#tos jest

[metalichotchoco]

Poison that well! You might just hate someone in particular or just yourself

[dykespirk]

tbh if I was leonard nimoy I’d be pissed about being paired up with william shatner too 😭😭 like im LEONARD NIMOY and here comes porky pig the diva extraordinaire…you’re trying to weave together theatre and religion in a radical interpolation of the future and mr. bigshot over here is garbling his syllables…anyways I’m glad they were able to fall madly in love with each other

[bumblingbabooshka]

Aliens and other Beings which do not need to take a gendered form doing so and choosing to be perceived as female/feminine ...

[jesterjamz]

chat i am considering getting a tattoo. give me tattoo suggestions

[cyborg-franky]

Fixing their clothes before they leave the house

Sabo x GN Reader Mihawk x GN Reader SFW

Your boyfriend was a grubby goblin of a man dressed in the finest clothes you’d ever seen. It still baffled you that someone as unhinged as Sabo, the thing of marines nightmares could wear such a soft and sweet angelic smile and a cravat. Who has ever been scared of a man in a cravat? 

At least he pulled it off, somehow. 

He was getting ready for a mission, he was off with Koala again and you had your own duties to attend to. He brushed out his wavy hair and set his hat on top of his head, hands on his hips as he looked at his reflection. This was another thing that always presented a conflicting image of Sabo. The way he fussed over his appearance but cared so little about what people thought of him, just focused on making the world a better place.

You didn’t make a big deal of it though, you liked he felt confident to wear whatever he liked, sometimes it made you jealous, and you wished you had the nerve to go out into the world in just whatever you felt like.

Sabo slipped on his gloves and you watched him preen, ensuring his waistcoat was buttoned properly and his coat smoothed down. You noticed something when he turned around to show himself off to you, okay, maybe he did care about what some people thought about him.

“So? Looking good?” He asked as you walked over.

You tip-toed and kissed him on the lips, soft and gentle, he moved closer chasing the kiss and wanting more but you chuckled, a coy smile forming as you reached up. Sabo blinked when you started to fuss with his cravat, sorting out the bunched area and making the outfit look complete.

“Perfect,” You hummed and kissed him again, wrapping arms around his neck this time.

Flawless and fierce were just a few words you’d use to describe him. No one looked more elegant and breathtaking with such ease. His wardrobe was that of a vampire you had been so sure of it. If you didn’t notice wrinkles every so often you would be convinced he was a vampire. 

That and he enjoyed garlic in his food way too much to be an actual member of the undead. You watched him walking towards you, his coat billowing out behind him, each step was measured, a sharp yet casual urgency in every click his boots made on the stone floor.

You almost forgot to breathe by the time he reached you, eyes fixed on you, expression neutral as he waited for you to say something, lost in the stammering mess he still even after years of being a couple was able to make you. The shadow of a smirk on his lips as he waited for you to get your breath back, blink a few times, and let him know you were in there after all.

“Going out?” You asked, he chuckled at how silly the question was. He had his sword strapped to his back and looked ready to take on the world with one sweeping motion. “Perhaps,” he drawled, his humor as dry as a desert, though you knew he meant it in jest.

“Wait, hang on one second,” You motioned for him to lean in closer to you, you reached up and adjusted the plume of feathers that trailed from his hat, you pulled a single speck of something that shouldn’t have been there before making sure it cascaded down his back gracefully.

“Thank you love,” His voice was soft as he kissed your forehead. You smiled glad you could be of help to him.

[spiribia]

Whoever invented wingless pads I’m going to kill (remembers threats of violence even in jest can be seen as a violation of TOS on many social media sites) MYSELF!!!!

[star-trek-xet]

Przecież "nasz" kapitan nie mógł tego zrobić...

Nierecka. The Original Series: The Enemy Within, 1x6

Autor: Fluor, 6.11.2021, Reblog, Pierwsza Dyrektywa Fluora FB

Trigger warning: napaść seksualna, systemowy brak wsparcia dla ofiar przemocy.

Jeśli chcesz pominąć opis triggerów i wyjaśnienia dlaczego odcinek jest problematyczny, to przejdź do ikonki z tęczą. 🌈

TOS: The Enemy Within

Przyznam, że jestem zdziwiony, że w MA oraz na Netflixie ten epizod nie jest oflagowany. Mamy tutaj scenę, w czasie której główny bohater dokonuje napaści seksualnej - od strony psychologicznej jest to zarysowane realistycznie i przerażająco. Zaatakowana kobieta broni się desperacko i skutecznie, ale to nie koniec dramatu.

Po tym jak napadł na nią dowódca okrętu, "pierwszy po bogu", widać wyraźnie, że Gwiezdna Flota nie ma przygotowanych procedur wspierających wyjaśnianie takich spraw czy ochronę ofiar przestępstw. Dochodzi do absurdalnej sceny, w której Janice jest konfrontowana przez (domniemanego) gwałciciela kapitana Kirka, w towarzystwie Spocka i Bonesa, którzy wyraźnie sympatyzują z głównym oskarżonym. W pewnym momencie Janice próbuje przepraszać za zamieszanie:

"I can understand. I don't want to get you into trouble. I wouldn't have even mentioned it!"

-No ale to nie byłem ja! - mówi Kirk i wszyscy mu wierzą na słowo.

Czy zaoferowano Janice opiekę psychologa? Jakiś czas wolny na dojście do siebie? Nic o tym nie wiadomo i co więcej, nie za bardzo wiadomo co zrobić z oskarżeniami wobec kapitana. Być może należałoby odsunąć go od dowodzenia, do czasu wyjaśnienia zarzutów?

