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easy-revenge · 9 months

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its been over 2 years since i read volume 9 of chainsaw man and it still apparently has the power to make me sob uncontrollably when i think about it so im going to talk a bit about aki and denji being shown as children during the snowball fight and why it's currently making me wanna rip my hair out :)

aki is already gone during this scene for all intents and purposes, having very little comprehension of the events his body is in and just waiting to be set free. his mind reverting back to the moment he lost his family is not surprising, since that's when his life permanently changed trajectory.

he's not to blame for being stuck in this moment, as it would make sense for any kid his age. however, he didn't put himself on the path towards revenge, which inevitably made him unable to let go. that was makima. she took him by the hand and gave him this "purpose", something she very well knew he was never going to achieve anyway. she trapped him in this predicament and made sure he stayed there till there were no options left for him.

to the very end, aki's life was never his own, but planned for him. aki never left that snowy forest. he wasn't allowed to.

as a result, the essence of aki that remained within the gun fiend after his death materialized as the last genuine version of aki that ever was. a kid playing in front of his house.

moving over to denji, who is the one that got me crying today. his appearance as a child in aki's mind is partly to parallel the bond they shared and the bond between aki and his little brother, whom he lost that day. of course. however i think there's a lot of significance to this choice for denji's character as well.

denji grew up remote and very disconnected from society. he never got the chance to learn how to navigate his feelings and relationships with other people. he had to figure it all out as he went, first with pochita, whom he got attached to and later with aki and power. even with makima.

makima was the first person to ever give him attention and affection, to give him the things he always wanted, but she never treated him like a person. she never helped him get any closer to learning how to be one. he was used, much like aki was, and was given a purpose that was never going to be for his own benefit.

as a result, denji took a while to go through the motions of being surrounded by humans and being taught by them. the first time we saw him face the concept of loss was with pochita, an event that didn't really give him much in terms of experience considering all the implications and how suddenly it changed his life. in its nature, it wasn't a type of loss he would've been able to navigate as a human.

im not going to go into the situation with his father since we saw very explicitly how incapable he was to handle it to the point of blocking it out and having it haunt him till the end of part one. he surely didn't get much data out of that experience either, or the abuse he went through before it.

the first real time he got to see loss occur very close to him was himeno's death. he had no emotional reaction to it, which confused him since he was able to observe its effect on aki and other people around him. he questioned his own humanity for the first time and it upset him, if only momentarily. it gave him a hint of perspective.

sadly, he was going to find out what loss meant the hard way.

with makima still treating him like an animal and the circumstances forcing him to still rely on his instincts, denji's emotional maturity wasn't really prioritized. he did inevitably grow closer to aki and power, without necessarily being able to recognize those feelings for what they were. again he just had to go through the motions.

fast forward to the gun devil arc. he's told by makima on the phone to not think, to just fight aki without thinking about it. we see the progress that's been made in how clearly unable denji is to follow that order, aki being the closest thing to family he's ever had by this point.

he fights his best friend, not even thinking about himself, but of how aki would feel if he were conscious of how much destruction he was causing. still up to this point, denji doesn't know that he loves aki. it hasn't computed to him as a piece of info, only as an experience.

him being shown as a child in the snow, a contrast to the violent reality that his body is in, has as much significance as it does for aki.

denji never really grew up, he never got past his father's death or anything that happened to him before and after that. he was kept from it by his life and makima herself, once again. his ineptitude was weaponized and he was nowhere near being aware of it. he was also stuck.

in that scene, denji experiences real loss. he loses someone he loves and someone who loves him back. someone who thought himself unable to do so but was the first to love him like a human.

he was just a kid, losing his family by his own hand again, only this time he had been loved.

it's highlighted in the next chapter, where he appears unable to grieve and looks kind of numb instead. then we have the ice cream scene, where he thinks the words for the first time and throws up immediately.

his confusion after it happens, him being unable to fathom why his body would have such a reaction, breaks my heart almost more than the entirety of the snowball fight itself, from denji's pov.

im not going to talk about what happens directly after that and its implications bc im gonna end up talking forever, but his behavior throughout the next chapters very much shows how out of his depth he is when it comes to loss and grief and how lost and helpless he is in makima's hands.

my point is, both aki and denji were used, weaponised and kept from growing up while also having to deal with the world and its cruelty at the same time. even the closeness they achieved was planned and used against them both. this is only one of many angles of the snowball fight scene that can be looked at and interpreted in different ways. but it was the one that made me ugly cry today :)

#oof #this was inspired by a tiktok i saw with panels from that scene #and i went from fine to snot running down my face in the span of a singular minute #:)))#chainsaw man #aki hayakawa #chainsaw man denji #denji #hayakawa family #csm #chainsaw man manga #chainsaw man manga spoilers #chainsaw man analysis #makima

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hatredmadeofgold · 1 year

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Revenge with a vengeance — The tragedy of Sam and Raiden’s canon relationship dynamic

Alternate title: SamuRaiden is THAT deep, actually.

