the paper where a list had been scrawled with each item then crudely crossed out, her brow furrowed.

'Dinner.' 'Movie.' 'Musical theater.' 'Roller-skating.' 'Ice-skating.' 'Walk in the park.'

Each item on the list seemed to be plans for going out, as if he'd been making plans for his weeknights rather than world take-over. Shego picked up another paper and unfolded it.

'Trip to the zoo.' 'Safari.' 'Sky-diving.' 'Blimp ride.'

Like the previous paper, each item was crossed out. This paper had a massive 'NO!' written on it beneath the other items, so harshly that the pencil had almost gone through the paper.

Shego dropped the two papers in favor of leaning over the one still sitting on Drakken's work-station. It had a single item with two question marks at the end and has also been crossed out viciously.

'Romantic night in?'

It dawned on Shego all at once that the papers weren't lists for evil plots nor for Drakken's weekly schedule. The lists were all date ideas.

"Hey Dr. D.?"

"Nyahh!"

Drakken had jumped with a loud shout and was clutching his chest as he stared at her in a mixture of annoyance and anxiety.

"Shego!" he gasped as he saw the papers in her hand. "What do you want? Don't...don't bother with those!"

Shego leaned against the desk and waved the two papers she held. "I came to see what plan had you so worked up this time. But I guess you've been working on something else."

"Don't look at those, those are all...those are all failed ideas."

Shego glanced back at one of the lists. "They look like date ideas to me... 'Dinner'? Why is that a failed idea?"

Drakken hesitated, glancing away briefly before bringing his hands together in front of him and tugging anxiously at the fingers of his gloves.

"We've been out to dinner twice already," he said.

"'Movie?'"

"We've seen three movies together," Drakken said, taking a step closer.

Shego glanced back at the lists she held. "'Roller-skating? Sky-diving?' We haven't done most of these other things," she commented.

Drakken took another step closer. Shego saw his eyes dart to the paper on the table before his face fell. "Yes, but...but all those things, and...everything else I can think of are just... They're just..."

"What?"

"They're boring compared to the way you're used to living."

Shego considered his thought process and the items on the lists.

"I don't go sky-diving," she said.

"You do more thrilling things than that during our schemes," Drakken reasoned.

"I've never been on a safari."

Drakken shook his head as he snatched the paper off the table and stuff it into his coat pocket. "You'll...be put off by all the insects, and the atmosphere, and the tour group..."

Shego wanted to roll her eyes at his logic, but the distressed look on his face told her it would only add to his anxiety. He was trying to come up with a date that she would really enjoy. She couldn't really fault him for trying to consider her feelings. She wouldn't enjoy being in a tour group... And their plots usually did involve far more daring action than simple sky-diving. And while she'd not asked about some of the others, she could follow his logic: musical theater was a lot of sitting through what may end up to be a lousy show, and skating would also involve crowds and not much action.

"Well what's wrong with that one?" she asked, pointing to his pocket. "'Romantic night in'?"

Drakken blushed and looked at his hand in his pocket briefly. "It...it just falls apart like the rest of them. I'm sorry Shego, I know we haven't been out for over a week but...if you just give me some time I'm sure I can think of—"

"Why does it fall apart?"

"...What?"

"The romantic night in. Why wouldn't it work? What was your idea?"

Drakken swallowed nervously. "I... I thought I might cook a nice dinner, and dessert... Maybe...eat on the balcony. Some candle-light..."

Shego nodded with a small, thoughtful smirk. "That's a good start. Then what?"

Drakken glanced away as his face flushed again. "After dinner, we could...sit by the fire and have a small drink of your choosing?"

Shego's smirk grew as she envisioned cuddling up next to him with his arm around her as they had something rather more than a 'small drink' as he'd put it. That was an idea she could definitely get behind, especially considering how much closer it would bring them. The boldest move Drakken had made with her save their first kiss—which she had initiated—was to hold her hand once in the last few minutes of a movie they had seen. And judging by the nervous sweat to his palm, it had taken him the entire movie to work up the courage to do so.

"I like that—"

"But it just falls apart like the others," he said, tossing his hands up weakly as his shoulders hunched and he turned away, his expression growing more anxious.

Shego frowned. "Why does it fall apart?"

Drakken had crossed to the other side of the lab again. His shoulders hunched further at her words.

"N-never-mind, just...I'll think of something. Something for this weekend, I promise!"

Shego slowly approached him. "But a romantic night in sounds...well, really great. Why can't we do that?"

Drakken turned to watch her over his shoulder. She could see his mind was racing, debating himself over whatever was the problem in his mind. She knew the best way to persuade him would just be to look pleased with the idea, and that was easy to do since she was.

After several seconds Drakken swallowed and slowly nodded, the anxiety in his eyes only growing.

"All right. Romantic night in it is," he said, his voice shaking a bit.

Shego watched as his frame remained tense when he passed her and began scooping up all the crumpled papers and dumping them into the wastebasket. Her smile faded. Even though she was happy, he still wasn't?

"Doc... Come on, what gives? I said I like the idea."

He looked at her again and she saw as this time he truly assessed her instead of just spinning the wheels in his head. The anxiety in his eyes faded slightly.

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

The relief seemed to have been temporary, Shego realized on Saturday night. The dinner Drakken had cooked had been delicious, and for dessert he had prepared a cheese and fruit platter to go with the glasses of wine they were having as they adjourned to the den. She had known he was still worried about something by the kink he'd had in his brow all evening, but it became much more apparent when she had sat in his lap in his great chair rather than sitting in her own.

The flush to his face was calming down, but the anxiety in his eyes continued to rise. He had moderated it by explaining in detail about the cheeses he had selected. Shego was glad to see the complicated and lengthy talk calming him until he abruptly stopped halfway through describing the last cheese, bit his lip, and finished with a simple 'it pairs with figs.'

Shego frowned at him as he carefully prepared a bite of the first cheese—a creamy brie—on a cracker with a slice of apple for her. She set her wine glass on the end table next to the cheese platter as she studied him. The evening had been very nice—flawless, in fact—so far. What on earth could be wrong?

When the decadent bite had been prepared, Drakken turned to offer it to her. He seemed to realize then just how close she was, sitting in his lap. Shego began to lift her hand to receive the offered morsel, when another idea occurred to her. She parted her lips instead and gave him a playful look. Drakken blinked and drew back in surprise, but then with a renewed flush to his face he placed the bite into her mouth, his thumb and finger brushing against her lip.

Shego briefly forgot the awkwardness he seemed determined to bring to their date night as she enjoyed the expensive treat.

"It's delicious!" she declared a moment later, opening her eyes. She hadn't even realized she'd closed them.

Drakken smiled and ate his own bite of the same cheese and fruit combo, and Shego lifted her wine glass to take a drink. She watched Drakken prepare a second taste of a different combination as he slowly chewed his bite, and she thought again of how perfect the evening had been. He hadn't even protested her sitting in his lap, though he definitely hadn't expected it.

Maybe after their savory dessert and a bit more wine she could tempt him into a second kiss. And a third. And a fourth...

No sooner had she swallowed the wine than the next bite was offered to her, and again she parted her lips for him to feed it to her. She gave him a slightly less playful look that time and brought a touch of seduction to her eyes. By the rapid way he glanced away, she knew he had read her correctly.

They made their way through the cheese platter in a near-identical pattern, with him feeding her bites and then taking his own. She occasionally sipped her wine in between or commented on the cheese. He appeared a bit more relaxed, as he had with dinner, but the small kink in his brow remained. She couldn't do any better in reading what might be bothering him since he wasn't saying much, and then she realized...he had hardly spoken all evening.

Except to explain what they were eating and drinking at each stage of the meal, he had barely attempted any conversation. The most he had actually said was when he had started to explain about each cheese and the processes by which they were made and why they paired with certain fruits—an explanation which he had abruptly halted for no reason.

They finished their final morsel of cheese, and Drakken's expression was growing more concerned. Shego watched him lift his wine glass, start to sip from it, and then stop suddenly and set it down. He had barely had a quarter of the glass, while Shego was nearly finished with hers.

"Hey...Dr. D.?" she began, starting to worry for the first time herself.

He looked up nervously. "Yes?"

"Are you having a good time?"

His face cleared slightly and a shy smile appeared as he nodded. Then he startled suddenly as the anxiety returned.

"Are you? Having a good time?" he echoed.

"Yes..." she said as she nodded. The evening was perfect... Except that it wasn't. "So...what's bothering you then?"

Drakken reached for his wine glass and began taking a large swallow, but then seeming to realize what he was doing looked panicked and set the glass down again. He took a slow breath and then gave her a thin smile.

"Nothing," he said.

Shego studied his guarded expression as her mind began going through everything. He had worked himself into a nervous wreck trying to come up with a really nice date... And she understood, after their two dinners out, their three movies, and their one night dancing. Drakken never did anything halfway; a nicer date was probably overdue in his mind. And he had succeeded. Except he didn't seem convinced of it.

"This was a really great idea. I'll bet there's a lot more in those papers in the wastebasket," she said.

She watched as the wheels slowly turned in Drakken's head. "You could...look through them and see if there's an idea you like. For...next weekend?"

Shego grinned and nodded. "I'm sure I'll find a lot."

Drakken smiled, though the kink in his brow remained. "All right."

Shego was startled suddenly as Drakken made to stand up. She slid off his lap, watching him in confusion as he stood before her.

"G-good night, Shego," he said with a shy smile. He turned and began cleaning up their wine glasses and the cheese tray. Her jaw fell open as she watched him. He... He hadn't even put his arms around her. He picked up the tray and started out of the room. She scowled.

"Drakken!"

He jumped in surprise and turned at her sudden anger, panic on his face.

"What did I say? I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he blurted out.

Whatever she had been about to yell at him died on her lips as she processed his words. Had he...been worrying the whole night about saying something to mess up their date? Was that why he had called it to an abrupt end, because there was nothing left to eat and he'd be forced to talk? But he always talked to her… He never stopped talking... He frequently annoyed her with his—

The second connection was made. Her mouth formed the shape of an 'O' as she took in his desperate and frantic expression. She turned and slowly sank down into the chair. She heard Drakken scurry out of the room behind her.

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

About thirty minutes later Shego had worked past her frustration with the poor genius she had become attracted to. And part of the problem was in fact his thinking. He overanalyzed and overthought every situation, to the point that he'd apparently convinced himself that she didn't want to talk to him. He was probably questioning her interest in him at all. It was a wonder he'd been bold enough to ask her on one date, let alone seven of them.

The fire was dying down, and Drakken hadn't returned. He was probably overanalyzing that evening too and trying to figure out his mistake. Shego sighed and left the den to find him. It was high time he figured out that she wouldn't keep saying yes to his date invitations if she didn't want to go out with him.

The sound of running water led her to the kitchen where she found Drakken hunched over the sink, muttering and angrily scrubbing dishes. He had made quick headway and only had their cheese tray and wine glasses left to clean. Shego watched as he hastily put away the remaining cheeses and crackers, and then poured out his nearly full glass of wine into the sink. She couldn't make out his words, but by the tone of his voice they were probably all self-deprecating.

She stepped up to the counter and leaned back against it.

"So what are you waiting for?" she asked.

Drakken jumped, sending soap suds up out of the sink and onto the counter, on his face, and a particularly large cluster of bubbles into his hair. Shego smirked at the sight, despite the look of fear in his eyes.

Drakken grabbed the dish towel and wiped the soap off his face in frustration before his expression turned anxious again. "Oh, Shego... I thought...you would have gone to bed."

"It's not even ten. Drakken, what are you waiting for?"

He turned back to washing the wine glasses. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." She turned and leaned over the counter to stare at him. "We've been on seven dates now. What's next?"

Drakken looked genuinely confused when he glanced at her. "What do you mean?" he repeated.

"I mean... We already eat dinner, and watch movies. Dancing was new, and tonight was...different. But not much has changed with us 'dating.' What's the point?"

"Oh..." His face fell.

Shego waited for an answer, but he turned back to the dishes, his brow more twisted than ever. As he washed the wine glasses she frowned and stepped around the counter up to his side. When she moved right up next to him he turned from the dishes again. Shego reached around him and turned off the faucet.

"Stop avoiding this. What's the point?"

Drakken met her eyes, but rather than having formulated an answer he looked sad.

"I'm sorry, Shego. You're right. I won't... That is, we can just go back to the way things were. Forget we ever dated."

"Forget we...?" Shego snarled and grabbed his shirtfront so he would look at her. And look at her he did, as his eyes widened in fright and he raised one hand in front of his face while his other grabbed her wrist. "Drakken! I want to know what you think the point of this is, if we're not changing anything. Why did you even ask me out if you didn't want anything to change?"

Drakken looked confused but still seemed too frightened to respond. Shego let go of him and scowled, taking a step back to lean against the counter and cross her arms.

It would be typical...just typical of him to not really be interested in her, and be 'dating' for some reason that only made sense inside his head. And just when she had really started to be excited about where things between them might lead...

"I thought..."

Shego's eyes snapped up as he began speaking, and she gave him a calculating stare.

"I thought that if I...that is...you wouldn't want things to...um... Shego? Why...did you say yes to a date with me anyway? And all the others?"

Shego stared at him as her frown deepened. "Is that seriously a question? Because I wanted to date you, dingus! But not if it just means...doing the same things we always do with a new label slapped on."

Drakken hung his head. "That's why I was trying to come up with better ideas for—"

"I don't just mean what we do, I mean us! I thought dating meant a change with us."

Drakken looked nervous again. "You mean...ah..."

Shego felt an anxious fluttering in her chest, but she ignored it as she pushed off the counter and wordlessly put her arms around his neck and kissed him. He was startled at first, but within a few seconds he was kissing her back. And after a few more his hands rested tentatively on her waist.

The kiss was a release of far too much tension, and it was with great reluctance that Shego pulled away for air. Her eyes met Drakken's, and she was unsurprised to find him looking at her cautiously. But his hands hadn't left her waist.

"That's what I mean," she said conclusively.

Drakken took a slow, shaky breath and released it just as slowly. The cautious look hadn't left his eyes. "I thought...you... That is, I thought it would...take a lot more time before you could ever be interested in me...like that."

"What?" Shego's eyes narrowed. "I'm dating you because I'm attracted to you. You don't have to... Why would you think I'm not...? I sat in your lap, for crying out loud."

Drakken glanced away in what was a too-familiar, nervous fashion. Shego growled and leaned forward to kiss him again, this time holding nothing back. She heard his shocked intake of breath through his nostrils before he melted into her touch, his hands moving to gently encircle her waist as his lips responded to hers.

The kiss ended far too soon for her taste, but she understood that it was probably a bit much for a guy who was apparently content to wait a long time before engaging in any physical intimacies. She stepped back enough to put her hands on his shoulders. His hands stayed on her waist.

Drakken was looking at her in a mixture of awe and uncertainty. "So you...you're dating me because you...actually like me?"

Shego rolled her eyes. "Yes, Dr. D. That's the only reason I'd date you. So..." she reached up and brushed the remaining soap bubbles from his hair, "how about you stop with this weird pity-party and we go sit in front of the fire?"

Drakken immediately turned to the sink. "It will only take me a minute to get the cheese board ready again."