Sprawa przybrałaby klasyczny wymiar słowo przeciwko słowu, gdyby dodatkowe okoliczności. Pojawiła się jeszcze jedna ofiara, która potwierdza winę Kirka: technik geologiczny Fisher, który został dotkliwie pobity, gdy chciał zameldować o ataku na Janice. Po chwili milczenia Spock dochodzi do jedynej możliwej konkluzji:

"There's only one logical answer. We have an impostor aboard."

Parsk, gdyby to nie były straszne. No tak, dwie osoby mówią zgodnie o winie kapitana, więc jedyna logiczna możliwość jest taka, że ktoś się pod niego podszywa, bo przecież "nasz" kapitan nie mógł tego zrobić. OK, w momencie wygłaszania tej kwestii Spock wie o tym, że doszło do wypadku transportera w wyniku którego sklonowano "zwierzę" (psa z rogiem na czole), ale biorąc pod uwagę całą sytuację i tak jest to spory zgrzyt.

No i wisienka na torcie, czyli ostatnia scena odcinka, kiedy Spock podchodzi do Janice Rand i mówi (parafrazując), że szkoda, że kapitan Kirk już nie gwałci, c'nie?

Nie wiem, kto pisał tę linię, ale na pewno przeszła przez akcept Roddenberry'ego i studia, skoro znalazła się w finalnym skrypcie. Aż się chce odpowiedzieć wulgarnym cytatem ze Star Treka Przerobionego.

Ach i jeszcze bonus, z tego odcinka pochodzi anegdota o metodzie aktorskiej Williama Shatnera (za Memory Alpha):

Grace Lee Whitney once recounted that, while shooting the scene when a distraught, tearful Janice Rand accuses Captain Kirk of trying to rape her, William Shatner slapped her across the face to get her to register the proper emotion. As they shot the rape scene days earlier, Whitney couldn't get into the same emotion successfully, and it was Shatner's "solution" to the problem. (The Longest Trek: My Tour of the Galaxy, p. 94)

I co możemy z tym wszystkim zrobić? Wyciąć niektóre sceny, usunąć z Netflixa? Nie, wystarczy żeby pojawiła się na początku krótka informacja z ostrzeżeniem o triggerach, podobnie jak robi Amazon Prime na początku odcinków Lower Decks. Wiem, że odcinek kręcono w roku 1966 i wtedy najwyraźniej nie było problemu, ale my żyjemy w 2021. Teraz więcej mówi się o świadomości i wrażliwości na potencjalne triggery.

🌈 A co dobrego jest w odcinku?

Mamy pierwszy w historii wypadek transportera i to od razu na grubo: organizmy żywe są rozbijane na dwie identyczne kopie o zupełnie przeciwstawnych charakterach: jedna dziedziczy cechy związane z agresją i dominacją, druga łagodność, współczucie, rozsądek. Ktoś mądrzejszy ode mnie może powie jaka koncepcja filozoficzna opisuje charakter człowieka jako takie połączenie złej i dobrej natury.

Trochę pachnie Freudem :)

W samym odcinku Spock zafascynowany jest możliwością zbadania dwóch sfer: mrocznej i jasnej, które mają się składać na całokształt. I jak wspomniano, każdy człowiek (a kapitan okrętu gwiezdnego w szczególności) potrzebuje do funkcjonowania obu tych pierwiastków: siły i łagodności.

Jeśli znacie pewien zapadający w pamięć odcinek Voyagera o tytule "Tuvix", to domyślacie się dokąd zmierzam. Myślę, że scenarzyści Tuvixa bardzo uważnie inspirowali się tym odcinkiem, bo znajdujemy tu bardzo podobne motywy.

"Enemy Within" nie ma czasu na subtelności, ale zadajmy to pytanie. Czy pozbawiona hamulców moralnych połówka Kirka (biologicznie autonomiczna) może odpowiadać karnie za popełnione przez siebie czyny? Czy ma prawo do samodzielnego decydowania o sobie? Czy możemy ją połączyć z drugą połówką, wbrew jej woli, wyrażanej bardzo jednoznacznie i świadomie? Na to ostatnie pytanie mamy odpowiedź: bo złapano evil Kirka i dokonano fuzji.

Pomijając różne problematyczne kwestie, odcinek ma bardzo dobrą dynamikę i wejdzie w kanon ST jako prototyp dla różnego rodzaju usterek transportera. Przy budowaniu morału o dualistycznej naturze człowieka twórcy uniknęli pójścia ścieżką w najprostszy możliwy trop "evil twin" - zły brat bliźniak. OK, mamy kogoś kto dokonuje złych rzeczy, ale nawet tam drzemie jakiś potencjał, nie jest to siła wyłącznie destrukcyjna. I więcej, wykorzystanie tej sfery w sposób kontrolowany przynosi znaczące korzyści.

Niestety zupełnie pominięto kwestię odpowiedzialności za dokonane czyny. Nawet jeżeli pół-Kirk nie istnieje dalej jako odrębny byt, to pozostały krzywdy, jakich wyrządził otoczeniu i należałoby znaleźć jakiś sposób, aby im zadośćuczynić.

.

Powrót do serialu

.

Powrót do listy nierecek :)

.

[metalichotchoco]

Neutrals in neutrals

[pierwsza-dyrektywa-fluora]

Teoria martwego Star Treka

Jeżeli obserwujecie czasem dyskusje fandomowe albo nawet komentarze dotyczące nowych filmów i seriali, to mogliście się spotkać z określeniem, że "Star Trek już umarł". Gdy usłyszymy je pierwszy raz, może brzmieć dramatycznie i szokująco, ale co to tak właściwie dla nas oznacza? Co dla Was – tego mam nadzieję dowiedzieć się z komentarzy, a przedstawię poniżej swoje zdanie.