Although MGR does not have as complex or well researched character lore as the main series, Samuraiden as a relationship is a lot more complex than common fandom tropes and interpretations of their relationship suggest. I don’t mind it when people make funny/meme content about these two, since MGS/R does come with its own flair of humour, it’s very exhausting for me as well as a few others I know who enjoy this ship for it to be reduced to just that — a joke. MGR being perceived as ‘goofy’ is mainly due to how poorly some of the character lines translate from Japanese to English, as well as it being more or less evident that either budget, time or both ran out over the course of development, hence the second half of the game feels rushed and underdeveloped. In fact, the great majority of MGR fans do not understand how serious, dark, hopeless and dystopian its message really is and that is saddening.

The world isn’t black and white, neither is it in MGS/R. Sam isn’t the just the villain (never has been, by the way), Raiden isn’t the just the hero (never has been either, by the way), I’d say it’s rather “depends on who you ask”. They are on opposite sides due to the circumstances of how they meet and not because they wouldn’t get along. Quite the opposite is true, in fact, if they would have met before 2016, they might have become friends based on the fact of how much they can actually relate to each other in many different aspects of their personalities, interests and experiences.

Before we get to fight Armstrong as well as during the Sam DLC (also through very subtle hints during their first fight on the train) we learn that Sam is just like Raiden and that Desperado forced him to become a shadow of who he once was, going against his own morals and values and only Raiden reminding him of who he truly was before Armstrong defeated him 2 years prior, ultimately crushing his spirit — he had no other choice, either die there as a failure or continue to live and become Desperado’s/Armstrong’s puppet [until someone would eventually defeat Armstrong and free Sam from his never ending nightmare — Did I already mention that Sam is a really fucking tragic character?]. Sam joining Armstrong’s laughter at the end of DLC is a reaction of fear, not agreement with him or enjoyment. And if there’s one thing that both MGS and MGR are really good at, it’s the accurate and very realistic portrayal of the human psyche under stressful and traumatic situations.

On the other side we can tell from Raiden’s reaction when holding Murasama after killing Sam that he, for once in the entire damn series, questions if that was the right choice he made. We know that Raiden enjoys inflicting pain and suffering onto others, he enjoys murder — but he did not feel that way when he killed Sam. It’s quite the opposite. It’s very subtle and if you’re not very observant like me, easy to miss. But the way his voice turns a bit softer, how his eyes look listless, almost sad; he regrets it. When Blade Wolf asks Raiden if that outcome was really necessary, he does not answer him, because he knows that Wolf is right, it wasn’t. And Raiden pretty much hates himself for it. To his team he confidently says that Sam isn’t a problem anymore since he killed him, but that’s not the same Raiden that he’s that moment in the badlands (which is another implication to me that Raiden doesn’t fully trust his teammates, although they are friends; he has major trust issues and the only emotions he shares with them is either anger or amusement but nothing outside of that). The way he sheathes Murasama is a way to honour him, and as far as I remember this is a ritual to honour a samurai’s defeat or death.

I believe that there has been a silent understanding between the two swordsmen that they respect each other from the very beginning, but they do not say it out loud. This is a case of “show, don’t tell” but also something I suspect has something to do with the game being written by Japanese authors, and Japanese is a high context language, meaning, very little words are needed to get the meaning across, and I think this may also translate into the words these two exchange with each other compared to how they truly feel about the other. Besides, they probably couldn’t truly speak honestly with each other in the first place because of the unfortunate conditions of how they met and were (more or less) forced to fight each other until one of them would eventually succumb to the other’s blade. Codecs and conversations were most likely recorded by their respective employers, and I highly suspect that in Sam’s case, he was even monitored 24/7 by Desperado since he never was an official member of the Winds of Destruction in the first place, and they didn’t fully trust him either.

At the very end of the game during the fight with Armstrong, Sam’s message plays, and we can hear how Sam also speaks with a different voice to Blade Wolf compared to everyone else (and technically, indirectly to Raiden but I cannot confirm or deny that Sam was aware that Raiden would ever hear this playback), it’s a note softer; Raiden learns the truth, which confirms to him that he was right about Sam after all, that they are alike, that they respect each other, and that there was more to Sam’s story than him being a part of Desperado, he doesn’t know what exactly, but he knows now for sure that Sam was not the person he originally believed he was (and lets his team still believe he thinks that way).