Shego sighed and stopped him by setting her fingers on his jaw, gently turning his head back toward her. "Leave that. Let's just...talk."

"Talk?" Drakken's face fell. Shego remembered what he had said when running out of the den earlier. But there wasn't anything she could really do about that.

"Yes. Talk. That's what dating couples do, so they can get to know each other better."

The fear and dismay in Drakken's eyes both saddened and annoyed her. But she couldn't blame him. How often over the years had she told him how much she hated listening to him talk? And who was to say he wouldn't annoy her some more? They wouldn't know until they actually...talked.

She blew the soap bubbles off of her fingers, the few that remained floating through the air for a second before they evaporated. She grabbed his hand and tugged on it.

"Think of it like taking over the world, Doc..." she said as she pulled him out of the room. "It's a risk, and there's always a chance of failure, but then you just...pick yourself up and try again."

"But what if—" He stopped short, and she paused to look at him, her eyes willing him to go on. He swallowed nervously. "What if...there is no second chance?" he said quietly, his eyes pools of worry.

She turned and pulled him toward the den again as she grew thoughtful. Part of her was thrilled that she apparently meant so much to him. And she also understood even more why he was so concerned. She did have a tendency to put hard stops on things she didn't agree with...

"I guess...relationships are a bigger risk than world domination," she said after a moment.

He was silent the rest of the way to the den, and once there she guided him back to his chair before she stoked the fire. He protested briefly, but she waved him off. She intended them to be there long past bedtime.

When she sat in his lap again he blushed and became stiff and nervous. She set one hand on his shoulder and studied him. If he really was that interested in her, then he couldn't possibly be unhappy with her choice to sit with him.

"What do you want to do right now?" she asked.

"What?" he asked, the anxiety rising in his eyes.

"Tell me," she said evenly. "What do you want to do right now?"

Drakken took a deep breath. "P-put my arms around you?"

She nodded at him. "Then what are you waiting for?"

There was a great sense of relief when he was finally holding her, one hand firmly on her shoulder and his other gently feeling the flesh at her waist. She leaned in closer to him and tried to give him the most unguarded look she could, though she knew she couldn't completely get rid of her smirk.

"All right Dr. Drakken," she said, smiling into his eyes, "talk to me."

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER PRE-GAME 9/30/2020: 30 MILES FROM NOWHERE/CONFESSIONAL (2019)

Spoiler alert. Or whatever. It’s not going to matter, you don’t care.

So, I've been away for a minute. Just about any reason to be away from Tumblr is probably a good reason, but I have an especially good one. I'm finally working on a "real" writing project, which demands, and deserves, all of my attention. My social media abstinence isn't just a matter of time management, though. Once I had a long term obligation on my plate, I became very aware of how the short term satisfaction I get from posting mindless rants was eating away at the fuel I have available for sustained efforts. When I wind myself up with a 500-1000 word blog post, it generates a lot of electricity, but I blow it all as soon as I experience the catharsis of posting it, and I'm further pacified by ego-stroking likes and reblogs. Not to sound like a sanctimonious luddite--I mean, I'm still here, after all!--but it turns out that the staying focused on the long haul has been surprisingly revivifying. In fact, I haven't been talking about my big fancy project for the same reason; I don't want to lose any of the juice I've been storing up by wasting it on the shallow pleasure of describing it. Also such things should probably be somewhat confidential until they're approaching the publishing stage, but I digress! There is an actual reason I'm saying all this, that has more to do with this blog.

(Don’t get all excited, I’m not doing EVIL ED right now, I just need a relatable image.)

As I got deeper into my experience of "real" film writing, I started to reflect on the meaning of my personal writing. Like, the point of it. I tend to write in a sweaty, compulsive, sadomasochistic haze, in which I'm sometimes hyperbolically generous, and sometimes--perhaps more often, unfortunately--as nasty as humanly possible. Sometimes the movies deserve it, when they're lazy, pretentious, or otherwise demonstrate an open contempt for the audience aka ME. Often, though, I'm just creating an opportunity to vent my generalized rage and frustration. That can be very entertaining for myself and (hopefully) my teensy-but-devoted readership, but lately I've asked myself whether there isn't some negative tradeoff for all this amusement. In this phase of my life, it's reasonable to assume I'll make more and more friends and acquaintances who create things I don't always care for, but I don't necessarily think they deserve to be abused for it. As much as I have a right to say whatever I want, technically, I'd be embarrassed if I were caught just jacking myself off by making fun of their work in public. And more to the point, I don't necessarily want to contribute to the growing atmosphere in which people feel more afraid to try and fail, because the public so commonly misidentifies sarcasm and mean-spiritedness as intelligence and superiority, and that form of petty darkness spreads across the internet a lot faster than a movie can reach a wider audience. After all, I'm in the process of potentially turning myself into one of those well-meaning failures right now. I could stand to be a little more deliberate about how I speak, and about what, in general.

My father is an art critic, and once in an extra petulant moment, teenage-me asked him in an accusative tone what he thought the point of his profession was. He replied calmly that he wouldn't publish any comment that he didn't think the artist could make use of somehow. I don't know if he always stuck to that policy, but the thought sure stuck with me.

So anyway, over the last few months I've been giving myself a bit of an attitude adjustment, through a combination of personal reflection, and hard work on something meaningful/not for the internet. I've been feeling all proud of myself and shit, but today reminded me that any path to enlightenment is always marked by setbacks, doubt, and temptation. For today, in complete innocence (or at least a melange of innocence and ignorance, as I very much invite this type of problem), I managed to watch TWO (2) movies about an academic film-cum-psychology project, focused on a gang of college buddies who inevitably reveal what bad people they are under the unique conditions of the project, and then the project turns out to be run NOT by its presumed-dead originator, but by the originator's even-crazier lover. It's amazing how particular something can be, and still be utterly obvious and cliche. In my defense, I really tried to turn the second movie off, because it was...just instantly terrible, but the seed of suspicion had taken root--is this randomly selected movie ACTUALLY EXACTLY THE SAME AS THE PREVIOUS MOVIE?--and I just had to find out if this could be true. I suffered, deliberately, for another hour and a half, to confirm my awful hunch. I don't know how I would have felt if I had turned out to be wrong (better? worse?), but I don't have to worry about that now. Now I just have to worry about my overpowering impulse to be as ugly as possible about what I have personally subjected myself to.

(The completely deceptive poster for our not at all witchy or eerie opening feature.) 

In need of a passable time-waster this afternoon, I put on 30 MILES FROM NOWHERE. Released in March of 2019, Caitlin Koller's claustrophobic black comedy feels oddly like a product of 2020. A group of estranged, middle-aged college pals of the BIG CHILL ilk--which one of the characters calls out, out loud, just so ya know--come together for a fallen comrade's funeral, only to find themselves trapped in his widow's increasingly creepy cabin in the woods. Said comrade was driven to suicide by the failure of a psychological experiment he conducted that plunged its subject into madness, and if you don't realize right away that the obnoxious and unstable cast are the new subjects of their not-quite-dead friend's renewed project, then you're firing a lot slower than 24 frames per second. The dialog is often decent, aiding a handful of funny, natural performances...but it's hard to forget that you're just waiting for the conspicuously crazy widow to reveal that the "unexplained events" in and around the cabin are part of a controlled attempt to get the guests to devolve into their worst selves, which isn't such a difficult task considering the undesirable state they all arrive in.

It just made me ask myself, what was the point of this? Why do people make movies that are entirely predicated on the shock of the twist, knowing that if the twist isn't so shocking--or is baldly obvious from the start--then the whole experience just falls apart? Why not hedge your bets with a little more depth, or purpose, or style, or really anything more reliable than a smug attempt to prove that your script is smarter than your audience? Even if you do manage to pull off this dubious accomplishment, it reduces your movie to something like the experience of having somebody jump out of a closet and scream in your ear to "get" you. I've always felt concerned that if somebody ever tries to "get" me like that, I might just automatically punch them in the face. But anyway, whatever shred of good will this movie could have accrued with its plucky performances is blown away by the final insult, when the cops arrive to clean up the inevitable bloody mess. The responding officers are hilariously unimpressed and unsurprised by the byzantine scheme that has resulted in a shocking act of violence, because the cabin's "guest book", which our heroes all filled out, was actually the signatory page of a complicated waiver form granting full permission to the hosts to, like, do whatever the hell they want to everybody. Presumably this shit just goes on all the time, leading the local law to shrug off anything that happens to or because of the dumbassed lab rats who frequent the cabin? I dunno. I mean, what can I say? ACAB, I guess!

At the time, I managed to resist the urge to take to the internet and decry the crimes of this lame-o party joke. I really don't like the sensation that a movie is just trying to trick me into thinking something that isn't true. But, this isn't, like, an affront to cinema. People make annoying, below average movies all the time, and maybe you kinda have to, if you eventually want to make better movies. I imagine myself in the shoes of the people who actually put some elbow grease into this production, having to wade through the rantings of internet ghouls like myself while they're trying to see how their efforts are paying off. Making a movie is probably a lot harder than I think it is.

But that's part of the point I'm heading toward. I'm always amazed by people's willingness to pour huge amounts of energy and capital into something to which there is ultimately very little point. I mean, I have bad, unoriginal, boring ideas every single day of my life. But I almost never DO any of them. I have a hard enough time convincing myself to just get out of bed in the morning, let alone devote blood, sweat, and money to deliver unto the world material evidence of my personal mediocrity. I can't imagine thinking it would be worth it, for myself or the unfortunate people who are subjected to my project, to actually execute on my bad ideas. I'm being judgmental, but honestly, I don't even know if my attitude makes me better or worse than someone who accomplishes the task of completing and selling a movie that's mainly a waste of time. Movies are so complicated, and realizing them requires the consensus of so many people, that it's sort of incredible that there are people capable of making one that doesn't have a powerfully compelling motivation behind it. People who are able to do such a thing obviously have something that I don't, and it isn't just "consideration for the audience."

So, I could probably stand to be more forgiving--or just, less eager to absolutely flay someone alive on my dumb little blog because they so opened themselves up to my arsenal of elaborate insults. But like...not all the time. Sometimes, a movie really fucking asks for it, and in revealing itself to me, it has effectively signed a waiver giving me patent freedom to do whatever I want to it. CONFESSIONAL is the latest movie to give me such a gift. After the final credit rolled in 30 MILES FROM NOWHERE, I looked for a little palate cleanser. As little as I like movies that put their single egg in the motheaten basket of a "shocking twist", I also have a problem with what I identify as canned theater. Not that I think all movies have to be lavish productions, but I think they should try to do something that is natively cinematic. It's very rare that I'm impressed by anything that is literally all talk. So, I went in search of some more familiar form of trash to help me recallibrate, and trash is definitely what I got.

(Me crying over my own bad decisions.)

To be fair, I kind of should have known that I was in for a challenging experience. The 2019 found footage thriller CONFESSIONAL is more or less based on the "confessional" part of sleazy reality TV shows, isolating each cast member in a soundproof stall so they can spill the rotten contents of their guts. Unfortunately, I spotted a review suggesting that the movie succeeded, against all odds, at remaining visually dynamic despite the unchanging scenery, and I was intrigued. The reviewer was correct, impressively; the monotony of the coffin-like environment with its dark foam walls was the least of my concerns. Other problems superseded that threat, immediately. The plot concerns a group of college pals who come together to remember a recently deceased friend--a filmmaker who expired mysteriously while completing a psychology-tinged project in which she recorded all of her friends' most shameful personal secrets. Now, somebody else has taken over the project...someone who "has never been identified", according to an early title card in this movie-within-a-movie (EVEN THOUGH THIS PERSON WILL BE EXPLICITLY IDENTIFIED AT THE END OF THE MOVIE SO LIKE WHY), but who seems likely to be the decedent's ex-lover...who continues to expose their subjects' most shameful secrets on film. I mean, what the fuck? Did I somehow manage to pick a second movie with almost the exact same plot??? I couldn't believe it. I didn't know if I could take it. My prospects only got worse when the cast showed up and started talking. I tried to turn the movie off. I backed out and walked away from it, twice. But I couldn't leave it alone. I had to know if it was really the same movie.

CONFESSIONAL concerns characters who are contemporaneously in college, which actually goes a long way to making everything worse. Each of these walking cliches is connected in some way to Amelia, a film student whose mysterious death has created a campus scandal, leaving shattered hearts and lives in its wake. The living have each received a blackmail-flavored invitation to speak about the deceased in a tiny "confessional booth" somewhere on campus, where, predictably, they find themselves locked in until they confess whatever they know about Amelia, and their classmates. I don't know why practically every single movie about young people has to be so miserable, but this is one of those. I assume that it has something to do with the fact that youth is simultaneously so desired and so ignored. People in their teens and early 20s are so sexually coveted, yet so easily dismissed as individuals, that we wind up with all this media that panders to them relentlessly (or at least, panders to the legions of ticket-buying perverts who enjoy watching them prance around), without almost any consideration of how they actually think and act, and look. Movies like FAT GIRL and  WELCOME TO THE DOLL HOUSE may be accused of their own form of pandering, a venal form of voyeuristic schadenfreude, but at least they reflect something of the awkwardness, isolation, and incompleteness of adolescence; something more than the dissociated, pornographic fantasies of adults who have long since forgotten what it was like to be powerless and ignored, or desired by people who don't even like you.

Not that CONFESSIONAL is supposed to be a work of grim realism, but it is most definitely rooted in a fantasy about college life that makes its contrived, message-y plot a lot harder to take. With almost the sole exception of "the nerdy one", every single character looks like a Bratz doll, oozing an exaggerated indecency that belies the movie's pretentious insistence on addressing the sex & gender Issues of the Day. What you get is a really good example of what happens when millennial characters are modeled, not on any actual millennials, but on other forms of marketing that are aimed at millennials, which are themselves just based on other preexisting youth-targeted commercials, et al ad nauseam. Even setting aside the deliriously slutty wardrobe choices, makeup appears to have been laid on with a trowel, coating each actor in a thick creamy layer of spackle that only makes any scars, pits, or other evidence of individuality look utterly bizarre. Accordingly, everybody preens, pouts, and generally behaves as if they're about to take off their clothes, which might be a huge relief given the profusion of chafing, cheapo mesh and straps they're laboring under.

So, ok, not every movie can have a great costume department, but the dialog here is a perfect match for the disastrous aesthetic decisions. Actually, this is the real reason I almost walked out on CONFESSIONAL. If I may ramble briefly, without substantiating any of my broad-ranging claims: Sometime in the late 90s/early 00s, horror cinema seemed to suffer a degenerative slide away from genuine thrills and chills, and into a version of the genre that is best characterized as the Slutty Halloween Costume approach. Any sense of existential dread, revulsion, or bodily vulnerability was widely replaced by a cutesy, Hot Topic-y preference for fast fashion and sex appeal, in which bloodshed more facilitated an informal wet teeshirt contest than any real fear induction. Horror's new mall goth look came with an equally shallow, boring verbal affectation: a sullen, sleazy, tooth-sucking sarcasm, that ushered in a new era in which, instead of making fun of the scummy coked-out dialog in porno movies, we now expect everybody to just talk like that, because it's hot. There's probably a line to be drawn between this unfortunate development, and the boneheaded real-world trend of identifying "sarcasm" as an important personal selling point on dating sites, but I won't try to prove that here. For now, I will just say that as soon as I heard the CONFESSIONAL characters start to speak, with their sneering, insinuating tones, with the vocal fry, with the head wagging, the jutting jaws, the smoldering gazes, the juvenile dragging-out of horny grownup words like de-bauch-er-y...I almost lost my nerve. Listening to these little creeps hissing and spitting for 84 minutes is a lot like being hit on by some barfly who continues to bludgeon you with his hot breath and corny lines without ever noticing that you've thrown up into your pint.