Temat powraca przy okazji filmu Section 31, który już jutro będzie miał polską premierę (chociaż odnoszę wrażenie, że wiele osób już go widziało wcześniej). Oto wygląda na to, że w zdanie "Star Trek umarł" wierzą także twórcy, w tym Alex Kurtzmann. I pewnie jako korporacja mają dostęp do odpowiedniej liczby badań i wyników finansowych, które wskazują im różne wnioski. Tłumacząc na ludzkie: "Star Trek już nie żyje", ponieważ współcześnie coraz rzadziej jest postrzegany jako fenomen społeczny, a jego popularność wśrod nowych pokoleń drastycznie spada. Z punktu widzenia wytwórni oznacza to, że wysycha źródełko, więc wykonują różne ruchy, aby ożywiać i zasilać bazę nowych fanów. Starzy fani wciąż istnieją i (podobnie jak ja) będą oglądać na okrągło to, co już zostało nakręcone, ale mnie już mają i potrzeba więcej :D

Co to za chciwa korporacja, jaki będzie kolejny skok na kasę…? Ej, ale wszystkie Star Treki były robione przez korporację i za pracę rzeszy specjalistów po prostu należy się wynagrodzenie. Nie oburzam się na to i zachęcam, by nie tłumaczyć każdej rzeczy, która nam się nie podoba, pazernością czy chęcią do wyeksploatowania marki do cna. Zauważcie, że już od dłuższego czasu nowych seriali nie produkuje się dla "starych fanów", tylko żeby rozszerzyć bazę. Te wszystkie prequele, rebooty, inne linie czasowe to zabiegi, które mają ułatwić/uzasadnić kolejne potrzebne uproszczenie.

Star Treki są opowieścią o wyzwaniach naszej współczesności, w kostiumie optymistycznej przyszłości. To dzięki temu można tworzyć naprawdę solidne analizy ilustrujące zmieniające się realia społeczne, wyciągając przykłady z różnych odcinków. Dlatego też cieszę się, że powstało Discovery w pięciu sezonach (i szkoda że nie więcej).

Wiele razy komentowałem, że im więcej Star Treka wyprodukują, tym lepiej, ale chyba tutaj też warto o pewne zniuansowanie. Zdarzają się złe lub nieudane treki i można je ignorować albo się z nich nabijać, ale czasem pojawia się argument – a co jeśli marka "Star Trek" przestanie oznaczać cokolwiek, poza festiwalem nawiązań, powracających po latach aktorów, jeśli nie będzie w niej żadnej treści intelektualnej. To byłoby faktycznie źle, ale póki co takie ryzyko nie występuje.

Oczywiście słyszałem głosy, że JJ-trek (Star Trek 2009) to aberracja, Star Trek Enterprise wywołał nawet dość głośną wśród fanów akcję "Kill Enterprise", o Discovery to pewnie sami się nasłuchaliście lub naczytaliście dlaczego to nie jest to. Tak, te emocje są ważne, zwłaszcza wśród doświadczonych fanów, ale czy naprawdę-naprawdę nie da się znaleźć w nowych produkcjach niczego pozytywnego?

Dla mnie "teoria martwego Star Treka" w zasadzie nie ma znaczenia. Wiem, że jest sporo fanów wokół, z którymi mogę dzielić, to co już teraz mamy i się z tego cieszyć. Inspiracją są dla mnie fani, którzy np. mówią "tylko TOS mnie interesuje, reszta to już słaba". Tutaj ta linia "umarcia" Star Treka wypadła ponad 50 lat temu i dalej mamy o czym rozmawiać. To mi daje pewność, że jeszcze Star Trek nie umarł, póki my żyjemy.

Trzymam oczywiście kciuki za wytwórnię i szukanie nowych fanów, to byłoby całkiem spoko, ale myślę, że im zależy na tym o wiele bardziej niż mnie. A co Wy sądzicie o tym wszystkim?

[whenwindwhispers]

“I’m in love with you,” Gale admits, voice hushed but words spoken severely, wary that his life just might end before he gets the confession out.

Despite all they’ve shared — moments of magic, their vulnerabilities laid bare, meals shared, their pining plain and far from discreet — hearing the wizard’s declaration put so directly has Whisper’s breath hitching in his throat. He can’t believe his pointed ears, feeling disbelief that the time is here; after all they’ve been through, the time for them has finally arrived. “I’m in love with you too,” Whisper replies in a rush, light-headed, hoping he hadn’t gone too long without replying, having left Gale dangling precariously in his anticipation of an answer.

A series of breathy little chuckles escapes from Gale as a weight is slowly lifted off his chest, and he nods his head, grateful to be led away from a most dangerous precipice. “That’s a relief. It would be a shame to spend my final hours making an ass of myself,” Gale jests, and he shoots Whisper a lopsided grin. Whisper returns it in full, corners curling into something soft and hope-filled as their doe-like stares linger on each other, an unspoken question now hovering between them, pulling them together.

They both decide to answer it in tandem, compelled by the bursting affection they find swimming in the shallows of one another’s eyes, leaping forth. Leaning in at once, the two meet half-way for a chaste kiss. A small thing, a firm press of the lips and the faintest brush of Gale’s beard against his blue skin, but it is the culmination of their seemingly endless pining for each other, having tip-toed around their feelings for far too long. It is wholly fulfilling, warming Whisper from head-to-toe, his heart swelling, and his head swirling with what felt like sparkles and glitter. It is magical, as Gale so often effortlessly makes him feel, lifting his spirits high.

“You’re a good kisser,” Whisper tells him after a beat, his smile still yet to fade.

The compliment elicits an amused scoff from Gale, and he briefly looks away as if embarrassed, having to contest Whisper’s statement, doubting it to be true: “And you’re a bad liar.”