Would Raiden truly say Sam’s catchphrase “Let’s dance” before fighting and ultimately killing Armstrong, if he wouldn’t have been going through a gradual process between originally hating Sam to respecting and liking him but unable to ever express that to him or anyone else?

Would he ever admit to anyone what kind of emotional impact Sam had on him, besides the anger and hatred he openly expressed towards him?

Doubt so. Highly fucking doubt so.

Because sharing his true feelings is a liability to him, and Raiden learnt as a very young child that vulnerable feelings such as sadness or guilt would be used against him, so his psyche is conditioned to discard them immediately. But Sam made him feel those things in their full extent and Raiden is fully aware of that, but he would never share with anybody that he ever felt that way about Sam.

He may or may not take those feelings to his grave.

From Sam’s side, we can only guess how he truly felt about Raiden, but we can only guess by the way he hesitated to finish him off on the train during the prologue, the way he smiled at Blade Wolf before his death (which might be likely another case of a silent understanding between Sam and Wolf that the latter would share with Raiden what he knows about Sam or the playback of their conversation itself, if not both) as well as everything he says with giving Murasama to Raiden. Of course, Sam couldn’t even say out loud to Blade Wolf or Raiden that he planned to give Raiden his sword to take down Armstrong, and he had to be as vague as possible with the information that he shared with the robot dog. Not by choice, no. Most likely because he was being watched 24/7, he knew that Desperado nor Armstrong didn’t fully trust him and if they knew about his plans, they’d make sure to finish him off before Raiden had the chance to do so. Sam knew he would die, and that it would be the only way he would ever be free from Armstrong’s grasp. So he chose suicide through Raiden’s blade, and gave him his sword to finish what he could not back then.

The game’s title is REVENGEANCE — Revenge with a vengeance.

They both translate to the same thing in my native language German, but there’s a subtle yet important difference between these two nouns.

“Revenge means when you get back at your enemy who is responsible for hurting you and vengeance is the punishment inflicted or retribution exacted for an injury or wrong.”

But it was never Armstrong who hurt or wronged Raiden in the first place, and we know he’s an essentially selfish person who does not really care all that much about politics, religion or anything like that and he only fights for himself (I wrote in my essay about Raiden’s ASPD that his motivation to save these children from becoming cyborg child soldiers is a trauma response first and his rather lose and grey morality second) and the few people he cares about, so Armstrong being the one one who ordered to get N’mani killed is not the reason Raiden went after him or was that passionate about getting revenge or retribution on him either.

It was Sam who hurt him — wounded both his body and soul during the prologue — but when Raiden got his revenge, he realised that revenge is empty, that he didn’t feel better, and that he regrets killing him, then we get to the vengeance part. From the moment Raiden held Sam’s Murasama in the badlands, he felt no more hatred towards him and the emotional impact his death had on him made Sam transition from a person he hated to one of the few people Raiden truly cares about.

Armstrong may be the villain of the story, but the person who wanted revenge on him never had been Raiden. It was Sam. Always had been Sam, because it was Sam who got hurt by Armstrong, it was Sam who wanted to get revenge on Armstrong for defeating him and crushing his spirit, it was Sam who wanted to punish Armstrong for making him into a shadow of who he once was, making Sam speak about ideals he didn’t truly believe in (like, who the FUCK even thinks that Sam truly believed a single fucking word of that, because I for sure as hell can tell he never did, he either gaslit himself into believing that for 2 years until he met Raiden or only parroted whatever the fuck Armstrong wanted him to say so he would not get killed on the spot).

Revenge and vengeance are very deep feelings and actions of hatred, feelings that are too deep and complex to be associated with morality, hence why I highly doubt that the title of the game is directed at Armstrong from Raiden’s side at all. That between Raiden and Armstrong is not nearly as personal as it has been between Sam and Armstrong. Raiden eradicating Desperado and Armstrong had been about justice [for the kids being killed and their organs sold], not revenge.

"I said my sword was a tool of justice. Not used in anger. Not used for vengeance. But now… Now I'm not so sure. And besides, this isn't my sword."

But when he says this, followed by “Let’s dance”, it became deeply personal for Raiden as well. Because he could confirm that his feelings about Sam had been right, and that Sam wanted to get revenge on Armstrong.

Raiden decides to avenge him, because Sam couldn’t get revenge himself.

Although Sam never told him directly, Raiden understood him from his actions alone, those subtle hints, reading between the lines what the other truly felt and wanted the whole time, eventually passing the “torch” — his sword — to Raiden, to finish what he could not. So while Raiden’s own reasons to finish off Armstrong were (mostly) justice for the innocent lives he destroyed and planned to continue to destroy, they also became feelings of hatred and anger — Sam’s feelings towards Armstrong.