Uh, anyway. So what actually happens in the movie. Why would anyone ever allow someone to record video of them revealing the ugliest, most embarrassing parts of themselves? Especially a kid, for whom popularity and reputation are often a matter of life or death--literally and specifically, in the case of this story. The flimsy reason is that the late filmmaker, Amelia, was the most awesomest girl ever. Everybody loved her, because she was so sweet, and so smart, and so cool, and so nice, and so deep, and so original, and so talented, and so sexy, and just like, the bestest most perfectest girl in the whole wide world. N.B. "The greatest of all time" is, perhaps counter-intuitively, a really bad quality that makes for really shitty, boring characters. For better or worse, Amelia is rarely on screen (and when she is, she's no Laura Palmer, frankly), so it's up to the viewer to just sort of imagine a type of person who could make you act against your best interests on account of you just like them so much. After all, so many of the characters were obsessed with her in some way, that it's like they're here to help you clap your hands and believe in this seductive, compelling part of the movie, that just isn't actually there on the screen. The anonymous antihero behind the confessional booth scheme slowly extracts from each character the selfish, destructive behavior that in some way contributed to the tragic loss of the most amazing person of all time--and part of the result is, if not a very interesting excuse for Amelia's death, then a story so wacky that I really wish they had centered the movie on it, instead of on the tawdry soap opera we're locked into. Even if that imaginary movie had been really bad, and it probably would have been, at it would at least have been entertaining.

Part of what leads up to the death of Amelia is the existence of a secret school fight club, led by a stereotypically sleazy gender studies major, named Major, who is out to prove men's inherent superiority. The club is called CFB, or Cock Fights Back, which is somehow a garbled pun relating to cock fights, and Trump's famous line of "locker room talk": "grab'em by the pussy" > "pussy grabs back" > "cock fights back". CFB is different from your ordinary fight club in that the fights are always between girls and boys, and the boys are always blindfolded, in order to prove that a fully-abled female is no match for even a handicapped male. To complicate things, a new designer amphetamine is gaining popularity on campus, called "odds-on", meaning that it makes you the odds-on favorite in your CFB fight. As awkward as that is, it also seems that men are never the guaranteed winners of these fights, which makes you wonder why Major insists on continuing to host them. As much as I would have preferred to watch a stupid movie about this stupid idea, I'm stuck instead with a movie in which Major is such an aggressive MRA because he's secretly gay, and he thinks that hating women is a great way to hide that...as if that isn't what we all openly suspect about aggro MRAs. Secret gayness is a big part of this movie, involving multiple characters, although it amounts to very little other than the perpetuation of some stale, harmful cliches about how unfulfilled homosexual urges lead to suicide, sexual abuse, and murder. CONFESSIONAL is just as reliant on this grim vision of gay life, as it is on its weirdly obtuse discussion of drug addiction, for the suffocating sense of self-importance that it uses to try to elevate itself above its porn-y trappings. None of the movie's hot button issues are given any real thought, but are only dragged through the mud to create the illusion that there's a point to all this, thus relieving the film of any sense of innocence that could have made its condescending sleaziness forgivable.

Admittedly, I can't really remember all the details of the film's tortured intrigue anymore, even though I basically just saw it. A lot of its meandering revelations just left me thinking, "Why did I need to know that? Why should I care?" I do know that about half way through this ordeal, I became really anxious about whether it would turn out that CONFESSIONAL did NOT have exactly the same plot as 30 MILES FROM NOWHERE after all, and I put myself through all this for nothing. But no, I was right to begin with. The wonderful Amelia's ethically dubious film project has been picked up by the unhinged lesbian character who loved her so much she wanted to become her, and killing Amelia and usurping her confessional project was apparently the best way of doing that. I guess exposing all the dark, violent secrets of all these tangentially involved characters was just an added bonus, or whatever. Ultimately, this ugly, ignorant PSA about something-or-other only deals itself further damage by relying so heavily on the potential of its clumsy twist to blow your mind, which it does not at all.

So that was it, that's how I burned a whole afternoon allowing my mind to implode-not-explode under the ponderous force of TWO (2) movies about exactly the same exhausted cliche that is still being peddled by certain pretentious assholes as fresh and exciting, and beyond the capacity of the audience to anticipate. There's probably a whole slew of other movies that employ this overly familiar "surprise", but I don't have it in me to dig them out of my long-suffering brain. Feel free to contribute in the comments. For now, I must prepare myself for the ordeal of Blogtober, during which I will *hopefully* choose my screening selections and words more thoughtfully than I have in previous years, when this blog was motivated by just as much abject misanthropy as these movies, which do nothing but willfully insult the audience's intelligence. Maybe today's detour into degradation will help me go forth toward more additive experiences, having purged several lungfuls of meaningless venom from my system, and this season will bring with it more interesting, provocative posts than the last. Or maybe not! In any case, I promise to keep trying my hardest to make it funny.

PS I actually love both FAT GIRL and WELCOME TO THE DOLLHOUSE. I’m “just saying”. 

[scripttorture]

Sorry, you're probably tired of hearing this, but I wanted a bit more clarification on why torture makes people more resistant. On one hand, I do understand why they wouldn't want to help someone who hurt them. However, on the other hand, is the fear of pain not an effective motivator to obey (tho i understand how this can lead to lies and false memories)? I thought people would try to avoid being hurt, or does the mentality change when people have a cause to lean on through torture?

I understand that it’s difficult to wrap your head around. Most of us haven’t and won’t experience anything like that mindset and it’s difficult to wrap your head around something you haven’t gone through. It’s also not one, simple factor but a lot of inter-related things coming together.

 There might also be some confusion about what I mean by ‘resistance’ here.

 Generally it’s a word that conjures up images of fighting and spitting in people’s faces. And when I say ‘resisting’ that is part of what I mean but it’s not the whole picture.

 It isn’t really clear from the question whether we’re talking about interrogation or something like slavery. These are different situations and while I talk about resistance in both resistance tends to mean different things in both.

 I think it would be helpful starting out here to clarify what torture can and can not do.

 Torture can’t work as an interrogation technique.

 There are just too many factors coming together which make this completely impossible.

 Yes, it leads to lies and false memories. It also often causes memory loss, so it can destroy the evidence that torturers claim to be after.

 But those are far from the only factors that are a problem. People are terrible at telling when they’re being lied to. This includes torturers and professional interrogators. That means that torturers often believe the lies they hear and this creates a cycle of misinformation with lies feeding into each other.

 I talk about that in this post, which should hopefully build up a picture of how damaging this is to investigations.

 This combines with the fact that people don’t voluntarily report information to suspected torturers and the result is that most of the people torturers arrest and ‘question’ don’t actually know anything.

 So- the people who do know something are unlikely to speak. The torturers can’t tell when they’re being lied to. Most of the people they’re talking to will be lying because they don’t know anything.

 And this isn’t even all the factors. Survivors often report that torturers stopped asking them questions, didn’t record the answers or didn’t let them answer. And torturers often end up fighting each other. And they end up making their working environment so bad for everyone else that it can lead to the whole organisation fracturing-

 It just can’t work. Not without rewiring our brains and completely changing how we process pain and how our memories work.

 I talk a little about resistance in an interrogation context here.

 I think it’s important that we show resistance in torturous interrogation because they’re often framed as if resistance is impossible. But- it’s not the only factor that makes torture fail. It’s one of many.

 On the other hand torture can force people to work.

 Before I get to that we should probably talk about pain.

 I honestly have no idea how much of a motivator the fear of pain is. But pain itself is not a good motivator and make no mistake when we are talking about torture we are talking about pain rather than the fear of it.

 Our pain thresholds (plural) change with time. When we’re exposed to different kinds of pain our pain thresholds can rise, regardless of whether the exposure was consensual or not.

 Take a look at the common symptoms of torture here. It’s a pretty long list of mental illnesses. None of these illnesses make people more obedient. Several of them make people less able to take in instructions.

 Given the choice between torture and work many people will choose to work. Some will still refuse, even if it means being killed.

 But I think it’s a mistake to treat this as obedience.

 Wrapped up in that word is the suggestion of lasting control and the suggestion of agreement. That’s not what survivors of these situations describe.

 What they describe is choosing the option that seemed most likely to keep them alive and waiting for the best possible opportunity to escape or enact revenge.

 They will often use wording that emphasises they were forced to work. They were, they’re at serious risk of harm.

 But they are also behaving in a very tactical way. I think when we treat this sort of short term compliance as true obedience then we- ignore what survivors actually do and say in these situations.

 They know what their odds are. They are smart. They choose the risks they take.

 Forced labour seems to generally be most ‘successful’ when the tasks are simple. The more complicated the tasks become the more likely sabotage becomes.

 I would suggest that this is because complexity creates more low-risk opportunities for sabotage.

 Historically enslaved populations resisted in a lot of ways.

 There was violence. It ranged in scale from the poisoning of individual slave owners or overseers to outright war.

 There was also a lot of smaller scale action that was less well recorded.

 Equipment was sabotaged. ‘Accidents’ happened. Slaves deliberately broke their ‘masters’ prized possessions.

 People escaped in all sorts of ways. In Brazil they set up independent cities in the Amazon separate from colonial society.

 They also committed suicide in large numbers. This might not sound like an act of resistance but in the trans Atlantic slave trade it seems to have been consistently framed as one. Victims said that dying was both an escape and a blow against their tormentors.

 People continued to practice banned religions, speak illegal languages. They laid curses.

 They helped each other. People who couldn’t escape covered for those who could.

 None of this looks like obedience or agreement to me. It looks like desperate, downtrodden people fighting back in any way they can. Not always effectively, not always in ways that are flashy or even noticeable. But carrying on nonetheless.

 This doesn’t mean that everyone is engaged in active resistance all the time. It doesn’t mean survivors are stuck in anger.

 Depression is a common symptom and starvation (which is a common torture) causes apathy and emotional blunting.

 Survivors do say that sometimes they just wanted to give up. And some people never take the risk, it always seems too much however much they want it.

 I think there’s a tendency, looking at this from outside, to see things in a very black and white way. As if we can only resist with huge violent, obvious action or ‘give in’ and obey forever.

 The truth is muddier.

 We are remarkably resilient adaptable creatures. We adapt to atrocities in order to survive them but that doesn’t mean we stop looking for ways out.

 There aren’t many statistics or useful studies on compliance in forced labour or torture scenarios.

 What I find interesting from the anecdotal accounts is how much effort slavers put into portraying obedience as an enslaved person’s best option. That isn’t purely with threats or pain. It’s by framing the scenario in a way that makes it look like the slave loses less by complying.

 This usually comes with an assurance that it’s not forever. It’s for a year or a few years. And the promise is often that after that there will be rewards. Which never materialise.

 Another thing torture is capable of doing is forcing confessions.

 Analysis of historical data from France estimated the success rate at about 10%.

 The London Cage also tried to force confessions from prisoners and also used torture. But they added in bribery and blackmail as well. Their ‘success’ rate for forced confessions was more like 30%.

 I believe the evidence we have suggests that the success rate would have been much higher without torture. Because like most animals we respond more positively to bribery then threats.

 I hope I’ve answered your question but it is a complex one and I’m not sure I’ve done it justice.

 If you want to know more I strongly recommend picking up a copy of Rejali’s Torture and Democracy. It goes through the evidence in much more detail (about 800 pages and references) then I can here.

Availableon Wordpress.

Disclaimer

[deviant3lover]

Personal Headcanons for the Trio

On a rare spark of inspiration, I’ve decided to compile my list of headcanons for the Trio for you all to look at if you’re interested. :) 

I tried my best to make them rooted in canon so that they may be plausible while still allowing me to indulge. ;)

Putting this under Read More because boy, it is long.

Metal Bat/Badd

- From my asks to @atinychai​, Badd likes traditionally masculine things because it makes him feel empowered and keeps most people away. He shows almost all the traits: being into sports, working out, being fierce and intimidating… all except for being attracted to women. (Came as a real shock to him too: his team often found girls cute but Badd couldn’t help but notice that some guys were pretty hot and nobody pointed it out. Doubly so because he loves the thought of being married one day and none of the ladies appealed to him.)

- Very straightforward thinker, but unlike Genos, he isn’t completely tactless or over the top with it. His thought process focuses on what needs to be done, what is needed to do it, and to do it ASAP. Considerations are taken into account, such as what would happen if he doesn’t do it right or in a certain way. This is especially good for him since he’s a busy guy even by S-Class standards, but it does leave him vulnerable to not thinking through long term plans that well.

- The most empathetic and physically affectionate of the three. He keeps his tough look on him in public and in private, but he’s one of the first people to offer to hug it out if you’re breaking down. 

(Obviously where no one can see it: that’s embarrassing on you and would attract too much unwanted attention to him, so he makes sure there’s no one watching. If there is, he’ll clap you on the shoulder, look you in the eye, and offer some advice and encouragement.) 

Young boys and teenagers look up to him, and they usually feel better about crying into his shirt when Badd tells them how hard it was to stop himself from bursting into tears at his first loss in a match, or when he was trying to keep quiet for Zenko’s sake at her recital.

- Continuing on that note, he keeps a nice relationship with some of his sporty fans. Not anything too intensive, but he’ll keep track of the boys who come to him asking him what he was like on his baseball team, what to do if there’s infighting in their group, which ones are worried about their baseball matches and he gives them a proud congrats if they win, or a consolation + inspiration to do better next time if they lost.

- When he’s not blinded by anger, Badd’s surprisingly pretty adept at being a social expert. His experiences of being on the baseball team + hanging out with problem students like him has given Badd a pretty good perspective on both the popular kids and the hated, loner kids, as well as what they’re going through. As a result, he’s usually well received by them. Feels a little embarrassed and uncomfortable around smart kids though, especially when they explain something that sounds a little complicated to him.

- Back in his younger days prior to all the responsibilities piled on top of him, Badd was a pretty good leader for his baseball team. He checked in regularly with his team mates, their equipment, their training regimens, and their upcoming opponents. He helped some of his team mates with confidence issues, and made sure to keep in check with how they’re doing to prevent in-team fighting. All-star baseball team in their region for sure. :3

- In the future, I imagine that Badd might take up some boxing after taking a hint from all the times monsters knocked his bat out of his hands away from him. Lost his weapon? He’ll use his fists until he can get it back again, and he’ll use them well. Turns out loves the sport, but baseball will always have a special place in his heart.

- He empathizes easily with people experiencing stress; he goes through that daily with everything he has to take care of- but he’s more clueless with issues such as mental illness. Badd’s a little insensitive about it, sometimes suggesting things to take care of it which don’t work, but he’s trying his best to understand what someone is going through and knows enough to know that it isn’t something that can’t be solved by blowing off steam or cutting off some bad things in your life. Gets pissed off if someone dismisses it as ‘something that’s all in their head’ or ‘they’re crazy’ and will confront them. Forcing apologies out of the offender isn’t out of the question. Might want to stop him before he gets too pissed off.