If only Gale knew; it was the most perfect kiss Whisper has ever received, incomparable to all he’s ever been bestowed.

[fandoms-and-fables]

Stark Trek TOS s1e1 Spoilers:

Okay, so this is one of the episodes I’ve seen before. I know it’s the original unaired pilot and all that, so most of my comments are in jest.

But whyyyyy are there people walking around in regular clothes? Give me the space uniforms or give me death!

The campy music and bad effects are my favorite part of sci-fi shows. It’s so nostalgic.

I love that the mystic blue plant is clearly some fabric attached to wire and the rocks are painted styrofoam. I live for practical sets and effects, even the obvious ones.

All these men staring like they’ve never seen a woman before 🫠

Oooh okay the big brained guys are kidnapping Pike. Maybe I don’t remember this episode as well as I thought I did.

Ah yes, Horse Ranch Pike and Barbie Vina.

“Yeah, y’all hate captivity too much. I guess you can go…” Lmao honestly that sounds about right.

“Yeah I’m disabled, I can’t go with you bc that makes me ugly.” Oof, that definitely shows the time this show was made. I guess Vina is happy though

I understand why they decided not to use this one as the pilot episode. Some of the concepts were interesting, but I think it lacks the chemistry of the cast they decided to go with.

[thedevotionaltour]

nobody knows of the intense lesbian spirk/triumvirate au i had going on at age 14 when i was an absolute nut about tos but i was deeply thinking about it always. butch mcspirk was so real to me. bones liked to act like she was kirk's "butch mentor" (even tho kirk is well establisher in hir butch identity it's just that bones likes to be snarky and pretend she knows better and pulls her im older than you card too often but it's all in good jest and not very serious at all) and nobody understands me. actually some do. guys can anyone hear me

[mwolf0epsilon]

Maybe something with Abuela and Wolffe? Post-clone wars so we can see Wolffe in his wettest state ofc

Running from Demons

Summary: A very brief but impactful encounter stirs Wolffe away from both alcoholism and danger.

[In which Wolffe is threatening to spiral after deserting from the Empire, and Abuela suffers no fools. She's seen enough misery to know what to look for.]

---

It's a rather odd encounter in some ramshackle rinky-dink cantina at the very edge of Republic Imperial space. The kind that smells to high-heavens like sweat, piss and a little bit of blood. Not that Wolffe has much of a mind to complain about this "fine establishment's" less than pleasant odor.

No, all he can really care about right now is to get his blood-alcohol level higher, while Rex and Gregor are off trying to haggle off-world transport prices.

The sooner they got out of dodge, way off of the Empire's radar, the better. And if he wasn't seeing straight by the time they were on the move, that'd be a much welcomed bonus. Even if every shot that made its way down his gullet tasted like watered down Coruscanti Lager, instead of the Corellian Whisky he'd paid for. Dang stuff didn't even pack a punch.

"Tsh..." his eyes immediately darted towards the utmost left corner of the shady cantina's counter.

There, riffle strapped visibly to her back, sat an old Zabrak woman. And from what he could see, she was a surly looking thing.

With deep sun-spotted mahogany red skin, faded tattoos that looked like ringlets on tree bark, and horns that grew imposingly long (at least compared to what he was used to seeing on those silly old ads that flashed across Coruscant's billboards, advertising some new beauty product aimed at Zabraki ladies with a billion and one insecurities).

Her hair was thin and gray (with a few flecks of white), held up on a high ponytail that was put together with tightly wound decorative beads and trinkets, that she looked to have strong together herself with sturdy wire. A high contrast to her relatively modest wardrobe of a tan blouse, practical trousers, and beat up steel-toed boots.

Infinitely-wise orange eyes (framed by crow's feet that went with the rest of the visible lines on her face), regarded him with a certain kind of disdain that only a superior officer could match.

"Youngins like you ought to not be wasting hard-earned credits on the worst piss this vagrant's hole has to offer..." Her gravely voice held a hint of humor to it, but he couldn't really tell if she was being condescending or just jesting. Always safer to assume the latter over the former. "It's an insult to the taste buds."

"My taste buds are fine with whatever it is they're churning out the back..." He snorted, the retort feeling almost too easy coming off his tongue. To think he used to be a commander. Now he was some drunk-to-be responding to some old hag's derisions. "Provided it doesn't come off the tap warm."

"Say that louder, deary, and they might just piss in your mug in front of you before stealing your money." The old woman grinned after barking out a quick laugh at his response. So it was genuine amusement then. What a galaxy he was living in, that some old granny was making light of his situation.

If only she knew the things he'd seen. The things he'd done... All of which lead him right here.

"Seen plenty of that here, have you?"

"Not here. But somewhere. Everywhere..." She took a sip of her own unknown grog. The mug sloshed thicker and foamier than Wolffe's own, and he could neither smell nor really tell if the liquid was cherry red or even a royal purple. "These old bones have seen plenty of thievery..."

"Haven't we all?" Hadn't his kin? Lives stolen away, loyalties thrown into the trash, hopes dashed by betrayals abound. What had all of that fighting been for if not disappointment and pain for his kind?

"Thievery, desperation, the end of an era..." She considered her mug with a look of deep thought, before shrugging and downing the entire thing. Zabraki folk were made of strong stuffs. "Demons. Many, many demons... Suppose we're all running from something if we end up in dumps like these, nursing drinks that won't ever numb the unknowable terror..."

"...What could an old broad be running from?" He huffed dismissively. Almost insulted by the comparison. "Tax fraud? Mysteriously murdered husband? Too many grandkids to kiss goodnight?"