In the end — revenge with a vengeance — is what Sam could get on Armstrong only through Raiden, after Raiden enacted his onto Sam.

Now the question is — if Raiden would’ve never killed Sam, by the chance of him recognising earlier than in canon that revenge is empty and that he won’t feel better after killing him, would Sam go by his example and abandon his revenge plans on Armstrong as well? Or would they fight Armstrong together and get justice?

We unfortunately can only speculate (or write stories about it).

What we can tell from canon though, is that Raiden’s (= Sam’s) passionate feelings of hatred towards Armstrong quickly vanish the moment he finished him off, and he looks into the camera with an empty expression, covered in blood and a crushed cybernetic heart in his hand.

And I think that is exactly what he feels — empty.

Because again, he got revenge and avenged Sam, led by what Sam felt, Sam’s feelings became Raiden’s feelings during that fight with Armstrong. But once that was gone, there’s nothing left. In the case of killing Armstrong, he doesn’t feel remorse or guilt. There’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Because revenge is empty.

Raiden defeated his enemies — but at what cost?

By killing Sam, he realised what he had actually lost — a potential friend (or more), someone who understood him in a way that no one else did. Perhaps he thought or felt that, if he avenges Sam, making Sam’s feelings towards Armstrong into his own, he might be able to deal with that loss better, but to no avail.

Because, and I can speak from experience as a person with the same mental health issues as Raiden, that emptiness is worse than regret.

MGR’s ending also implies that Raiden abandons his family and friends to fight his own war; essentially taking the same path that Sam once took in his past, ending up in a personal war and revenge act that knows no end, making one bad choice after the next. If Raiden hasn’t already become the villain of his own story by the end of MGR, then it’s just a matter of time until he becomes that.

And the cycle of violence continues, until the story repeats itself, over and over and over and over and over.

Did I mention already that there is a myth around Murasama being a cursed sword, that will drive its user either slowly insane or make them commit suicide if it doesn’t get a regular ‘blood sacrifice’?

—

“I really enjoy murder, but that one, that I will regret for the rest of my life.”

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hexfloog · 10 months

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(Episode 404, The Mysterious Angel's Mansion - pt. 2)

This little scene is probably one of my favorite DB interactions in the entire show -v- Everything from the way they got here— that is, Conan deliberately starting shit (and then throwing hands sksksk)— to the way they each react to the situation, to the eventual resolution and their implied state of their relationship with Conan...

To be fair, their dynamic is more than implied and we see it in action all the time, but rarely do we get to see anything apart from the reactionary, situational interactions necessitated by some external circumstance. Friends sometimes fight amongst themselves, kids even moreso, but the DB often get tangled in such dire, life-or-death situations that we usually don't get to evaluate the friendship beyond raw reactions to things like Genta nearly being shot, Mitsuhiko going missing, drivers taking off with Ayumi in the trunk, etc.

You could happily argue that this is just proof of strong relationships, because there's no time to premeditate anything and they're forced to be little balls of instinct-- and I would agree, but that's not the angle I'm taking with this scene.

Obviously, Conan is Team Mom, always spearheading the charge and guiding and looking after the others, but if the DB rarely hear Conan apologize for anything (as is the implication here), it fits right in with his character. He's a proud individual and having to even associate with children is, at least in the beginning of the series, embarrassing to him. Haibara even teases him a little afterwards with an observation that it's "tough" to motivate kids, possibly referring to the mental mountain he had to summit by admitting that he was wrong.

The only thing that could maybe make me like this scene more is if Conan's authenticity were less nebulous, but that same ambiguity is exactly what makes this scene appealing to me, too: reuniting the group by forcing a conflict to overcome despair and hopelessness and press onwards for the sake of someone else is, to Shinichi, probable justification to be both disingenuous or earnest about an apology, so I'm… well, I don't come away from this scene really knowing which one it is, and I... kind of love that. The series struggles with grey areas and I will absolutely take what I can get here

So does anyone think he meant it? Shinichi obviously cares about the children, so the natural answer is yes, but whether he's more or less honest about his apology has no bearing on the result— the kids stop fighting either way— so... at least in my head... there is no correct answer. It's left entirely to the viewer and just comes down to how you interpret his character: if he meant it, cool, the fact that he cares enough about the kids to put aside his pride for them is selfless and delightful; if he didn't, well... that's equally intriguing, isn't it? Maybe he's simply too proud to apologize and mean it, and the fight was just a means to an end (and nothing more) so that they could continue pursuing the solution to their dilemma... which could mean that Shinichi has an enduring problem prioritizing the mystery* over his peers (exactly the thing that got him into the Conan mess in the first place)...