- Like you’d expect, he’s a pretty big fan of sports, but in a more casual way. He likes hearing about his favorite athletes, training regimens, and certain meals/diets that helped stars to build up/maintain their strength and skill, but doesn’t obsessively get himself involved in the subject. On a more sentimental note, Badd finds some solace with famous athletes because they had to work hard to get where they needed to be, and on top of that, have to deal with the pressures that come with their popularity; whether they like it or not.

- Despite not having much time to cultivate attention to honing his skill and interest in cooking, he loves Gordon Ramsay. Seeing him rip entitled, spoiled people apart with words alone and gently encouraging + teaching kids has him placed high on Badd’s list of celebrities that he respects.

- Badd is a Closeted Romantic and a Family Man. Always found it touching where in some old action/thriller films, the male married lead thinks about his wife and kids back home and tells himself that he shouldn’t die, powering through the pain/adversity to get back to them. At some point it shifted to him liking some intense drama/action movie focusing on romance where the couple race against time to get to each other before it’s too late. The idea that someone you love and treat as an equal might actually be gone forever really gets him, and if done right, he’ll cry.

- Cannot, for the love of him, focus well on books. He’s literate, but he always wants to get to the most important stuff, often skimming over details that might be important later on. This is also evident in how he writes, explaining something simply and to the point, which makes him pretty good at teaching kids basic, simplified concepts, but not so good at constructing incredibly thought out and nuanced writing. Books and audio books just aren’t immersive to him. Consequently, English is one of his worst subjects in school, and he often has to rely on online notes and essay examples to help him out.

- Extending on that, I imagine him to be a kinaesthetic/visual learner. He was born with amazing dynamic vision after all. (Under ‘Fighting Style: Keen Perception.’)

- Loves American action movies, but they’ll have to be really well made for him to remember a specific one. If you asked him about his favorite action scenes, he’ll describe it, but more often than not, he won’t remember the movie’s name unless you gave him some clues.

- (Inspired by this fanfic.) His mother died in a monster attack just moments after giving birth to Zenko. Badd used to love and respect his father, but her death lead to him spiraling down to alcohol abuse and neglect due to his grief, leading to his broken pedestal status in his son’s eyes. Badd’s still bitter over it when he thinks about it, saying that his ‘old man nursed his bottle like it was his new kid’ instead of being there for him and Zenko. Caught between poor grades in school, a rough home life, and a baby sister he didn’t know how to take care of, Badd had to convince himself that he needed to be twice the man his father is, and ever was, to get through the worst of what life had to throw at him.

- No matter how hard he tries, he still loves his father, and wants to see him endeavor to become better again. But the combined grief of seeing him crumble and give up on himself, the bitterness over his dad failing to be there for him when he needed it the most, and the anger over how seemingly self-absorbed he was in with his booze and watching the static on the TV when Badd was struggling to cope, makes him force the thought of reconciling out of his mind. Badd forces himself to be outwardly angry over what happened to avoid the conflicted feelings he has over the man he used to see as his hero.

- That being said, if you know what his father used to mean to him, you’ll see subtle signs that while Badd can’t forgive, he had never forgotten him. His father was a big sports fan too, and taught him how to properly hit a baseball. If you knew what he taught and looked closely when Badd fights or does some swings, you’ll see that the tips and tricks that he taught his son has never left him.

- Wanted to get a dog because he thought they were cool, but realized he wouldn’t have enough time for it. Begrudgingly got a cat for him and Zenko after she picked one out. He expected it to be the widespread stereotype for cats: cold, mean, and ruins your stuff… and then he saw how lovable and sweet it was and fell in love. That cat is Tama.

- Hates horror films because some of them remind him of the fact that monsters can manifest for the stupidest reasons, anywhere, anytime. It gets him worked up and restless because anything can happen, and the fact that some monsters in the past had tried to target Zenko to lure him out doesn’t make him feel any better.

- When he’s sick/injured, he sleeps. A lot. A very heavy sleeper; expect snores and heavy eyelids. Seriously, this guy is practically stuck in either Stage 4 NREM or REM sleep until severe injuries heal quite a bit, and germs making him sick are killed off.

- Does not take kindly to anyone calling him weak or stupid. Despite getting angry easily, he’s very resilient (emotionally and mentally.) He knows from experience that if he can’t resolve it quickly, it’s best to put it on the backburner until the opportunity arrives where he can, and does his best to blow off steam in the meantime. He’s not that smart academically and he knows it, but it’s still a berserk button you should stay away from because while he’ll never admit it, it hurts him to know that despite forcing himself to attend school so that he can build a future for himself and Zenko outside of hero work, he’s still failing at getting the grades he needs.

- Expanding on that, he’s smart, but it’s more akin to Saitama’s words of wisdom than eloquent, polished reasoning and beliefs; straightforward and inspiring in a simple way that leaves no room for misinterpretation.

- Don’t let him play video games. Especially rage inducing ones like Cuphead. He will crush the controller and wonder why his character isn’t responding mid-game. The keys on the keyboard are smashed in. There are cracks on the area around the buttons. There’s a Wii remote sticking out of a wall after a frustrating defeat and the wrist strap wasn’t securely fastened.

Garou

- He likes athletic wear better than punk styles. They’re easier to put on and move in, whilst the leather from some punk clothes heats up too much/gets too stiff for his liking.

 - Hates being restrained. Sometimes, on a very, very rare occasion, it can be interpreted as him being scared of the idea since he lashes out pretty angrily at it. Garou had been held down and beaten up by bullies twice, pinned against a tree and choked by Genos before escaping his blast by the skin of his teeth, and then was implied to be chained up and tortured/punished for his insolence against the MA in their torture room. He’s strong enough to escape most bindings, but he will be on edge if he feels like he can’t get out of them. If you play your cards right, his attack patterns will lack their usual cunning and be more animalistic.

- He’ll eat almost any kind of food except for sweets. It’s too sugary for him, leads to a crash later on, isn’t sustainable, and it doesn’t offer much nutritional value to him either, so he steers clear of them if he can help it. The odd exception are energy drinks. The sugary taste isn’t something he exactly likes, but Garou loves the immediate rush that kicks in soon after drinking them; the slight burn on his tongue from carbonated drinks such as coca cola is a plus.

- Loves the thrill of the challenge of almost any sort. The excitement comes from giving it his all and not knowing for sure how things will turn out; if he won, that’s another trophy to him. If he lost, he relishes in a milestone he has to beat and loves the idea that there’s still room for improvement. Winning or losing too much tends to be boring for him, and he’ll abandon it if he sees no way to rectify it.

- When he’s sick or injured, he’s a restless sleeper; it’s hard for him to get the proper hours that he needs. He drifts in and out of sleeping and waking, usually sleeping a few hours at best before waking up for 10 minutes and falling back to sleep. Being attacked while vulnerable, in places with little means of defense or shelter is a pretty good plan for monsters/bigshots who want his head and he knows it. One of the places he can sleep more peacefully at is Bang’s Dojo, but he hasn’t been back there for some time now.

- Tsundere. Not necessarily the blushy ‘I-it’s not like I like you, b-baka!!’ sort of way, but he’s a more subdued tsundere. He’ll come off as mean spirited at times, but the most reliable way of knowing he loves and cares about his loved ones is when they’re being threatened; he’ll rough up the threat so they won’t get any funny ideas in the future.

- Is Russian-French, with some (suspected) Norwegian in there. Is generally a European mutt who takes a keen interest in Asian culture, especially those that developed sick martial arts and/or those who have interesting, complex histories; however, Garou isn’t as interested in wars and political intrigue as he is in weird, clever, and hilarious events and hijinks that sound too surreal to be true… like Zhao Yun's army being outnumbered by the enemy, retreating, and him choosing to make their fortress look empty so that his enemies get suspicious, thinking that it was an ambush and withdrawing... before launching an attack on them, killing off his enemy's army by inciting chaos. (E.g. Some of them got trampled, others fell into a river and drowned.) He won.

- Continuing off of that, he generally regards European history with distaste due to how... unkind, some of them are.

- (God, I love @the-goddessfighter​‘s headcanons for Garou’s parents, so honestly? I’m all for this being 100% canon. Murata or ONE, make it happen. In my eyes, this is as good as you possibly can get with Garou’s backstory.)

Check out her tumblr for her OC’s for Garou’s parents! (Although I do headcanon Toru as a more neglectful father who didn’t care much for Garou, if at all. He didn’t sugarcoat his words to him nor try to comfort his son.)

- Prefers black/white/grey/neutral colors for his clothes, if only to avoid people saying that the colors clash and that he looks like a fashion disaster.

- It’s an unconscious move on his part, and while he usually has impeccable control over his power, sometimes his fingers feel like they’re jabbing you when he’s distracted. Especially when he grabs or hugs you. Sometimes, there are some small bruises where they’ve dug in a little forcefully. When he’s feeling affectionate or sentimental and you’re his lover, he traces over your skin, and it’s a contrasting mix between the calloused, rough textures from the fingers, and smooth, fluid movements that slide like water. It’s a distinct Garou feature, and whether you love it or hate it depends on your tastes.

Genos/Demon Cyborg

- Doesn’t care too much about his popularity, but acknowledges the work that his fans put in when it comes to promoting his work and what little information he shares that others will pick up on. E.g. He doesn’t like to be bothered when he’s busy/with that bald guy, but otherwise is OK with signing a few autographs and shaking hands, he avoids certain obnoxious fangirls, he hates it when there’s a group and they crowd him, etc.

- Despite appreciating this info circulating so that some fans are more mindful about how they interact with him, he’s one of the hardest heroes to connect with due to how cold, closed off, busy, and/or socially awkward he may be. Not that many of his fans mind, as it feeds into the mysterious ‘Cyborg Prince’ fantasy that’s popular in his fan base.

- Thinks that Nice Guys/GirlsTM and people who use ‘I’m an Alpha, those betas/omegas can suck it’ are pathetic. At best. He thinks that they’re compensating for something instead of actually trying to improve themselves: for the latter, the added weight of using a disproved scientific theory makes him lose respect for them even more.

- He has a certain amount of fondness for fauna and flora. Prior to meeting Saitama, he’s had to travel long distances in search of the Mad Cyborg, and more often than not, company is fleeting, leaving him alone most of the time. Flowers by the side of the path, blue skies, the sound of chirping birds, or even some berries with rainwater droplets on them are familiar, nice sights that put him at ease. Some of his notebooks outside of taking notes on Saitama have hand drawn illustrations and notes on some plants he’s encountered, as well as their various uses.

- Conversely, barren cities will put him on high alert. Buildings act as great hiding spots, and Genos isn’t a stranger to being ambushed by monsters and criminals alike. (His eyes can be a great asset in these situations; scanning for threats and movements can give him a heads up on how dangerous the area is.)

- His sense of humor is pretty dark, if not outright sadistic at times; especially towards the people he hates. Otherwise, he likes making (mostly. Key word is mostly) harmless jabs and teases at those he loves because he finds it funny when the other person gets riled up/flustered. His tone and expressions don’t change (most of the time) when he makes them though, making it hard for others to know whether or not he’s joking until he clarifies on the matter.

- Hates those who spread misinformation about medicine, or demonizes scientists. He cares about keeping the public safe, and admires/respects science for everything it’s discovered for the sake of humanity: people such as those are a direct attack on both.

- Though on the outside he takes even the most inconsequential things seriously, to the point where he’s gullible and too honest to lie, he keeps his more solemn thoughts to himself and ingrains them at the back of his mind so that he’ll never forget them. His notebooks don’t hint at them even existing. The only way you’ll ever get to hear them is when you directly attack something he holds very dear to him (beliefs, values, aspirations) so that he may fiercely (and furiously) defend them. He berated Saitama for seemingly making a joke at his expense, but he was somewhat more lenient since he knew that Saitama wielded the power he needed. He won’t be nearly as nice if you’re not someone he likes or respects, so it’s a sure-fire way to get onto his blacklist.

- Is German-Japanese. German father, Japanese mother, though a lot of people mistake him for being fully German thanks to his looks. He understands some parts of the language, but isn’t fluent in speaking it. Japanese he’s fully fluent in, and English is getting to that point as well.

- He doesn’t usually use pet names if he gets a lover, but if he’s fallen in love hard, they get sort of ridiculous and a little cheesy. ‘My beloved’ and ‘darling’ are the most modest ones, but you’ll have to stop him from going after extremely specific and loving nicknames because they blur the line between being hilarious and embarrassing.

- Awesome at stake outs, and often keeps a first aid kit handy in his temporary bases (in the case of civilian injury) alongside a repair kit for himself. Genos is incredibly well prepared just from the equipment he has inside them, but unlike other matters (such as learning how to fold clothes efficiently and going taking it far too seriously), Genos shows pretty good judgment in how he sets them up. He doesn’t take more than what’s needed, and prepares some emergency supplies just in case there’s a new development and he needs to stay a bit longer. He’s learned from experience that taking too many things for them makes it harder for him to clear his tracks, and in return, the enemy (or enemies) that he’s been keeping an eye on might catch onto the fact that they’re being watched, making it harder for him to discover new information.

Shared Traits & Other Bits

- The no-brainer: you will get intimidated into fleeing if you mess with them. Things may get physical if you target their family/loved ones. Injuries vary depending on level of apologetic attitude, how much of a threat you pose, how far you’ve pushed things, etc. Best case scenario is that you flee the scene with no injuries, but scared out of your mind.

- Badd and Genos use the same nickname for their lover: ‘Darling.’ Although Badd will say it as ‘Darlin’’ instead. Other than that, their nicknames are fairly different, with Badd going for things such as ‘sweet cheeks,’ ‘babe,’ and ‘sweetheart.’

- Both Genos and Garou have the tendency to mess with people for their own amusement. Garou comes in the form of taunting and goading, whilst Genos likes to make underhanded comments and jokes that will infuriate you.

- Genos and Garou like books. Genos however, is more introverted and will share his knowledge more thoroughly when prompted by someone who needs it. Garou being Garou, you wouldn’t even know he was into reading until he offhandedly mentions a bit of knowledge from a book he read. Odds are you won’t have time to ask him if he knows how to do x because he would have already gotten up to do it before you can open your mouth. This occurrence is far more common in emergencies.

- Genos doesn’t take any visible joy in fighting. He sees monsters as a threat to society that must be eliminated quickly and effectively. Badd used to enjoy throwing himself into battles and coming out of them victorious, but thanks to time and HA’s obligations, he sees monsters as destructive assholes getting in his way and creating more work for him when he’d rather come home to catch up on other things on the forefront of his mind. Garou loves fighting, the challenge- but it has diminished by a notable amount after his webcomic arc as he’s reflecting on what he needs and wants to do now. Despite this, he usually keeps his eye out for any interesting challenges, if only to distract himself.