"Says a man who's looking to get borderline blackout in a place where anyone would be jumping at the opportunity to put a slug in a deserter's skull..." And her eyes pierce him then, like burning hot daggers. "What couldn't I be running from? The real question is, will I outlive whatever it is that's going to drag you down, sonny boy?"

She slides a credit to the bartender and leaves.

Wolffe watches her leave, heart in his throat, and calls it quits as well. Suddenly the prospect of drinking into a stupor doesn't seem as appealing, when he feels like he's been threatened with imminent violence.

It also hits that she was armed, and he was not. A rookie mistake on his part that, were he in his prime, he would have never have made. How the mighty had fallen.

Later, well after he Rex and Gregor are on the next shipment flying further away from Imperial space, he hears that the little dirt-hole they'd stopped by had been raided and burnt to the ground by Stormtroopers on a wild hunt for anyone so much as beginning to whisper their doubts about the Emperor's rule.

The hag had saved their lives by spooking him something good. He vows to keep himself away from the bottom of a bottle.

[unscrupulousartist]

hellerby fic, part 4/10

28 March 1929

By far, his favourite part of being back at the Lackadaisy was the ability to work in the main office—Atlas’ office—again. Nothing had truly changed, beyond a gathering of clutter, the disgraceful state of the books, and a little updating of colour. At some point, Mitzy had changed the curtains and chairs, but she was considerate enough to leave Mordecai’s little desk exactly as it had been.

It was there Mitzi found him holed up, long past the popular hours of the cafe but only just breaking into the Lackadaisy’s first act.

“Here you are, sugar,” Mitzi tutted at him as she meandered across the room to the main desk. “You planning on hiding up here all night?”

“You underestimate the work required to bring all this—” he picked up the corner of a page, pulling and letting it flutter back into place. “—into some semblance of order.”

“That’s all fine and good, sweetheart, but have you forgotten the date?”

He had. Frowning, he checked the calendar and worked out where he was in the complicated itinerary. “Ah—of course.”

“You gonna come celebrate?” Mitzi asked. She leaned behind the main desk to open a cupboard, and retrieved a large album.

“I suppose I must,” he sighed, rubbing his nose. 

“That’s the spirit,” Mitzi smiled at him. Album under her arm, she helped him straighten his tie and vetoed his choice of jacket. They argued for a couple minutes, but in the end she stole the article of clothing and threw it out the window.

“That was hardly necessary,” he glared at her.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” she demurred. Taking him by the arm, she tugged him towards the stairs. “Is it so much to ask for you to relax, even just one night out of the year?”

“I prefer to save my celebrations for when they are earned,” said Mordecai. “Being born does not fit that bill.”

“Birthdays aren’t about earning things, sugar,” Mitzi tutted. “It’s about being celebrated.”

“I can hardly wait,” he drawled.

Together they navigated the hidden entrance of the Lackadaisy Speakeasy, exchanging small pleasantries with a shuddering Horatio. The club itself was quiet for a Thursday—after sorting their unfortunate business with the Marigold Hotel the Lackadaisy hadn’t reached the same level of patronage as its glory days, but that didn’t explain the low lighting or the calm music coming from the stage. Mitzi led him to a cluster of plush chairs around a low table, where Ivy sat with Viktor and some of the band.

“Here he is,” Mitzi pushed him at an empty seat. “The Birthday Boy.”

Squealing, Ivy leaned forward to pour a measure of rum into a tumbler. “It’s been forever since we sat down for your birthday, Mordecai.”

“Yes, well, let's get this over with.” he sighed, but took a moment to appreciate the near symmetry of the seating plan. Until Mitzi sat on the arm of Zib’s chair, offsetting the balance. 

Still standing, he heard a familiar voice call out from the backrooms. It sent a shiver down his spine, tail quivering. “We’ve returned, with merry bounty!”

“Thou speak’st alright,” Rocky exposited as he toed out of his shoes and unbuttoned his shirt. “I am that merry wanderer of the night!”

“Stop it,” Mordecai said around a rare smile. Listing, he leaned against the car to untie his lonely left shoe. “Before I change my mind.”

“I jest to Oberon,” Rocky gestured to him, hands faltering and voice lowering in performance. “—and make him smile, when I—a fat and bean-fed horse—” He stopped abruptly, laughing, when Mordecai tossed the shoe at him. Rocky’s arms waved in defense, swatting the offending weapon away. “—beguile! Neighing in likeness of a filly foal! And sometimes—” he fell back half a step, and shrugged out of his shirt. He continued in a calmer tone, brows quirking with suggestion. “Sometimes lurk I in a gossip’s bowl, in very likeness of a roasted crab—”

He found he was still in possession of Rocky’s flask, and fumbled with the cap. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you.” He brought the drink to his lips.

“Rocky, sweetheart!” Mitzi called. “I told you, you didn’t need to get anything.”

Taking a deep breath, Mordecai lowered himself into his prescribed seat and reached for his tumbler of rum. He took a sip and kept it close.

“Yes!” Rocky called, coming closer. Him and Freckle carried a case between them, which they brought to the table. “But you also said—” he let his side of the case drop with a thunk, leaving Freckle to scramble with the other end. “—that tonight was a special celebration! Only, where are the frollickers?” Frowning, Rocky looked around the rest of the sleepy bar, where only a few dozen folk laughed and swayed alongside piano music. “I’m starting to think you’re teasing me, Ms M.”

Mordecai rubbed at a sudden twinge at his temple.

“Perhaps I’ve cast you wrong,” Rocky tilted his head. “Or picked the wrong group of players to liken you with. But, though I love a tragedy, the scenes I require—”

“Drink your elixir—” Mordecai lobbed the still-open flask. A splash of liquid caught ambient light, and Rocky jumped to catch it. “—and come here.”