This is a very short scene but goddamn if I don't enjoy the hell out of it. I love the kids and I wish they did more open-ended stuff with them like this (sobbing)

#dcmk #internal screaming hours #text #edogawa conan #tsuburaya mitsuhiko #yoshida ayumi #kojima genta #haibara ai #queue #long post

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sophiethewitch1 · 1 month

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Hey! I just wanted to say that I love the WWW series so much that I've literally read it like 4 times over. SO! I have several questions + observations about it that have been bugging me a little, if you don’t mind answering + talking about them.

Everyone’s ages are something that I've been curious about. I know that it’s stated that Damian and the Reader-insert are 3 years apart in age, 19 and 21 respectively. I’m assuming that they’re more like 2 1/2 years apart based on the ages we’ve been given.

Do they follow canon ages? For example, is Tim still around 7 years older than Damian???

Because i’m picturing the lineup looking something like this:

Bruce: 47

Dick: 33

Jason: 28

Tim: 26

Reader-insert: 21

Damian: 19

I was just curious because picturing everyone’s relative age is something that is really important to me when regarding the dynamics between characters.

Another thing that I noticed was how in the Reader-insert’s original reality/world, her entire family died on the same day that Jason did. (“Your lives had both technically ended the same day, in the same grand calamity.”). Does that remain the same in this new world?

Because that would mean that the Reader-insert’s counterpart would have known Jason at some point, which I think is SUPER interesting. Lots of implications.

That’s supported by something that Tim says in his 1st pov: “Your family had died, Bruce’s new wife had died, and all the siblings he never really got the opportunity to meet, gone in a brilliant flash.”

THAT has a few implications that I think are really interesting. It supports the idea that her family did die on the same day in this reality, and that she would have known and been living with Jason at the time (Well, before his death.)

Tim would have most likely only seen them at galas or something similar by that time…leading to his statement about how he “never really got the opportunity to meet” them.

This would mean that Jason knew her counterpart when the Reader-insert met him for the first time.

Now, going off of all of those assumptions, I can only begin to guess what her and Dicks relationship was like before her family's death. I picture it like this:

Dick had only left the manor around 3 years TOPS before Bruce had remarried, bringing a whole nother family into the fold. Now, we don’t know too much about Dick in this story yet, (I'm SO excited to see more of him in the next chapter BTW) but I can assume that this would feel pretty upsetting. Leaving your home, and your adoptive? father only for him to marry into a whole new family not long after?

I’d be pretty bitter if it was me in his situation. I wouldn’t really want to have any kind of relationship with the new children he had taken in. MEANING that Dick and the counterpart didn’t have too much of a relationship before her family's death.

And between their death and Jason’s, Dick would probably consider the counterpart as some kind of chance to actually build a relationship with his siblings in the light of what he lost. Obviously, the counterpart didn’t appreciate the attempt.

Uhhh there’s probably a lot more that I'm forgetting to mention, but I think the way you write is super compelling, and the Reader-Insert has been the only one that I’ve ever read that I can relate to so well!

So TYSM for writing, it literally makes my day!! 🩷🩷🩷🫂🫂🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

(And I’m really bad at conveying my tone in text, so if I seem overly critical or anything then I’m really sorry!!! I don’t mean it like that!!!)

Sorry this took so long to answer I have been in sickly victorian woman mode. I'll answer these questions to the best that I can, but also I don't have everything planned and even if I did I regularly forget shit if I don't write it down <3 <3

First of all the ages- I aged both the younger Waynes up and the older ones down a bit, because I'm personally not into the super huge age gaps but also. Imagine them however you want, even if they come up later in continuity still just insert your personal preferences if you want. Like it really doesn't matter lmao they're relationship has bigger issues than the age gaps. Anyway here are how I had them written down but I might change my mind I am a fluid being

Reader: 21, Damian: 19, Tim: 22, Jason: 25, Dick: 29, Bruce: 45, Alfred: 67, Molly: Also 21, Cass: 25, Stephanie: 23, Barbara: 30, Duke: 20

Also yes, reader's family died the exact same day in both universes, and first world reader like... knew about the waynes but wasn't particularly interested in them till their own family was ripped away, then she started obsessing. in second world, reader and the batfam were like... sort of involved? she lived with them, and she was getting to know them, but wouldn't you be kind of weirded out if your mum married like. jeff bezos or something. and reader is sort of introvert coded, even if they don't read that way. it's just because she's trying so hard not to be, because she's so starved for attention. other world reader like,,, didn't seem to react the same way to what happened to her. but she might've, in the newest chapter it seems like she was talking to bruce after the disaster, and then stopped. But yeah you're right they never knew each other because not much effort was made to do so, and the Waynes are always SUPER busy.