- Slightly digressing from the Trio: Zenko shares the burden of taking on responsibilities with Badd, though he doesn’t know they exist. She’s aware of the fact that her brother isn’t living a normal teenage life and is bothered by the fact that he can’t act like his own age most of the time, making her want to be headstrong, capable, and independent soon so he doesn’t have to worry about her. At the same time, she knows that there aren’t many heroes his age that he can get along with, so she tries to fill in that hole by spending time with him while finding heroes she likes, and hopefully her brother will like- the reason being is that hopefully, Badd will make friends with them, and she can meet her idol often! It’s part of the reason why she was so insistent in having him obtain AM’s signature.

- Genos can sing, but sometimes struggles with singing with enough emotion in his lyrics. Garou can sing pretty well, (and sings almost every Disney villain song like a champ) but he’d be resistant to others goading him into it. He’s pretty uncomfortable at the notion that he’d have to sing in front of people. Badd can… sing, but he’s best at singing the lullabies he sung to a baby Zenko- songs that get him into it can have him be really, really into it; to the point where it’s almost embarrassing to watch. He’s pretty good at rap/singing more sentimental pieces such as this:

[anonthenullifier]

You see all I wanted from infinity war/endgame was Vision and Nebula meeting up and being friends. But she doesn’t know that he’s always been a sythezoid, so she’s kinda like “shit, what happened to you??” And Vizh kinda just “???” But marvel’s too cowardly to do anything fun, so could I please request a fic based loosely on that?

That would have been lovely! I’ve never written Nebula before, so I hope she’s in character here, and I hope you don’t mind a bit of Scarlet Vision at the beginning and the fact that I am just going to willfully ignore canon for this story. :D 

A cozy, soothing rightness curls through his synthetic veins as he takes in the emerald wisps in the distance. His heart beats faster at the shimmering points of light deep inside the structure, understanding that each one may one day (in many billions of years) host a system teeming with conscious thought. He is awestruck at how so many elements all came together to form the majesty before him. There is also a part of his mind, one that rarely feels present, that sings with the knowledge of being home, back among the particles and the atoms which were birthed in creation.

“It’s beautiful.” Her voice brims with wonder, eyes wide and smitten, her fingers still laced with his, as they have been since the ship first arrived unannounced on the lawn of the compound. Through all of the conversations, all the planning, all the awkward introductions and stumbles of two teams attempting to work together, he knows Wanda’s attention, like his own, has rarely strayed from the panoramic windows of the ship.

“It is.”

Wanda tugs him closer, their hips meeting and trapping their joined hands, allowing her to lay her head along his bicep. “Do you know what it is?”

The simple answer, and likely all she is asking, is that they appear to be inspecting a nebula. Yet he has been attempting to discern the exact nature of the structure outside (one he knows is not nearly as close at is seems). There are numerous large, billowy clouds clustered together to form the overall shape which is, if he squints, reminiscent of a seahorse. “I believe it is a conglomeration of giant molecular clouds.” Wanda’s huh is accepting of the response without actually tucking the information away, the same sound she makes any time he has provided an answer that isn’t really an answer to someone without a deep knowledge of the topic. “This nebula is likely a stellar nursery.”

Her mouth curves into a waxing crescent, “That’s amazing.” Her joy is celestial, filling his chest with the appropriateness of experiencing this with her, of all people. “So, uh, what do you think…of all this?”

The mission, from what he gathered in the hotly debated group meeting, concerns thwarting an attempt to retrieve an ancient and powerful artifact, some confusion still remaining as to the actual artifact as well as why and how the Guardians of the Galaxy (or so their apparent captain - though there was debate on this as well - introduced them as) came to call on the Avengers. “I am uncertain what is happening due to the ill-defined plan we have been given.”

“Glad I’m not alone.” Wanda’s snigger is delighted yet empathetically annoyed. “What do you think of all of them?”

It’s a big question, one he has contemplated briefly, yet he isn’t sure if deep thought is needed to describe the way he feels, his emotions blindingly bright on the topic. Yet he gives it a moment’s thought before answering. Earlier at the meeting, there was a green skinned woman seated across from him, her eyes serious and mouth in a perennial frown throughout the debate. Next to her was a bulky man with straightforward, un-nuanced opinions that contrasted sharply with the intricate crimson markings inlaid in his skin. To Vision’s right was a woman with antennae, her mouth in a constant joyful curve, and to his left (well, Wanda’s immediate left) was a foul-mouthed tree and an even fouler-mouthed raccoon. The assortment was dizzying, only one truly normative human amongst them, and for the first time in his relatively brief existence Vision felt oddly…normal. Not a single individual on the ship stared at him askew, veered from his handshake, or whispered behind his back. Even on his own team he has never been treated in such a casual, unperturbed nature. It’s nice. “They seem passionate, well-trained, a bit disorganized, but accepting.”  Well, mostly, during the meeting his eyes would wander to the far right of the gathering, to a face that was framed by the shoulders of Steve and Sam, to the unerring stare of the cybernetic woman who said all of four words the entire debate. That is not enough to sway his emotional assessment, however.  “I am comfortable here.”

“Good,” she squeezes his hand while laying a kiss to his arm, “they’re a lot louder than our team.”

“Oh yes, most assuredly.”

Another hug from her fingers and she yawns, stifling it against the fabric of his uniform, her breath hot on his skin. “Alright, today’s been overwhelming so I’m going to sleep. You coming?”

Any other night he would say yes, but the expanse of space calls out to him, demanding just a little more time. “I believe I may remain here a bit longer and then I shall join you.”

“Okay,” Wanda rises up onto her toes, a cloud of scarlet, shimmering in unison with the nebula outside, engulfs his face, turning his head down and to the right so she can kiss him. “Good night, Vizh.”  

“Sleep well, Wanda.”

Once she is gone, Vision tries to enjoy the solitude and silence of eternal night, except it is difficult to do when not truly alone. He waits precisely five minutes, forty-five seconds, and fifteen milliseconds before acknowledging the shadow that’s been watching him since the teams dispersed earlier in the evening (well they called it evening despite a lack of demarcation between day and night). “Are you intending to speak with me at any point?”

“Calm down,” the woman’s voice is monotone, which usually implies emotionlessness, yet he can sense a seething rage in each syllable, “didn’t want to interrupt your little moment.” A layer of disgust coats the last two words.

“I appreciate that.” She rolls her eyes and he finds himself at a loss for how to continue…well, more at how to begin. When they arrived on the ship, she was not present, at some point between introductions and the first aggravated groan of the meeting, she slinked in unannounced and relatively unnoticed, the only signs of recognition by anyone were some of the surprised eyes of his own teammates at her blue and purple skin and the unmitigated view of her metal parts. It means they have not truly met and that seems an appropriate place to start. “I am Vision,” he turns towards her and holds out his hand.

“Yeah, I know,” the complete disregard for the information is more effective at slapping his hand away than if she had physically done so, “so,” her eyes scan his body with a detached, almost scientific interest, “what happened to you?”

“I, um, do not follow.”

Her face is unimpressed by his lack of comprehension. “Had to have gotten into some deep shit for,” she waves her metal hand at him, “all this.”

This is a line of postulation he has not encountered concerning his appearance, the majority of people usually ask if the stone in his head is a way to turn him off (or on and then they laugh and run away). “I was created in a laboratory.”

“Well, that’s boring.”

For some reason the dismissal stings and he finds himself sharing the more dramatic details of his birth before he can reason through why he is doing it, “In which a rogue sentient robot controlled the mind of a renowned geneticist and forced her to create my body as a new form to occupy.”

A small, frightening smirk forms on the woman’s lips, “Now we’re talking.”

Vision nods slowly, confirming they are, in fact, speaking, “During the process, Wanda, who was, well, aiding Ultron-”

“Ultron the psychopathic robot?”

“I- yes, he is,” Nebula nods, a hint of pride on her face at connecting the dots of his story. “Wanda realized Ultron’s plan and freed the geneticist from the mind control, and then the Avengers captured the cradle my body was in and they finished bringing me to life, without Ultron’s influence.”

The woman accepts the information and doesn’t press for more, so he joins her in staring out the windows at the peacefulness of space.  Then she speaks and the conversation veers in a direction he did not anticipate, one with a concerning level of hopeful curiosity. “Did you kill him?”

“I-” he thinks back to the forest and the regret he felt even though he knew it was the right thing to do, “I did, yes.”

“Nice. That’s my dream,” she doesn’t turn to look at him, the air around them chilling as she seems to dissociate from their conversation and slip into a wholly different mindset, “to murder the man who did this to me.”

The uniqueness of the conversation begins to take shape, the similarities of their appearance maps onto his deep understanding of the desire to find a kindred spirit. “Who-”

One word, one sign of interest is enough to catapult her into what seems a well-rehearsed monologue. “My father. When I was a child, he conquered Luphom, killed half the population, took me under his wing.” Vision’s lips fall at the decidingly unfatherly actions. “Every time I failed him he replaced more of my body, enhanced me, he’d say, usually without knocking me out, wanted me to know exactly what he was doing to me.” As subtly as possible, his eyes pinpoint every part of her visible body that is cybernetic, his stomach looping itself into knots at the innumerable lines along her face and at the fully metal arm, “This one was me,” she cocks her arm like a rifle, a wicked sneer on her face, “chopped it off to escape my sister.”

“Your family sounds,” he pauses, seeking out the appropriate word, his own experience with family abnormal, but not in a way that would encourage him to dismember himself, “complicated.”

She snorts, “Aren’t all families?” and the combination of the sound with the casualness of her words is alarming.

“I do not believe it is statically possible for every family to have such serious complications.”

Whatever humor she had in the situation vanishes, the shared ground between them crumbling with the purse of her lips. “You got a cape, assume you can fly?”

“Yes.”

Her chin dips with the victory of her deductive reasoning. “What else can you do?”

The breadth of his powers is vast, yet he believes he can boil it down to a small list, though hopefully she does not wish for a conversation on why he can perform the feats he can because he has not yet deciphered the best explanation. Vision begins with the most obvious enhancement. “Not only is my body laced with vibranium, but so are my cells. This makes me nigh indestructible and—” suddenly a leg cuts through the air, sliding diagonally from his right clavicle down to his left hip as his density drops, her foot connecting with the floor in a deafening thud.

“Fascinating.”

Vision’s sympathetic system activates as he turns to follow the shark-like circling of the woman as she takes in his now solid body, even reaching out to experimentally nudge his shoulder. Despite his body’s response, he does not currently believe he is in any real danger, no clear signs of a legitimate threat present in her posture or on her face. “I am able to shift my density, which also allows me to phase through solid objects.” To demonstrate, he reduces the density of his legs and drops down until the floor is at his knees. He returns to his full height, feet solidly on the floor, only after she acknowledges the action with a guttural hmm.

“Can you take the density the other way?”

“Yes,” and he does, shifting his molecules until his skin resembles the sheen and cut of diamonds.

She studies his skin, stepping closer to poke it again, this level of closeness one he never encourages or enjoys from anyone other than Wanda, but he worries if he flinches or pulls away it will demolish the tenuous sense of camaraderie and relative absence of judgment from the woman. This seems a decent plan until she winds back and punches him in the face, the force of which actually moves his jaw a quarter of a millimeter. Vision immediately steps back, creating what he hopes is a chasm of acceptable but not offensive social distance. The woman doesn’t seem to notice or much care, cracking her knuckles with a barely perceptible grin on her face, “I’m jealous.”

Now the attention is stifling and so Vision seeks to deflect it. “What do your,” he tries to conjure up a word or phrase that is descriptive without being offensive to her abusive upbringing, “cybernetic adaptations provide?”

“Super strength, durability, and rapid healing.” Vision watches as she takes three steps back, spine straightening, chin slightly aloft while her arms hang down and her hands are held out just to the sides of her hips. “Give it a try.”

He’s seen Natasha in the same stance, even down to the subtle quirk of her lip that says do your worst. Unlike in training, however, he doesn’t have to engage, instead he decides to double down on what his teammates call his otherworldly aloofness to parry the suggestion. “I am uncertain I follow.”

“Come on.” The flick of her fingers tries to entice him. It fails, his body remaining a respectable distance. “Just one punch, lab boy, see who’s really stronger.”

There is, to him at least, absolutely no reason to establish any dominance hierarchy based on strength, which is precisely what her tone and continued stare imply she wishes to construct. “I would rather not.”

Disappoint slips into her irate, “Coward.”

Perhaps he is, though he disagrees with the assessment given his past behaviors in battles. “I believe I may retire for the eve—”

“Arm wrestling?”

The question is a smidgen desperate, something he finds surprising, yet it does cause him to contemplate the suggestion and weigh all possible outcomes of accepting the offer. “I suppose that would be an acceptably nonviolent test of our strength.”

“Good.” He follows her to the dining table located towards the back of the main room and watches with interest as she clears a space for them, shoving cups and plates and vid screens without caring when something falls. “Right or left?”

“I am ambidextrous.” This is accepted with a sharp smile, the woman choosing her seat and placing her mechanical elbow on the table, hand held aloft, fingers open and inviting. Vision settles uneasily into the other chair, rotating his torso fifteen degrees to bring his left elbow to the cool, metal table. “Are there rules?” The question is asked as he places his hand in her own, the feel of her prosthetic on his skin a fascinating texture in comparison to other hands he has held.

The woman flexes her fingers, rearranging her body to get a better grip. “No external weapons,” a fair rule, “that’s it.”

“What about-” Vision feels his arm begin to give out as the woman unexpectedly starts, attempting to use surprise to her advantage, but he recalibrates his muscles within a quarter second, flexing his bicep to bring their hands back to the starting position. “That was unsportsmanlike.”

“Oh, boohoo,” she snarls at the lost ground, eyes locked on their hands as she struggles to push his arm.

This is not his maiden voyage in arm wrestling, in fact, one of the first team bonding activities they did in his life was such a competition. Captain Rogers alone gave him pause in his dominance, though even then he tried not to use the strength inherit in his full density for fear of harming his teammates. This woman surprises him, on comparable footing to Captain Rogers, but she has a slight advantage in ruthlessness as he’s fairly certain a screw or two is being shoved into the skin between his thumb and index finger. Vision increases his density slightly to counteract the questionable use of technically-not-external-weapons and manages to drop her hand an inch and a half closer to the tabletop.

“Come on,” her voice is strained, teeth clenched while she strives to regain her position, “that all you got?”

Vision likes to think of himself as above the human need to win, yet Wanda is typically the first to point out his sourness in losing at games, including this one, the woman’s words egging him on despite knowing he should remain unmoved by the taunt. He increases his density a fraction more, pushing her hand down farther and that’s when she screams and he sees her humerus fracture. Panic floods his mind, body, and voice at the same time. “Oh, oh no, I will go get aid immediately.”

But she doesn’t let go of his hand as he tries to leave, doesn’t cry or wince as she stares hard at him, a sickening snap coming from her body as her bone shifts back into place. With his attention frazzled, she thrusts his wrist down in a swift arc, slamming the back of his hand to the table.  “Gotcha.”

A sadistic chuckle echoes around him as his parasympathetic system kicks in, breathing beginning to settle and the adrenaline leaving his cells, his mind whirring in an attempt to reconcile all that happened. Vision isn’t certain how to proceed, simply stating, “That was also unsportsmanlike.”

Her nose scrunches in disagreement, “You used your density manipulation, I,” she holds out her arm and winces as she replays the maneuver, her gaze locked on his as she reconnects her artificial bone, “heal very quickly. Comes in handy from time to time.”