“I suppose we can ad lib—”

“Rocky!” Ivy kicked at his shins, then pulled on Freckle’s sleeve.

“It’s Mordecai’s birthday, sugar,” Mitzi explained.

“Birthday?” Rocky blinked, and turned to look at Mordecai.

“We’re gonna play some poker and laugh about old times,” Mitzi patted the album she still carried. “If you think you can sit still, you’re welcome to join us. Otherwise, it might be better if you hopped up on stage to keep the other guests entertained.”

Rocky’s tail twitched, low and frantic by his ankles, as excitement seemed to roll off of him. His hands came up, but he kept himself composed. “The stillness might be a problem.”

“Come on, Rocky,” Freckle pulled on Rocky’s elbow; and was in turn tugged by Ivy. The two cousins piled around the same chair as the young lady, Freckle in her lap and Rocky at her feet.

Mordecai’s ears pressed back, and he sipped his rum.

“Who’s dealing?” Zib asked, and Sy produced a deck of cards.

“Pictures first!” Ivy demanded. “Before you get too drunk to tell the stories.”

“I don’t think we’re in any danger of that,” Mitzi snickered. “Rocky, sweetheart, move this crate.”

“Of course, Ms M,” Rocky laughed, and tugged on the case. When it barely moved, Freckle leaned to hook the end and hauled it right into his cousin’s lap. “Oof! Here we are!” the musician pried off the lid. “Perhaps we should lighten this load…”

Mitzi spread the album on the table, and Ivy shifted to get a better view. “What did you bring us, sugar?” Mitzi asked.

“Whiskey and Spirits,” Rocky sang. One by one, he removed the bottles and began placing them in a random pattern on the floor. It took Mordecai a moment to recognize a sort of wavy starburst in the line of lids, and another moment to realize he was staring.

Meanwhile, Mitzi had already flipped through the first couple of pages of the album, pointing out early photos and newspaper clippings from his years shadowing Atlas, while Sy dealt the first hand.

“Look at those shirt sleeves,” Zib snickered into Mitzi’s side.

“From when he dressed in Atlas’ hand-me-downs,” Mitzi teased, fluttering her lashes at Mordecai.

“I’ve grown up since then,” he argued, flat. 

“You wear your laurels well, sweetheart,” Mitzi winked at him and turned the page.

He rolled his eyes.

“What’s that!” Ivy pointed.

“Hm?” Mitzi perked, then laughed as she saw what had caught Ivy’s attention. “Oh, that was Rocky’s first night performing—” Mordecai tensed, and Rocky looked up from the now-empty crate. “—I’m pretty sure Atlas had already taken you home.”

“Where’d your shoe go!?” Ivy laughed, looking at Mordecai with a grin.

Frowning, he sat up to take a better look, then felt a flush wash over his face. 

“What did you say this was again?” Mordecai asked, closing one eye to try and peer into the flask. He thought he felt something plucking at his foot, but a floaty sense of wonder kept him distracted.

“A mushroom tea, mulled with spirits,” said Rocky. "Would you like some more?"

The photo showed himself and Rocky, huddled together beneath one of the Lackadaisy’s taller tables. Mordecai had slumped against the table post, both his feet in Rocky’s lap—indeed, one shoe already missing—and a flask clutched with both hands. Together they peered up at the camera flash, four eyes nearly black with dilation.

“Gone,” Mordecai answered—referring to the missing shoe. “I never found it.”

“Rocky hid it in the piano,” Zib explained.

“What?” Mordecai blinked at him.

"It might still be in the green room," Mitzi added.

“Strange,” Rocky hummed. “I’d convinced myself that was a dream.”

Ivy planted a hand on Rocky’s head, forcing him to duck as she leaned closer to the album. “How come no one told me about this?” She pouted at Mitzi and Viktor.

“There was nothing to tell,” Mordecai snipped. 

“He just doesn’t wanna remember puking in his favourite ficus,” Mitzi joked.

“Or valk of shame, next day,” Viktor added.

“It wasn’t a walk of shame,” Mordecai glared at him. “I simply… wanted to enjoy the sunrise, and got a little lost.”

Freckle looked between the active participants of the conversation as Ivy vibrated beside him. “I think I remember that!” she shouted.

“I doubt it,” Mordecai lied. 

“No, Miss Mitzi brought me ‘round to Viktor's, ‘cause she knew if you called anyone you’d call him—”

“Which he did," Mitzi nodded.

"—and we picked you up, uh—"

"Halfvay to the Missouri," Viktor supplied.

Ivy snapped her fingers. "Yes! Then we—"

"Went to the country club for brunch, yes," Mordecai glared at her, then Mitzi. "Are we through with this portion of the celebrations? I could be getting work done."

"Sorry, Sourpuss," Zib gathered his cards—prompting the rest of the party to do the same—and sat back in his chair. "Sometimes it's nice to remember you as something other than a Murderous Psychopath."

"I'm also an accountant," said Mordecai. 

Mitzi snorted.

"As I said," Zib shrugged. "A Psychopath."

"What about you, Rocky?" Ivy interrupted, ruffling the fur between Rocky’s ears. "Got anything to say about stealing Mordecai's shoe?"

"Ah?" His voice pitched a little too high, and he glanced at Mordecai before twisting to look up at Ivy. "I recall it was something of a joke—but I must confess to misremembering."

"A joke?" Ivy frowned at him.

Zib and Mitzi both broke into snickers. 

"Yes," Rocky scratched the back of his head and inched away from Ivy. "I think—it was, eventually, explained to me that I was the instrument of the joke," he snuck a peek at Mitzi, then shrugged and pulled a familiar flask from his jacket. "Something about Ol' Serious Face never letting loose?"