Also about the Dick thing, he was actually pretty happy about the new family! But like you said he still didn't know other reader till the disaster. He just didn't have time to get to know her. He was obviously very upset with Bruce because he left to fuck off to Bludhaven for a while, but he's always loved how the Wayne family kept growing. Even when it was just him Jason, Babs and the weird kid who followed them around with a camera. Then he like decided he was going to treat her like a project because he has a savior complex that comes out especially so when he's having a hard time (oh damn my brothers dead). Not your best moment Dickie. I mean other reader definitely did need help but... as if she'd accept it from a guy like Dick. Imagine your entire family dies and you have to deal with the most beautiful guy on earth trying to comfort you while you look like a creature that crawled out of the sewers. And he tries to make you go outside because you're genuinely very mentally sick. I'd kill him tbh. Anyway this is all still technically up in the air and I might go back and edit the fic later because I'm like... very bad at timelines I just can never remember them properly which creates a lot of issues and inconsistencies.

Anyways thank you for sending in your questions/theories and enjoying my work so much! I'm glad you can relate to reader so well, she's like, one of the strangest characters I've ever written who refuses to behave in any concrete mannerisms because she's stubborn and has intimacy issues. But I think we're all a little bit like that lmao. And thank YOU for reading my stuff, I wouldn't still be doing it if it weren't for folks like you :P (also also you didn't come across as critical at all, you were very polite!!!)

#sophie speaks #sophie answers #series:www #archetype0venus #tw long post #also i know what ur thinking: sophie are you writing #no i am not but i am listening to the www playlist and daydreaming which is like. sort of writing #i write like ten thousand rambling tags and then delete them because i remember they have absolutely nothing to do with this post #theres nothing in my brain nothing at all

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aristidetwain · 1 year

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Ring-Master

In 2007′s Last of the Time Lords, Russell T. Davies drew our attention to the Master’s distinctive signet ring, inset with silver Gallifreyan writing, which was plucked from his funeral pyre by the hand of a mysterious woman who, in 2009′s The End of Time, would turn out to be one of the ‘Disciples of Saxon’, a cult formed by the Master in expectation of his death with the aim of enacting a ritual to resurrect him, still in the same incarnation at that.

This was a pleasant twist, and a fun tip of the hat to the method of Count Dracula’s resurrection in multiple Hammer Dracula films. (This is only fitting: as per The Book of the War, the Time Lords adapted their powers of regeneration from the Yssgaroth’s…)

However, I think there are two startling facts about this plot point which have been just-as-startlingly under-discussed in canon-welding spaces.

Follow me after the cut to find out the truth about the Rings of the Time Lords — or should I say the Time Lords of the Rings? (This was terrible and I do not apologise.)

Fact #1: This pays off a Chekhov’s gun going all the way back to An Unearthly Child.

Much as it is sometimes entertaining to ponder the days when Dr Who might have been a lone human scientist, there is also a distinctive corpus of early implications about The Doctor’s Mysterious People as a distinct and mysterious civilisation with dominion over space and time. It started with the Doctor himself, but was followed through with other characters implied to hail from that same civilisation: I speak of course of the Meddling Monk and the Toymaker (who, I note in passing, is not actually meant to be Celestial with a capital C).

What did the Monk have in common with the Doctor, besides a TARDIS?

A conspicuous ring.

As you can glimpse in the top left photograph, the Doctor’s ring was, to be exact, a sapphire ring.

The Toymaker did not wear a ring in the TV story as broadcast — but he did use one in the novelisation, which brought back many elements that had to be cut from the TV version due to rushed production. There, he used it to manipulate the environment of his suspiciously TARDIS-like “Celestial Toyroom”.

Not coincidentally, in The Web Planet, the Doctor’s ring was revealed to have the ability to interface with the Ship, with the Doctor gleefully declaring that “this is not merely a decorative object”, without elaboration.

The concept seems to have persisted past The War Games. Sure, the Time Lords seen therein lacked the ring — including Edward Brayshaw’s Renegade. And Roger Delgado’s subsequent regeneration of the character also lacked the ring when we first saw him in Terror of the Autons. And it’s rare that we get the chance to check thereafter, owing to the Master’s predilection for gloves. But by The Time Monster…

…he is wearing the very flat, green, gleaming ring to which RTD attached such significance in Last of the Time Lords and The End of Time.