“That must, um, be quite useful.” And manipulative in non-dire situations, yet with the family environment she has informed him of, perhaps it is an adaptive survival technique.

She takes his compliment with a satisfied smirk, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “Not bad for a couple of scrap heaps.”

Self-deprecating humor is something he himself has toyed with, an outlet for acknowledging his deep insecurities without alarming others. He tries hard not to use it, knowing how easily it can tip into a spiral of self-doubt. Given his own perceptions of his inhuman physique, it’s not surprising to find this woman has mastered it and even though he chuckles politely, his mind also rushes through the various ways to counter the lighthearted dehumanization. “Are you familiar with Gestaltism?”

“No,” she levels a serious gaze at him, “but I hope you’re about to tell me about disemboweling enemies.”

Thankfully he is not, nor is he willing to enter into that branch of conversation. “It posits that in the process of perceiving a stimulus, the whole is considered something other than, and distinct from, the parts that make it up. In fact—”

She stands, the sound of her chair scraping against the ground effectively silencing him.  “This is boring.”

“My apologies.”

“The angry woodland creature would be better to discuss parts and wholes with,” an impish, knowing slant forms on her mouth, “though I don’t think you’ll agree with his philosophy.”

Vision isn’t sure which shipmate is the angry woodland creature, given both the tree and raccoon were snarky during the meeting. “I will do so, thank you.”

With a curt nod she turns to leave, takes four steps, hunches her shoulders, swivels to face him, stomps the four paces back and thrusts her mechanical hand out. “I’m Nebula.”

Vision shakes her hand like Steve taught him, firm yet friendly. “Vis—”

“I know.” Before the words are out of her mouth, her hand is gone from his, back at her side, fingers flexing in discomfort. “You’d be more formidable if you talked less.”

“I will process your constructive feedback.”

This time her snort isn’t alarming and might even be a bit friendly. “Good night.”

“Good night.” He remains at the table for several more minutes, face turned towards the windows of the ship. The conglomeration of gases, clouds, and stars still swirl together, forming a whole object of wonder, one that has explanations, yet still remains a relative mystery.  Nebula, he reasons, seems a very fitting name.

[sea-changed]

vermiculated replied to your post: vermiculated replied to your post...

I can't believe I missed this until now! wow! Here I am, here you are, there are books and words between us. wonderful. thank you.

<3 <3 <3

I have to tell you that I read Olivia Waite's new ff and it has exactly this problem. It is as though both heroines are mealy-mouthed and forgettable so that the reader won't be offended by reading a book about women. Their only flaws are caring too much, wanting appropriate twenty-first century style recognition (ahistoricism doesn't bother me but as I was reading it, I thought, @sea-changed​ is going to be livid) and accidentally misunderstanding one another...

also attempted financial abuse. which I mention separately because it added a note of the glass armonica to the music of the spheres. how is ff so inadequate to our desires?

Oh no, this is terribly disappointing to hear; I’d been holding out some amount of hope for this one, though that was probably folly on my part. Why, in a subgenre written by and wholly about women, can the seemingly fairly standard “women are people” concept continually fail to gain ground? I’ll still read this, as it’s waiting for me on my phone and the upcoming semester promises to require mindless stress-reading, but I’ll be extremely irate about it. (I always think I can be magnanimous about ahistoricism in romance novels, which is obviously a lie, but it is good to be known like this.)

re: re: 34, I love the sweeping romantic sentiment because they manage to meet in the middle only when they both understand themselves to be ludicrously devoted. It didn't quite feel like a romance novel, you are correct -- there's a bit of neither fish nor fowl here? I personally feel that the natural second-half plot ought to have been shoring up how Richard and David love one another despite their respective troubled backstories rather than ...

...advancing the political thriller from "A Seditious Affair" and developing a coherent moral world. Which is what novels are oriented toward: why do people do what they do, despite everything? In romance, they do it because they love one another (or they're supposed to) whereas I think more complicated motives such as you discuss are much rarer.

oh, novels!, I say, like I live inside Tony Trollope's vision. I think the book tries to have it both ways and ends up being slightly frustrating for all readers. just write two books, Kimberly! Kimberly is what I call her when I am trying to hector her from afar. dear Kimberly, please have Susan stab Templeton. xo.

“Just write two books” is honestly what it comes down to: it feels like two books, and while I get that the political thriller part allowed David to be David to to requisite degree, after how gracefully it was cleaved to the romance plot in Seditious Affair it felt a bit tacked-on here. And while I’m certainly not opposed to moral ambiguity in my ships, the genre formula seems to require that said ambiguity, if there is any to begin with, be neatly swept under the rug; it’s really the sweeping I have the problem with rather than the ambiguity itself. (Because like, should Richard be fucking his valet? No! That’s a pretty open-and-shut one. Which certainly doesn’t mean I’m opposed to watching it happen, but I’d like fewer bows on my endings, I guess. Did you know Gentleman’s Position was the first book of the series I read, because I thought it had the most interesting-sounding summary? In hindsight this amuses to no end.)

(The accusation that there are similar moral issues and rug-sweeping in Seditious Affair, and that I am simply too starry-eyed over it to complain about them, is potentially quite valid, though because of said stars in said eyes I’m not the one to judge.)

(dear Kimberly, please have Susan stab Templeton --The only way I can see this going down with zero hair torn out of my head, quite honestly.)

re: re: 39, @mysharkwillgoon​ made the unkind (but accurate) observation that this series is always available at our county library because no one likes it. I recognize that I am utterly alone in how much I enjoy this, and am really pleased that you picked it up and felt the requisite feelings. I know you're not a Victorianist by practice or nature, so it's impressive that you returned to this weird book.

HA, I’ve made this same observation (likely about the same library!), which I’ll admit is satisfying to the part of me that thinks everyone should have my taste, though dissatisfying to the equally clamorous part of me that wants to read Seditious Affair for the sixteenth time and has to wait for it on hold. Weird romance seems to be my favorite kind, so I too am glad I returned to it. Not a Victorianist by practice or nature may have to go on my office wall.

A general query: can literary fiction be experimental enough to reach the logical end-point of the genre or are we still pretending that felicity in art is enough? Why must there be meaning in the world? Perhaps I judge the Booker too harshly: it is only a literary competition, it is not an immurement by orange sticker -- yet every book I have wanted to love from the longlist has given me the same depth of emotion that I feel on regarding ...

...a tray of wrapped zucchini at the grocery store: why are we engaging in such resource-intensive craft! (this is not strictly true. I delighted in A Little Life, it was nothing like plastic on vegetables at all.) To continue, is the worst thing that happened to literary fiction the application of irony? I am no supporter of the genuine, the real, the unmanufactured, yet ironic distance can hardly support so much.

It's not a prerequisite. and it looks like smugness more often than it comes off as wit. I read someone recently saying that the problem in Jude the Obscure is "done because we are too menny" which struck me -- a biased Hardy fan -- as missing the point about art: the place where it happens is an artificial one, but it has greater force for that. it's not a bug, it's a feature!

"somewhat poisonous nostalgia" sick burn, I like it.

Speaking of sick burns, “the same depth of emotion that I feel on regarding a tray of wrapped zucchini at the grocery store” has the devastating combination of being both pithy and accurate. I do find myself regularly mystified about what criteria are used to long-list books in general (the Booker being, I think, a particularly frequent and egregious example): it leaves me to wonder whether a) people who judge these things find being left cold and unmoved a virtue in fiction or b) they are led to feel things about writing I find cold and unmoving. (I tend toward the first, though the fact that people have seemingly genuine emotions about Madeline Miller novels would argue strongly for the second.)

The pitting of irony and emotion against one another is, I agree, one of the central failings of the literary genre: Both! Both are good! As you say, being in a constructed hothouse universe is not to be derided (though certainly poked at), and it does not (or at least should not) lessen the emotional validity of the created world. Have faith in your own creations, you dimwits.

I have been thinking all morning about your observation that none of these books are experimental enough: I thought the French were meant to be good at this. Do you think it has to do with our late uneasiness around teenage sexuality, and that writing a sufficently-complicated teenager such that he is entitled to his own sexual preference means that authors no longer sound unique, ...

... but rather like a series of psychology textbooks. Which can be a pleasure (what's UP, Megan Abbott) yet tends to make these books extremely ... putdownable. Thank you for this, there's really nothing better than having a person with exquisite taste on whom one can rely to read books first.

I do think that there is an essential trouble with alienation in YA novels: so many read as false and/or patronizing, because they’re being written to teenagers rather than about teenagers. (Sometimes this is rectified when adult lit writes about teenagers, but mostly it is not, and certainly not in this case. Here again is a case of irony vs. emotion; if you’re not going to give me emotion, you’ve got to be a whole lot better at irony--or in this case more specifically narrative commentary--than this.)

(On the subject of complicated teenagers having sex convincingly, I was recently a fan of Patrick Ness’s Release, which the author describes it as a cross between Mrs. Dalloway and Judy Blume’s Forever; a comment I’ll let stand on its own sizable feet.)

And there is truly nothing better than having someone to dump your own particular long-winded exegeses on, so thank you for that in return.

ps I read Astray and it was so frail! "disappointingly pedestrian" indeed. If I could write like Emma Donoghue, I guess I would labor under the curse that afflicts her plotting.

For being a book that contained so much that I love--an entire collection of extremely specific and well-researched historical settings!--it was so flat. I know Donoghue can write better sentences, I’m at a loss why she chose to not put any in this collection.

[electricbluebutterflies]

Cuddling; reluctantly, out of necessity and totally romantic for Kabby

Three-part fluff thing because I can and because I feel like this fandom has a distinct lack of bed-sharing fic. Usual canon-divergent ‘verse, PG-ish, and also on ao3.

in these arms

1. reluctantly.

If nothing else, Abby Griffin is stubborn. That word will probably go on her tombstone, if they decide those are a thing again now - that’s another little logistical detail she should probably think about, one more addition to the list of unexpected questions that accidentally getting put in charge of reestablishing a civilization has brought up. She sees things and latches onto them, and nothing in this world is enough to stop her.

So it figures that, as her body recovers from traumatic injury, she would end up stuck with the only person she’s ever met who’s just as terrible as she is.

Things with Kane are… complicated, at best. She’s starting to see consistent flickers of human decency in the man, which is new and weird and needs to stop because he is so much easier to deal with when he’s in asshole mode, but that is not the worst of it. Oh no. By virtue of his own recent injury, aka how the hell does he think walking around that much on that wound is a good life choice, he’s appointed himself her official protector until both of them heal up.

Which means, for the next week - she figures, gods, it could be longer depending on what goes on around each other - she has to play nice on a scale that ten years of catfights during council meetings could never have prepared her for. At least that drama had referees. This will not.

She trusts him, she reminds herself as she accepts that like it or not she’s going to be taking up nonexistent space in his room for a couple days. It’s a more central location, not that either of them needs to be in the center of anything right now, and was easier during the return than him trying and failing to remember where she’s holed up lately. They can do roommates just fine in the context that it’s a very temporary situation, and she knows no harm will come to her from this. Never again, not after-

“Are you really going to sleep on that chair again?” Abby growls. It is day three of their arrangement, and she’s not in constant pain anymore so she supposes she’s getting better enough to focus on other concerns. Like her idiot of a co-leader and the fact that he’s going to be in more pain if he keeps on as he has.

“Tried to borrow a cot, but… that was barely thought through to begin with,” he replies.

She weighs her options. On the one hand, watching him suffer is still just a little bit cathartic and watching him lie about his feelings is entertaining. On the other, he did his atonement when a building collapsed on him and again when he walked by her side for eight hours when he should’ve been at a very different point in the procession, and-

“Get over here. There’s space. I don’t bite unless I have to.”

It is, perhaps, an unusually sideways step in their relationship. Not to mention the first time she’s even considered sharing a mattress with another human being since her first tragedy set everything into motion. But there is space for two human bodies to lie beside each other without touching, and she’s pleasantly surprised as he swallows his pride enough to take her offer.

“Abby, I…”

“Don’t. I’m not thrilled either. But this is easier, for both of us, than you dealing with sore everything on top of…”

“Thank you.”

She laughs. “You’re the one who decided I should spend my recovery in your bed. I don’t remember that entailing kicking you out of it.”

Sometimes, she wonders if they could’ve been friends back before they became the people they are now. Sometimes, she wonders if they’re on the path to becoming so much more.

2. out of necessity.

The diplomatic mission, which has turned into the vacation from hell in Abby’s opinion, goes relatively well until they get stuck in a blizzard in the absolute middle of nowhere.

Okay, fine, like 99% of Earth is the middle of nowhere as far as she’s seen, but usually it is not snowing like crazy and usually she is somewhere with a questionable-but-existent heating system. Not out here, in the wild north of wherever, and dramatically unprepared for this sort of thing.

At least she’s not alone on the unprepared front. Marcus is equally inept at dealing with changing weather, though she supposes his jacket offers at least some protection, and he seems to be feeling it more than she is. She’s curled up in a ball in their tent; he paces, which she’s pretty sure won’t help anything, and she’s surprised he hasn’t just gone out in the storm and let the wildness have its way with him.

It’d be a typically stupid way to die, at least. The past couple months, he’s established a frightening lack of self-preservation skills, and she’s realized lately that that bothers her. Whatever role they play, in the undefined chaos of their world, it’s a lot easier to do it with him by her side.

“We should combine resources,” she says, first coherent words in hours as a perfect idea forms.

“Hmm?”

“We each have a blanket pile. We could combine the blanket pile and…”

“I can’t invade your space like that.”

“You are not invading,” she mutters. “I’m asking you. Sharing body heat is a time-honored way of dealing with apocalyptic weather conditions, and you run warm anyways.”

The fact that she remembers that detail from the week they try not to talk about seems to be enough to convince him, and he walks over and grabs his own pile of blankets and drapes them over her. Yes, she thinks, this would be enough warmth even without another human being sharing it with her. But it’s rude to even think such things, and she shifts her body just enough to grant him space.

He takes it, cautiously, making sure his limbs are safely beneath the wool and furs before he does something unexpected and wraps his arms around her.

“Body heat, you said. Is this okay?”

He is warm, and he smells familiar, and she turns so her head rests on his shoulder. “It’s perfect. If it’s okay with you.”

“Storm of the century out there, Abby. Whether anything’s okay doesn’t matter if it keeps us alive, and I am not letting you get frostbite.”

“I’m not the one who wanted to go for a walk in it.”

“Yes, and you talked me out of it before I did.”

“What the hell would you do without me…”

She doesn’t mean it as a question, but she feels more than hears his response. “I have no idea…”

3. totally romantic.

She doesn’t want to leave this space. Maybe she won’t, she thinks. Let all the chaos fall around them for a day; she has better things on her mind.

Abby wouldn’t describe herself as a particularly affectionate person, but she is still acclimating to her relationship. They’ve been together a couple months now and things moved quickly once that line was crossed, but it’s still surreal that Marcus is her closest friend, let alone her lover. Earth has changed everyone, she knows that, but none more so than him. With weight off his shoulders, he has been able to become a person. She dares not assume her love had anything to do with that, and yet-

“Good morning,” he murmurs, kissing her forehead. This, too, is new. Before they happened - she cannot think of a better word for that night when the walls broke down - she would not have described him as sweet. After, well... after, she is learning how infinite he is, and she enjoys this.