"We told him he wasn't officially in the band until he drank our Mordecai under the table," Mitzi elaborated. "And it was devilishly fun to be taken so literally."

"Oi—" Zib snapped his fingers at Rocky and pointed at his flask. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Perhaps," Rocky took a sip. "What do you think it is?"

"Your infamous tea?"

"It is."

"Gimme, gimme—" Zib made grabby hands, and Rocky closed the flask before tossing it to him. His aim was off, and it bounced in Mitzi's lap.

"Tea?" Ivy asked.

Flinching, Freckle wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "It's, uh—"

"An Elixir to see Other Worlds," Rocky exposed, spreading his arms wide. "Hark! And we can go anon; to see the wings of Oberon."

"Can I try?" Ivy asked.

Viktor and Mordecai both shouted, "no!"

Rocky snickered and bit his lip.

"It ain't so bad," Zib defended, taking a sip.

Mitzi took the flask next. "Dipping a little toe in can be fun."

"Just don't drink as much as Rocky," Freckle agreed.

It was Ivy’s turn to make grabby hands. The flask was passed around the circle, skipping Viktor and coming back again to Rocky. The musician laughed and took another glug, then grinned at Mordecai. "How now, spirit? Wither wander you?" 

Brows drawing together, Mordecai frowned. "What?"

Snickering, Rocky held up the infamous tea, within arms reach. "How serious is Ol' Serious Face today? Or would you be tempted to imbibe?" 

"No—" Mordecai's nose twitched, and he caught an earthy fragrance from the flask.

Time seemed to slow to an agonizing crawl as he tilted a little too far and slipped from the seat. His feet, not properly braced, pushed on the base of the chair, furthering his upset. His arms, asymmetrical, pinwheeled until he landed in Rocky’s lap.

The musician laughed.

"Ow," Mordecai deadpanned. His knee stung, but the rest of him felt fine.

"You were saying?"

"About what?"

"About the elixir not working."

"It's not working," he repeated, pushing against Rocky’s chest to right himself. Overhead, the Lackadaisy's lights seemed a little extra sparkly, and he swayed to his own seat on the ground. "That was a coincidence."

"Silly me," Rocky took another swig.

Then Mordecai stole the flask, and held it under his nose to sniff.

"—I'd rather not," Mordecai continued. "Someone has to retain control of their senses."

"That's what Viktor's for," Ivy giggled.

"Are we playing?" Mordecai deflected, taking his first proper note of his cards.

There was some semblance of fanfare for most of a dozen rounds, each player betting with nickels and dimes, before the revelers started to fade. Ivy dropped out first, losing attention to instead pull the old album into her lap to leaf through. This also incapacitated Freckle, who curled into her side and closed his eyes to nod along and mumble into her ear. Then Sy slipped onto the ground to idly twitch while Mitzi and Zib stumbled to the dance floor.

Finally, Viktor threw down his cards—three aces—and stood up. "Time to take children home."

"Good luck," said Mordecai. He folded against the side of his chair to watch as Viktor edged around the table, stepped over Sy, and loomed over Ivy and Freckle.

"Up," he took them each by an arm and dragged them upright.

"Hey!" Ivy squeaked, the album falling from her lap.

Freckle blinked and smiled at Viktor. "You're nice."

"Very kind," Viktor drawled. He steered them both away, toward the garage, several feet before he had to scoop a faltering Freckle. Ivy managed on her own.

Turned away to observe the spectacle, Mordecai felt, rather than saw, a figure creep up to the edge of his chair. Sighing, he twirled the remnants of ice in his glass before shifting. And sure enough, Rocky peered, starry eyed, over the edge of the arm rest.

A glance showed no one else paying particular attention. "What is it?" Mordecai asked.

"You aren't feeling murderous, are you?" Asked Rocky. His fingers drummed across the edge of the furniture, claws catching. "It's hard to tell."

Mordecai's brow twitched. "And if I were?"

"Then I'd ask who it was you felt like murdering," said Rocky. His tail twitched, wavering back and forth. 

Sighing, Mordecai found he hadn't the energy to be much more than tired. "I'm not feeling murderous."

"Oh good," Rocky grinned and bit his lip, then propped his chin on the armrest. "I feared I'd upset Oberon, by bringing up his wayward con."

"No riddles, please," Mordecai clicked his tongue. Then he took a closer look across Rocky’s face—he'd eventually tell himself it was due to the musician's physical proximity, and nothing else—to take in his, admittedly, pleasing features. The only real drawback was the one knick in his left ear, the rest was nearly symmetrical. Including a faint scar, just wide enough to be hinted at beneath Rocky’s fur; a silver straight line down the center of his brow. Without meaning to, Mordecai brought a finger up to trace it.

Rocky tensed, dilated eyes crossing to try and follow the movement.

"No one told me how you got this," said Mordecai. He had some memory of the stitches, and of the weeks it took the wound to settle. But—

"Ah, well, no one likes the stories from when you were with the Marigold," Rocky surmised with a small shrug. Though his tail movements changed—to long, steady swishes—he seemed determined to stay still beneath the ministrations. His ears flattened to the side, his eyes squinting.

Huddled together in the back seat of the borrowed car, Rocky shuddered as Mordecai pet the length of his spine. "Ah—" he huffed, and nestled close to Mordecai's chest. Then he licked at Mordecai's neck, teeth tugging at the spots where the fur transitioned from black to white.

Mordecai pulled away. 

Shoulders slumping, Rocky blinked up at him.

Mordecai cleared his throat and looked around, but no one noticed their exchange. "Seems the festivities are over, I should get back to work."

"Right," Rocky laughed, but the sound seemed strangled. "Well, Happy Birthday, Mr Serious Face."