The idea experienced a last, potentially-coincidental gasp with Kate O’Mara’s Rani, though she was similarly prone to glove-wearing.

But the point is: throughout the first half of Classics, all the interesting Time Lords had Large Conspicuous Rings. These Rings clearly did some things, but the full extent of their power and cultural significance was kept artfully obscured.

And this is what Davies is coming back to with Simm’s all-important ring. The Doctor recognises it on sight as “the Master’s Ring”, and knows what it does. He fascinatingly describes it as “part of him”, setting all kinds of biodata-related alarm bells ringing. Given that the Rings are also related to the bond between pilot and TARDIS, could they be some kind of locus of the Rassilon Imprimatur? The thrill is of course in the asking…

Fact #2: This may not be the first time it’s happened.

A shorter but equally interesting observation:

the Master has possessed this same green ring at least since his Delgado days.

the Doctor instantly jumps from “his Ring survived” to “his disciples must be arranging a ritual to resurrect him in the same incarnation”. This is something he knows Rings do and is relatively casual about.

at many points during Classic Who the Master was seemingly killed off for good, only to show up intact because “I’m indestructible… the whole Universe knows that”. (Or, as Missy later put it, “death is for other people”.)

Am I the only one who thinks that somewhere in Davies’s brain, he may have conceived of this as the secret way the Master had survived at least some of those past exterminations? Sure, the Disciples of Saxon were something set up by ol’Harold (the clue’s in the name), but it would be child’s play for a Time Lord with a working TARDIS to set up convenient cults for himself on a dozen worlds, just to be on the safe side.

I’mt thinking, particularly, of the Tremas Master’s annihilation on Sarn in my beloved Planet of Fire, which seems particularly conclusive. We see him burn away on-screen; it’s not as simple as saying he teleported to safety in the nick of time. Either time was rewritten, or he was resurrected by… means unknown.

And here’s the thing, despite his panic, the Master does seem to assume he’ll survive. What does he say to express it?

Oh yes… “I’LL PLAGUE YOU TO THE END OF TIME FOR THIS!”

Full circle, eh what? (Yes, that’s a cheap one, but fun nonetheless.)

And on that note, look at the imagery! Of course, having gone down in a column of flame, he would be reconstituted in the same way.

“I had people who were clever enough… to calculate the opposite.”

#The Master #The Tremas Master #The War Chief #Saxon Master #Time Lords #Canon-Welding #Russell T. Davies #The End of Time #Last of the Time Lords #Planet of Fire #The Time Monster #The Meddling Monk #The Rani #First Doctor #The Doctor #Rings #Doctor Who Fandom Shenanigans #Doctor Who

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fitzrove · 4 months

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One undertheorised aspect of Elisabeth [yes I'm approaching the show like a research field] is that of the POV in Mayerling. Setting aside/ignoring my favourite interpretation (ie. Lucheni's POV colours every scene from beginning to end), I started thinking: could it be we're seeing it through Elisabeth's eyes?

The first time Elisabeth acknowledges the mirror imagery (which is built between her and Rudolf in the Vienna-based productions) is literally right after his death - "you were like me, you needed me / I left you on your own to free myself -- / The fault is mine". She seems to see "the truth" (what the show has constructed for us to see from the start - Elisabeth's emancipation and Rudolf's isolation) and blames herself for it. And that "truth", as it is represented in the show, includes (personified) Death.

But is it really "the truth", or is it what Elisabeth has come up with in her long solitary hours despairing in the crypt? Has she, while mourning him, just begun to think back on everything she knows about Rudolf and reinterpreted his life as a nightmare similar to her own - looking to Death for guidance and comfort and yet suffering as a result? Maybe Elisabeth isn't just observing; she's interpreting and creating (the narrative) before our eyes. What we see happen to Rudolf before that point is her hindsight. And ok the implications are kind of horrifying especially for Schatten reprises where Tod really goes at it physically, like, her imagining Rudolf suffering like that - like she has with depression as well, in DLT and WITW - over and over (in Mayerling too) and not being able to stop it because he's already dead.

Granted, there are some things that make this less likely: ie. the overall strength of the Lucheni interpretation (I think it's the canon one honestly, there's too much evidence to ignore) as well as the historical fact that Elisabeth remained mostly ignorant of Rudolf's political writings and aspirations even after his death, but it's still interesting to think about.