“Stay,” she breathes, tightening her own embrace. “We don’t have to... I want you to...”

“For a little while, darling. Is that enough?”

“Whatever you can give me.”

She kisses him, and she is so content with all of this. The familiarity of their entwinement as she rolls their bodies without immediate intent, the warmth in his eyes as she looks down at him, the beauty in what they have together. Unexpected but perfect.

“Love you,” he murmurs. He speaks affection so casually and frequently, and she’s still getting used to that - perhaps more so than any of his other adaptations - but it’s such a lovely warm feeling.

“Less talking, more kissing.”

He complies.

[youbusiness2025]

regarding far as I am worried, How to make profits from a small business among the main reasons the washout rate for small business owners is so high is due to the fact that way too many financiers fail to put sufficient focus on obtaining the maximum return on every dollar and hr that they take into their local business.

Instead, they seem to be much more concerned concerning pointless stuff like the color of their calling card.

In any small business undertaking, an absence of emphasis, combined with the failure to focus on jobs, is a recipe for failing.

So, as well, is the type of complacency that types an "if it ain't broke, don't repair it" attitude, which normally leads to a stagnant service that's barely able to keep its head above water.

That's why to my way of thinking, the catch-phrase "less complicated, much faster, and also cheaper" must be the rule of every investor in America.

I say this due to the fact that I have actually learned the hard way that for me to continually attain the greatest possible rate of return on the money as well as time that I buy my service, I must constantly assess, refine, as well as fine-tune every facet of my procedure, to make it easier, quicker, and cheaper to run. Nowadays, I think about my company as a high-performance auto engine, which needs to be finely turned as well as adjusted to run at its optimum speed as well as maximum effectiveness.

I can tell you from experience that in order to operate a small business at maximum effectiveness and success, it takes:

1. Personal and economic technique. 2. Organizational abilities. 3. Monitoring knowledge. 4. Thorough planning and interest to detail. 5. Prioritization of tasks according to their revenue possibility. 6. Optimum use of available technology. 7. Exact record keeping. 8. Maximum use all the tax benefits that are offered to local business owners.

It Takes Discipline to Operate a Service at Optimum Effectiveness as well as Profitability

It takes a combination of individual and also economic self-control to operate a small business at maximum effectiveness and also success. Initially, you require to have the campaign and also self-control that's needed to be effectively independent. You need to work smart, so you don't waste your valuable time doing grunt-type jobs that can be hired. Simply put, do not spend your time cleaning up trash around your office when you should be out searching for clients. Second, you need to have the economic discipline that's required to operate your local business at maximum earnings. The only manner in which you're ever before going to have the ability to maintain your costs under control is by:

1. Taking on a fundamental mentality that's totally focused on making the most of the profitability of your organization.

2. Operating your service on a bare-bones spending plan by getting all tools, supplies, and also solutions at the most affordable offered prices in your location.

3. Keeping close track of business expenses by meticulously reviewing all billings for mistakes, overcharges, and also fake fees.

Prioritize Tasks according to Their Revenue Potential

The leading concern that you must continuously ask on your own when you're working in your local business is:

Is what I am doing right this min one of the most lucrative use my time? A lot of people fail as small company owners just due to the fact that they're never able to prioritize jobs according to their revenue capacity.

Because they could not distinguish between what's important and capacity just wind up earning a profit since could not is very important as well as minor differentiate crucial as well as what's minor, they end up never making a profit. As a basic rule of thumb, I think about any kind of business function that doesn't contribute straight to my profits to be reduced concern and also best left for after organization hours.

In other words, if the job available isn't part of the procedure of completing a property deal that will eventually finish with me mosting likely to the financial institution; I placed it off until later on in the day.

Avoid Transforming the Wheel Every Time You Required to Full a regular Job

Whatever you do, don't fall into the catch of transforming the wheel every single time you require to complete a routine job. The term, changing the wheel, describes re-creating something from scratch. An instance of transforming the wheel would be retyping conventional records, such as acquisition arrangements, over and over once more, rather than storing them in a Microsoft Word record data where they can be printed out as needed. The point here is to work smart by making your operating as streamlined as humanly feasible.

Run Your Local Business on a Bare-Bones Budget plan

One guaranteed method to fail as a small company proprietor is to run your operation in a slapdash manner with no financial controls in place to keep your operating expense from skyrocketing.

Do a Cost-Benefit Evaluation before You Make a Purchase

I suggest that you do what I constantly do, before I ever part with any one of my hard-earned money, and also ask on your own this really emotional question: Exactly how exactly is this-( fill-in-the-blank)-- going to have a straight impact on the productivity of my company? Unless you can validate to yourself why the acquisition under consideration will immediately contribute to your profits, you ought to keep your money. This sort of decision-making procedure is referred to in service colleges as "cost-benefit analysis," which means that if the expense outweighs the benefit that'll be gotten from purchasing a thing, it shouldn't be bought. Keep this in mind the following time that you get need to splurge.

When You Establish Up Store as a Small Organization Proprietor, what You Should Have

I agree to yield that an owner could perhaps run their local business without any of the fundamental services of a modern high-tech workplace at their disposal. However, it would certainly be an extremely inefficient operation, and I am willing to bet that most small business owners, in this type of work environment, would end up spending much of their time performing tedious tasks such as retyping the same documents over and over again. I do not know about ineffective procedure as well as want wager a lot of local business proprietors kind of workplace costs tiresome once more learn about you, however, I've never met any individual that has typed their method to a ton of money as a local business owner. Regarding I am concerned, every neophyte small company owner, that's really severe regarding consistently generating income in their small business, must have the adhering to 6 items when they started a business:

1. Telephone service as well as a pre-paid telephone calling card to make contact the road from payphones. 2. Desktop computer with Microsoft Windows operating system. 3. Microsoft Word software. 4. Internet connection. 5. Black-and-while laser or inkjet printer. 6. Financial calculator.

It's Tough to Do Well in a Digital World Making Use Of Horse-and-Buggy Innovation

Computer technology is right here to stay, and, if you wish to make it as a successful local business owner in today's electronic globe, you had much better embrace the most up-to-date technology and also learn how to use it to your benefit. So if you take place to be computer uneducated, the very best recommendations that I can offer you is to acquire an inexpensive personal computer (PC) and then jump in with both feet and learn just how to use it. If someone with a non-technical history like me can use a computer, any individual can.

What It Takes to Run a Small Company at Maximum Efficiency

According to the Local Business Administration (SBA), 80 percent of all brand-new small companies fall short within 5 years of opening their doors. Generally, the reason for failing can be straight credited to a dreadful absence of company and also planning on the part of business owners. I despise to find across as some type of killjoy, however, you simply can not toss an organization together without any company and planning and expect it to be an efficient operation. It takes meticulous planning as well as interest to detail to set up a small company to make sure that it operates at maximum efficiency. The only way that you're ever mosting likely to have a smooth-running company is by doing the little things right, such as:

1. Keeping a master to-do checklist to run your business. 2. Computerizing all business documents and records. 3. Setting up your business so you avoid re-creating anything from scratch. 4. Organizing your office so that everything you need is available at your fingertips. Use a service

files as well as

Establishing service prevent from the ground up

to make sure that whatever readily available

Utilize Master To-Do Checklist to Run Your Business To keep your business operating at maximum efficiency, I recommend that you do what I've done for the past 20 plus years, and maintain a master to-do checklist. I keep my checklist on my computer in a Microsoft Service

maintain service suggests and also maintain list of computer system Word documents. It functions as a combination checklist and appointment calendar. For instance, each access that I make on my list, details the task or appointment along with the completion or meeting date. By doing this, absolutely nothing slides with the split and also tasks are finished in a timely manner as well as visits are kept.

[pixelproductions]

How to Use Mental Models for a Stunning Web Design

Using mental models in web design to improve user experience, engagement and goal performance, if you’re not familiar with mental models — take a look.

These days, almost every business runs its own website – with varying degrees of success. Fortunately, you don’t need magic tricks to make your page rank high and attract users. It all comes down to a couple of factors that can be easily explained.

Even though they are unfamiliar to many, mental models are among the most important aspects of human-computer interaction. This concept is by no means new, yet it certainly is the future of web design. Their main purpose is to improve the functionality of your website and user experience. In this article, we’ll explain everything you need to know about mental models and why they’re crucial in modern web design. Let’s go!

What Are Mental Models?

First, let’s quickly dive into the history and definition of mental models. The term was coined by a Scottish psychologist and philosopher, Kenneth Craik, in 1943. Craik used it to describe the ways of how the world works, as perceived by other people. Mental models, which refer to patterns that can be observed and studied in the real world, are also relatable in the digital form.

You may be wondering, how is that? Mental models are based on beliefs instead of facts. They consist of the users’ opinions on how a particular system, like your website, works. As such, they’ll plan their future interactions with it based on predictions about it. These predictions then contribute to their mental model of said system.

While individual users are bound to have different mental models, they are sure to share some common characteristics. If you want to use mental models to improve your web design, you will focus on these similarities. It’s a complex process, and if you’ve never used them before, you may feel a bit lost and not know where to start. However, there are companies, such as Edge Marketing, that focus on recalibrating your business’s digital image to provide you with the best user response.

What’s the Difference Between UI and UX?

These two abbreviations appear whenever the issue of mental models is brought up. You may be wondering what UI and UX are and how they are different.

UI, or user interface, is the point of interaction between a human and a computer. It refers to communication within a device, including display screens, desktop design, keyboards, and a mouse. It also consists of the ways through which users interact with a website or an app. UI deals with tangible concepts, such as the elements of visual design, including colors and typography.

UX, or user experience, evolved from the improvements to UI. Once there was something to interact with, people could have all sorts of different reactions to a website and its offer. As such, user experience covers all aspects of users’ interactions with the brand, its products, and services. Peter Morville, a specialist in information architecture, defined an effective UX design as something that’s useful, usable, credible, valuable, desirable, accessible, and findable.

While UI deals with the observable aspects of website design, UX focuses on conceptual factors. Mental models combine these two aspects, directly influencing the appearance and reception of your website.

Mental Models in Web Design

According to Jakob’s Law of the Internet User Experience, “Users spend most of their time on other sites” – that is, other than yours. As such, other sites are going to influence their mental models to a considerable extent. Internet users will have specific standards and expectations regarding web design. That’s why many sites or apps look very similar to each other and share the same features.

Here’s how mental models work in web design. Throughout the years of internet use, people have learned how things work online. They browse the web and perform various operations, more and more often without even thinking. For example, they can go to any page related to online shopping and know that a search box will be on the homepage, while the shopping cart link is going to be placed in the upper right corner. A logo will be in the top left corner, and the links they visit are likely to change color. A page that doesn’t conform to these standards will be confusing, and many users will find it difficult to navigate.

If you notice that your website doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to, it probably means your clients have different mental models. They think your page should operate differently, and if you don’t implement changes fast enough, they’ll be frustrated, which can prompt them to leave negative reviews or even stop using your site. That’s why implementing the right design that’s going to fit your website’s purpose and agree with your clients’ mental models is so important.

Mental Model Mismatch

Understanding the concept of mental models is your best bet to improve the usability of your website. However, sometimes you may think you have a great idea, but after implementing it, your users, unfortunately, disagree with you. Even though the project was ambitious and carried out to the letter, people still found it impractical and difficult to follow.

That kind of situation is a mental model mismatch. It happens when your design experience exceeds that of your users. As such, people who use your website consider it too complicated and overwhelming. Despite your best efforts, they don’t understand how the onscreen elements work and what they do. This means that the UX gets worse as the cost of interaction increases.

Whenever users fail to understand the new interface, they tend to get frustrated and may even quit using it whatsoever. Don’t get discouraged, though! Even the best design agencies sometimes make these kinds of errors. Now you may be wondering how to avoid mental model mismatch? We’ll explain it right now!

Mental Model Matching Techniques

Even after a few missteps, you can get back on track and improve your website’s design. Here’s what you should consider doing to make it more user-friendly:

Think About Your Users

The first step you have to take if you want to have a successful website is to determine your client base. Depending on your website’s content, you’re going to attract users of different nationalities, ages, and even genders. All these factors impact your page’s usability, as not all users are going to exhibit the same mental models. That’s why you should consider analyzing your client base.

You can perform your user research and gather data, as well as all the essential statistics. With these data, you can create user personas that represent an ideal client base of your website. Based on this information, you can then design your website to fit the mental models of your user base. Feel free to test some solutions and adjust your ideas as you go. Keep an eye on user satisfaction and feedback; if you cater to your clients’ needs, they’ll keep coming back to you.

Follow Certain Trends

People might not even be aware of how much planning goes into website design. Still, they prefer some websites over other, similar pages, thus generating traffic and profits. These more successful pages may be better known, reliable, or may offer things other pages don’t. However, there’s a simple explanation: they’re also more user-friendly.

Many trends in design occur as a way to improve usability and user experience. Some of them also cater to a specific age group or a particular type of industry. However, it all boils down to making the UI as user-friendly as possible to increase the UX. All these trends became popular because what they have to offer really meets user expectations. Consider doing thorough research on them. If you think your client base is going to find the new design more user-friendly, feel free to make some adjustments.

Learn From the Big Sites

While observing trends and applying them to your website is generally a good idea, copying everything you see is just the opposite. Sometimes the already available patterns are too widespread and generic to be an excellent match to your website. Adding to that, some mental models work well for certain types of websites. However, when you apply them to your website, having an entirely different business model and client base, it might be a huge miss. Also, you may simply dislike the way they look and refuse to apply them despite their popularity. That’s why you should consider checking big, authoritative websites from your field and see how they do it.

Steve Jobs once said, “Good artists copy; great artists steal.” While following his quote to the word is not advisable, you should think about the underlying meaning of these words. If you look at the websites of extremely successful brands, like Apple, YouTube, or Netflix, or at websites considered authoritative in your field, you’ll know that their success doesn’t come from anywhere.

When it comes to those who made it big in the industry, you can be sure that behind the success of their websites, there’s an adequate mental model – or a well-blended mix that speaks volumes to their users. Figure out what makes a website so popular and usable, and try to implement it to your advantage. Nevertheless, keep in mind that well-known brands operate in a different context. Some of their UI elements may be worth copying while implementing others is not going to work on your page. As such, you can get inspiration from the big players and focus on the usability and purpose of your website.

The Bottom Line

Mental models are the future of successful web design. Understanding your users’ needs and expectations is key to making your website both useful and popular. Remember that your clients already have experience from using other websites; thus, they’ll want you to implement similar patterns and provide them with certain features. Make your page unique but usable; observe trends and the big names in the industry, and do your best to cater to your user base. If you put your clients first, you’re bound to have a successful online presence, regardless of your chosen field.

[scripttorture]

A character a nearly beaten to death with blows using a knuckleduster to the face and torso and afterwards receives no medical attention and is starved. What would their mental and physical state be like with these conditions over the course of a month? (I want to show the progression of deterioration)

OK well this isn’timpossible by any means but my answer is assuming that by ‘starved’ you mean avery restricted diet rather than absolutely no food and there are a couple ofthings you should be aware of with beatings.