Eyes half lidded, Mordecai indulged in one more motion and brought a hand to rake his claws properly through Rocky’s fur. The musician purred as Mordecai scratched around one ear, then ruffled the fur, much like Ivy had, before standing. Rocky listed in place, falling back to sit on the floor and stare up at Mordecai.

"Thank you, Mr Rickaby," Mordecai said formally. He chose to busy himself with straightening his vest, his glasses, his tie, anything other than absorb whatever expression Rocky maintained. "Goodnight." And he left.

He was almost halfway across the room, somewhat away from the other patrons who were preoccupied mostly with the bar and dance floor, before Rocky called a reply. "Never harm! Nor spell! Nor charm!" Singing, his voice carried, and Mordecai tensed but kept moving. "Come our lovely lady nigh! So, goodnight, with lullaby!"

[star-trek-xet]

Pierwszy Moby Dick w Treku

Nierecka, Star Trek TOS: The Doomsday Machine 2x6

Autor: xetnoinu. Reblog, 8.08.2024, Discord USS Phoenix

Percepcja tego odcinka zmienia się w czasie i wraz ze znajomością innych odcinków Treka. Kiedy pierwszy raz go lata temu zobaczyłem, nie mogłem znieść szaleństwa zemsty Deckera. Wydawało mi się, że on ginie ze złych pobudek. Nakarmiony w polskiej szkolnej kolejnymi kamieniami rzucanymi bez sensu na szaniec, by protagoniści chwalebnie ginęli, najlepiej nawet z własnej woli i inicjatywy - nie dostrzegałem tego, co dla Anglosasów jest bardzo czytelne: historii z Moby Dicka. (To nie jest przypadek, że w polskim systemie edukacji nie wspomina się o tej książce).

Kiedy człowiek przez swoje doświadczenia, wiek wyzwoli się z tego wtłoczonego myślenia idealizującego straceńczą śmierć bez sensu, ten odcinek zaczyna brzmieć tak, jak powinien. Bo tylko wtedy ten dialog Spock - Kirk wybrzmiewa:

Spock: Sir, may I offer my condolences on the death of your friend. It is most regrettable.

Kirk: It’s regrettable that he died for nothing.

Nie można, bo to nieuczciwe i niesprawiedliwe i głupie umierać tak dla idei jak i dla zemsty, kiedy wiadomo, że to nic nie da. Bo oba te rodzaje śmierci nic nie przynoszą poza cierpieniem, tych którzy pozostali. I to jest etyczne jądro tego odcinka.

Spock wie, że jeżeli nie ma możliwości zniszczenia Maszyny Zagłady, zanim ta pochłonie kolejne miliardy i całą planetę, należy uciec i poinformować Flotę! I to jest tak oczywiste, że nikt w odcinku poza oszalałym z zemsty Deckerem tego nie podważa. Nikt.

Odcinek jako thriller jest zbudowany wzorcowo. Są tu ogromne emocje i świetnie zrealizowane sceny w tym klimacie, na czele z odliczaniem i naprawą transportera w zerowej sekundzie do wybuchu.

Kolejne w życiu oglądanie tego pierwszoligowego odcinka oczywiście zwraca uwagę na szczególiki. Najwyraźniej na tym etapie serii nie istniało, lub było jeszcze dziurawe, wytłumaczenie istnienia i działania uniwersalnego tłumacza z późniejszych produkcji. Doktor wykrzykuje Spockowi, by mówił prostym niewolkańskim ...angielskim.

Sprawa braku pieniądza w Federacji chyba również jeszcze nie dojrzała. Kirk zachwycony sprawnością napraw Scottiego mówi mu, że właśnie zasłużył na tygodniową wypłatę.

Odcinek świetny: montaż, dialogi, historia, aktorstwo – wszystko precyzyjnie dograne.

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Powrót do serialu

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Powrót do listy nierecek :)

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[amalgamasreal]

Quick primer for the wannabe pirates out there, this is all in jest, in minecraft, as satire, of a parody, that I saw one time, in a dream:

Real deal pirate sites come in two flavors: indexers and stream boxes. Indexers are for the people who plan on downloading and archiving the content they want to watch themselves, they know the risks of using torrents or they pay for the privilege of using newsgroups. Stream boxes are for the people who don't want to learn how to set up their network to handle downloading and/or pay for the storage needed to house all of that data, they come in multiple flavors with the primary two being Plex or Jellyfin. (Note: I'm moving away from all things Plex personally because they're getting too popular and that's bad)

The real deal sites out there will always be invite only, will not be open to the internet, and will NEVER have a name that makes it obvious what they do. ESPECIALLY not in the URL of the site. If someone shares one to you and it's not only open to the internet and is obvious what they do then it's either a malware filled den or it's a plant by the studios.

Real deal sites will have it written into their TOS that you NEVER share their links or your account info with anyone and that you only send out the very few invites you may receive to people you absolutely trust. Two of the biggest music torrent sites of all time were named in order: Oink and Waffles. Neither exist anymore because they got too popular, Oink was making fucking merch for fucks sake, and thus were shut down. Staying on the down low is how they survive.

If you're paying to pirate shit, never use a credit card or bank account tied to you directly. Use burner debit card that can be loaded with cash and then set it so that it has a certain amount withdrawn from your checking per month, use a crypto wallet if you have one set up, basically anything but the cards in your wallet/loaded in your phone and sure as hell not your bank account itself.

Unfriendly reminder that all you idiots being like "yeah just pirate media now, fuck corporations!" posting links and just openly telling people where to download pirated media are why it's so hard to find safe, working sites for it anymore.

I've been doing this shit for over 20 years and the availability has gone down as it's become more mainstream. The more you publicly talk about all these sites the less there are. Shut up. Tell people in private or don't tell them at all.