 The first is the waythey kill. A major cause of death is kidney failure. Repeated blows and massivedamage to the muscles leads to a lot of very large proteins being released intothe blood stream. These are channelled to the kidneys (because it usuallyfilters poisons out of the blood) and…well basically there’s too much for thekidneys to cope with. They fail and that leads to death.

 This means someone canbe beaten to death and die days later.

 Another possible issueis the ‘coward punch’. A single sudden blow to the head (often when the victimwasn’t expecting it) that knocks them instantly unconscious. These regularlykill. The victim can’t protect themselves as they fall and they tend to getmassive head injuries when they hit the ground.

 Then there’s the possibilityof straight up death from brain injury caused by repeated blows to the head.

 What I’m essentiallytrying to highlight here is that beatings like this can easily be lethal in anumber of ways and the time scale can vary hugely depending on what the majorinjury is.

 If you want thecharacter to die there’s a lot of points where something could realistically gowrong. If you want the character to live that’s also perfectly possible.

 If there’s just the onebeating at the beginning of this ordeal then the majority of the deteriorationthe character goes through will be from being starved. Generally speaking abeating, even a serious one, isn’t going to cause a whole lot of physical deteriorationlater. I’d expect the character todie within a week, be in a coma for months, or not die.

 With no medicalattention I’d say a coma would be an unlikely outcome: if the character wentinto a coma they wouldn’t linger they’d die.

 The real lifecomparison I keep thinking of is work camps and concentration camps, which alltend/ed to rely on a combination of beatings, starvation and forced labour. Ithink that any survivor’s account of such a situation be helpful. I personallylike Ronald Searle’s combination of written and artistic account in To the Kwai and Back, but there are alot of others. Accounts of gulags or British concentration camps in Africa mightbe more helpful to you than accounts in central Europe.

 With no medicalattention and a sparse diet I think you’re also going to need to considerdiseases and exposure.

 The sort of torture you’redescribing is often combined with inadequate accommodations of some kind.Heatstroke, hypothermia and so forth aren’t necessarily going to happen, but awounded and starving character is going to be more vulnerable to changes intemperature. It’s a possible complication to consider.

 Starvation makes peoplemore vulnerable to disease. In cramped conditions with other people parasitescan be a particular problem and gut worms can be very dangerous indeed. Things likefevers, common cold and diarrhoea can kill. Now if the character is surroundedby healthy people then some of the diseases commonly seen in famine conditionswill be less likely: things like typhus and typhoid for instance probably won’tbe a problem. But they will still have an extremely weakened immune system andwill get hit hard by just about every bug going round.

 Psychologicallyspeaking I think in that monthstarvation is going to have a bigger impact than beatings. Once the characterhas recovered from starvation and is eating normally the reverse will be true. The traumatising effect of that kind ofvicious attack lasts, while the psychological effect of starving only seems tolast as long as the person is starving.

 The longer term effectsof the beating arebroadly covered in this Masterpost on the common effects of torture. With afew exceptions the method of torture doesn’t affect the symptoms victims develop.We don’t have a way to predict symptoms in reality so I tend to suggest authorschose the symptoms they feel fit the character and story best.

 Memory problems areextremely common following the sort of attack you describe and are rarely shownin fiction. Chronic pain is also a very common symptom after beatings and in a scenariowhere the character has no medical help it seems more likely: there are goingto be things that healed a little ‘off’.

 These symptoms would bepresent during the month the character is being starved, but they’re likely tobe….less prominent than the effects of starvation itself.

 Now thebest source I have on what starvation does to individuals is, happily,available for free online. It’s essentially the brief notes on the MinnesotaStarvation Experiment. During World War 2 a bunch of pacifists voluntarilystarved themselves so that scientists could study the effect of starvation onhuman beings and find better ways ofhelping the starving recover.

 I think that’s prettybadass and I also found it really helpful for writing and understanding whatstarvation does to someone. The men kept diaries, which go a long way toturning the symptoms from a list of long words into something you can reallysee a character going through.

 MyMasterpost on starvation is here. That’s probably going to be the quickestthing to look at in terms of physical effects of starvation.

 In a month on a veryrestricted diet (ie some but inadequate food) then some of the physicalconditions are less likely to be prominent. Nutritional deficiency baseddiseases, oedema, prolapsed uterus are much more likely in someone who’s beenstarved for longer. Increased hair growth could have started and the characterwill probably have lost enough body fat and muscle that difficulty controllingbody temperature, weakness and fainting fits would all apply.

 The character’s lookswould change considerably and in a way that might well be shocking to peoplewho know them. It can have a strange effect on people’s faces as the fat whichgives the face its shape starts to vanish. Given the time frame involved I’dsay that wasting of the body, the effect on the skin (drier, ashen, drained)and the hair (brittle, faded) would be very noticeable.

 The change in theirpersonality might be more disturbing though.

 Starving people areextremely volatile, apathetic to almost everything around them and completelyobsessed with food. They don’t have a lot of energy and they find it difficultto motivate themselves to do anything that isn’t food related. They’reincredibly anxious and suffer from severe mood swings.

 I give a more thoroughlist in the Masterpost and the summary of the Minnesota Starvation Experiment Ilinked to includes extracts from the subjects’ diaries at different time pointsduring the experiment.

 In terms of showing this deterioration I think thathaving the beating first complicates things a little. There’s going to be aperiod of over a week where the character is still recovering physically fromthe beating and as a result they may not recognise some of the psychologicalsymptoms of starvation as related to starvation. They might not even realisesome of these changes are happening at all.

 Depending on how you writethat could make things easier or a lot more difficult. Including incidents thatforce the character to confront changes in themselves and their mental statewould probably be a good way of showing what they’re going through.

 If the character is normallyquite morally upstanding I’d suggest focusing on the emotional blunting andapathy particularly. Because the character could recognise these and be shockedat their own response, and yet still find it incredibly difficult to do whatthey know to be ‘the right thing’.

 Having other charactersaround who can see these changes from the outside would also help. They’re morelikely to recognise the changes aschanges.

 If there are furtherbeatings during this ordeal then the character may assume that any changes theynotice in themselves are down to the beatings or recovering from them, ratherthan lack of food.

 The effects ofstarvation will manifest gradually, getting worse with time, and they willvanish almost entirely as the character is allowed to eat properly and recover.

 The effects of thebeatings and any other tortures wouldn’tmanifest gradually. They turn to show up almost immediately and would generallybe with a survivor in some form for the rest of their lives. Those are thingsthe character will have to learn to work around and live with rather than thingsthat can be ‘cured’.

 I hope that helps. :)

Disclaimer

[stardancereivor]

NEVER-ENDING SURVEY: EIVØR

RULES: Repost, do not reblog. Tag 10 blogs!

Not tagged by anyone! Just saw some people doing this and thought why not!

Tagging @miqojak​ @miqo-vynnie​ @miqo-masha​ @mai-takeda​ @vylette-elakha​ @teknicat​ @faeriesandberries​ @gildedandgolden​ @sagolii-snowflake​

BASICS.

FULL  NAME :  Eivør Viras

NICKNAME : The Star Dancer

AGE :  Ninety years

BIRTHDAY :   The 8th Sun of the Sixth Astral Moon

ETHNIC GROUP : Viera (Rava)

NATIONALITY : Ivalice

LANGUAGE / S : Vieran, very loose Doman and Hingan (enough to ask for directions), and Eorzean Common

SEXUAL ORIENTATION : She prefers not to label herself, but if nothing else bisexual is acceptable.

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION : Panromantic

RELATIONSHIP STATUS :  It’s complicated?

HOME TOWN / AREA :  The village Viras in Golmore Jungle

CURRENT HOME :  An apartment in the Lavender Beds of the Black Shroud

PROFESSION : Dancer, Astrologian, Huntress, Tracker, member of the Meridian Arrow Adventuring Company

PHYSICAL.

HAIR : Black, with loose curls, just past hip length.

EYES : A black right eye and a white left eye.

FACE : Bright and cheerful, dappled with freckles across her nose and cheeks.

LIPS : Soft and plush.

COMPLEXION : A warm brown.

BLEMISHES : Do freckles count as blemishes? If so. Freckles on her face, over her shoulders, down the back of her neck, and down her back in varying sizes. Some of her freckles look more like small splotchy spots than freckles.

SCARS : None.

TATTOOS :  None, but she’s open-minded to one.

HEIGHT :  6′7″.

WEIGHT : Average.

BUILD : Lithe, long, curved.

FEATURES :  Long limbs, warm skin, sparkling eyes. Sharp fangs, sharp claws. Long ears, long hair. Lots of movement, glittering jewelry, bells in her hair.

ALLERGIES :  None.

USUAL HAIR  STYLE :  Normally it’s left long and free in its natural black mane, but on occasion it will be braided and pulled back out of her face and out of the way if she has something she needs to focus on.

USUAL FACE  LOOK :  Colorful eye makeup and lips. Bright, cheerful, and happy to see you.

USUAL CLOTHING :   Bright colors, form fitting but also free and loose to offer room for movement and flare when she dances.

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR / S : Failure, insignificance, being forgotten, being a disappointment.

ASPIRATION / S :  To have a family, preferably by having at least one child of her own. To become known for her dancing and her worship of the stars and moon. Just enough fame to be known, but not enough to becomes a hindrance on her life. And to just be happy overall, honestly.

POSITIVE TRAITS : Friendly, cheerful, warm. Confident. Open-minded. Optimistic, yet with a healthy amount of realistic. Caring, motherly.

NEGATIVE TRAITS : Stubborn, recovering narcissist, somewhat uncultured and ignorant at times, overly confident.

MBTI : ENFP-A (Campaigner)

ZODIAC : Nophica (Sorpio)

TEMPERAMENT :  Affectionate

SOUL TYPE / S :  

ANIMALS :  Rabbits/bunnies, cats

VICE HABIT / S :   Social drinker. Sex. Mild hedonism. Can eat so many sweets and baked goods.

FAITH : Not necessarily religious but certainly spiritual. Her ‘faith’ is her worship of the stars and moon.

GHOSTS ? : Believe in them? Yes. Have them? .. No?

AFTERLIFE ? : Why not?

REINCARNATION ? :  Why not?

ALIENS ? :  What?

POLITICAL ALIGNMENT : Eivør doesn’t pretend to understand or care about politics. What little she does know doesn’t impress her.

EDUCATION LEVEL :  Educated by the Viera and by Sharlayan and Ishgardian Astrologians.

FAMILY.

FATHER : Name unknown to her, but she has seen him in passing.

MOTHER :  Her mother, Salma.

SIBLINGS : One elder brother fifty years her senior, by the name of Erolvur.

EXTENDED FAMILY : Not really. A few nieces and nephews, technically, that her brother has sired.

NAME MEANING / S : Salma means ‘peace’ in Arabic, but ‘sweetheart’ in Persian. I always saw her mother as someone very warm and welcoming. Erolvur is a Faroese name which doesn’t have a specific meaning on its own, but if you continue to follow it to its routes it’s a combination of two Old Norse names that essentially translate to Warrior Wolf, or Wolf Warrior.

HISTORICAL CONNECTION ? : What?

FAVORITES.

BOOK :  Romance, fairy tales, star charts.

DEITY : None.

HOLIDAY :  Hatching-tide.

MONTH : Fourth Astral Moon

SEASON :  Summer

PLACE : A quiet clearing with an unobstructed view of the sky.

WEATHER : Comfortably cool evenings.

SOUND / S: Crickets, quiet humming.

SCENT / S :  Sugar, fresh laundry, fruit.

TASTE / S :  Sweets, berries.

FEEL / S :  Warm fur, sharp teeth and claws harmlessly biting and scratching.

ANIMAL / S :  Cats.

NUMBER : 3

COLORS : Blue, silver, white, gold.

EXTRA.

TALENTS : Dancing, hunting, tracking, calling you on your shit.

BAD  AT :  Failing, losing a fight, always remembering to think of others, Eorzean grammar.

TURN ONS : Sweet voices, melodious voices, soft hands, sharp claws, sharp teeth. Beautiful eyes. A nice figure. Someone who clearly takes care of themselves. The right touches to her ears.

TURN OFFS : Rudeness, not taking care of oneself, ignoring consent, bodily odors and fluids.

HOBBIES : Reading a good book, dancing, stargazing, meditating, going for walks in the rain, going for walks through the forest.

TROPES : Dance Battler, Hair Decorations, Classical Hunter, Like a Duck Takes to Water, Nature Lover. There’s more, I’m sure, but tropes aren’t something I’m good at.

QUOTES : “Hello, beautiful.” “Just keep an open mind!” Literally any time she mentions stars..

MUN QUESTIONS.

Q1 : If you could write your character your way in their own movie,  what would it be called, what style would it be filmed in, and what would it be about?          

A1 :  I’m... not good at this kind of question. Uhhh, I don’t have an answer for that, because I have no idea.

Q2 : What would their soundtrack/score sound like?          

A2 : Bouncy fun Celtic/folk music. Something you can dance to, something that brings a smile to your face. The kind of music that implies a sense of wonder. I also really like the word whimsical with Eivør.

Q3 :  Why did you start writing this character?          

A3 :  I have spent the last five or so years writing very dark and political characters. Some of which were very evil and cruel. I wanted someone friendly and sociable, someone people wouldn’t hate.

Q4 :  What first attracted you to this character?          

A4 : I’ve wanted Viera to be a playable race in FF14 for the longest time. 12 is the only Final Fantasy game I actually have, and Fran was my favorite character in that game, and I adored the Viera. So being able to make one was obviously the first thing I loved. Secondly, I kind of just put her together in the benchmark and found I liked her design. It was pretty, but simplistic. Something I could work off of.

Q5 : Describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse.

A5 : I think it’s less Eivør in specific and more I wish there was more concrete 14-lore for the Viera. I’ve gleaned things in-game, but what little I have is based off the 12 lore and interactions through NPCs and quests in Shadowbringers on the First.

Q6 :  What do you have in common with your muse?          

A6 :  I also love the stars and moon, and I love hanging out in the woods at night (though it’s been a very long time since I could). I also am apparently pretty friendly or something.

Q7 :  How does your muse feel about  you?          

A7 :   I’m not sure. She’d be okay, I guess? Other than a recent plotline she’s had it pretty good.

Q8 :  What characters does your muse have interesting interactions with?        

A8 :  At the moment her most interesting interactions are with her FWB/Partner/Best Friend/Boyfriend?????? Dragomir which is hilarious in and out of character. They have really great conversations, and it gives me a character that I can build Eivør’s backstory with because they’re still in the ‘getting to know you’ phase of their friendship.

Q9 :  What gives you inspiration to write your muse?        

A9 : Dance gifs/videos, certain music that suits her aesthetic, forest vibes, it doesn’t take a lot to put me in the mood to write for her.

Q10 : How long did this take you to complete?          

A10 : Oh shit I didn’t know this was going to be a question I didn’t keep track. Not accounting for when my internet died for like over two hours and I couldn’t really do any kind of research to get some of the answers, maybe.. a little over an hour? I even took the time to take the Myers-Briggs test for her. The tropes thing took me the longest, to be honest. I know nothing about tropes.