In any case I don't think Rudolf is in control of his own narrative like traditional fictional characters are - and why should he be, he's a minor character in a show using storybook/circus/etc aesthetics as an artistic device. He's in control of his actions within that narrative (ie. Elisabeth saying his death is her fault is not really true), but he's really a plot device. And therefore:

1)conspiracy bad XDD

2) Mirror imagery good, hence removing the mayerling kiss horribly bad

3) what if Elisabeth made up Mama, schatten reprise and Mayerling after the fact, while despairing and overthinking what she could've done differently during Totenklage (out of all the candidates for "narrator"/POV character, Rudolf is just about the unlikeliest person in the show - he's only born halfway in and dies before it ends)

Fourth point under the cut for whining XD Might delete that part later

4) i keep saying this ad nauseam but we do not really need more/expanded mayerling (or rudolf immorality) stuff in the show ahsjfkggkkf. I get that in terms of history and the public sphere, we need justice and spotlight for Mary, but the show is about the death of liberal politics through Rudolf and it's already unclear to some people so we don't need to make it more confusing for them. Based on the level of reading comprehension online re my favourite shows I don't trust people to understand the symbolic death of liberal Europe in the face of Hass AND the rudolf-elisabeth mirror imagery AND Rudolf as a historical person being complicated and shitty. The last one can be brought into it through acting I think, but we don't need to change the staging to be heavier on the historical Mayerling stuff. You can criticise the portrayal, you can think Elisabeth does a bad job of portraying Rudolf and normalizes abuse or murder or something, but you can't really change how it's depicted without wrecking the architecture of the show. Rudolf literally has no canon personality beyond "sad" [being gay for death is part of this] and "struggling politically"

I promise i'm not sexist and horrible btw akjsjdjdfkgkg. But like legit. Rudolf already comes as a matching set with the mayerling affair in the public sphere. Elisabeth is like the only thing where his political legacy (or lack thereof) is of equal importance, and the portrayal is generally sympathetic. I'm not saying we can't do more rudolf media that addresses it with more complexity, but Elisabeth is not the time or place - especially since if we did include more of the Mary stuff (as a staging choice, since the script is set), it would almost certainly fail to do anything meaningful in terms of her historical legacy, given that she wouldn't be named (can't stop the mayerling sequence to give a spoken rundown of events...), and her life and personality beyond the circumstances of her death would once again be overshadowed by her ending up in Mayerling

#musicals #theatre #elisabeth

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stranger-fanfiction-n-things · 3 months

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CHAPTER 2: THE WEIRDO ON MAPLE STREET

This is an Original Character fanfiction. All Stranger Things characters and content are owned by Netflix and The Duffer Brothers.

a/n: This part is heavy. A lot of things are happening. Nancy and Diana's friendship dynamic will be tested throughout the season. I wanted to make this pool party as realistic as possible. In watching this episode, I understand Nancy's want to fit in, but it's at the expense of Barb in my opinion and I wanted to showcase how that feels through Diana. As a dancer, I hate when after finding out I am a dancer, people tell me to dance...it makes me uncomfortable. It's not a skill that is always on for me. The move Diana shows everyone is called a Scorpion (Rhythmic Gymnastic Style).

P.S. This is what I picture Diana wearing to the pool party.

Warnings: Sexual implications. Blood. Peer Pressure.

Word Count: 3511

Masterlist

PART I || PART II || PART III || PART IV || PART V

HARRINGTON RESIDENCE

When Steve said he was having a party, I never expected to be outside in his backyard, sitting on a lawn chair freezing to death. I shiver wrapping my arms around my knees. I have been here for over an hour and have done nothing but sit by the heated pool watching the water. The definition of ‘party’ was as lost as I felt. Tommy H attempts to throw Carol in the pool. She screams trying her best to escape his hold. I lean against Barb savouring her warmth and rest my head on her arm watching everything unfold. Nancy sits in a lawn chair beside Steve. Barb and I were long forgotten once we arrived. I am too cold to care.

“I thought parties were primarily inside the house.” I mumble. “What kind of party is this?”

“A stupid one.” Barb responds with a sigh.

“All they do is smoke and drink. Where’s the food?”

“Eating isn’t in style, I guess.”

I peer around Barb’s shoulder keeping an eye on Nancy and notice she is on her second beer for the night. I groan, feeling restless and stand up to stretch my legs.

“Did you want to go for a walk?”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, around the pool.”

Barb looks at the pool, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “No thanks.”

I pout, but don’t question her and begin my walk.

“Diana, where are you going?” Nancy asks.

“I’m tired of sitting around. I’m going to walk around the pool for a bit.”

Nancy smiles, her blue eyes seem glazed and a little out of focused. “Okay. Just don’t leave.”

“I won’t.” I respond, no matter how much I actually want to leave.

I stroll along the edge of the pool thinking. Steve Harrington throws a lot of parties and I’m most certain the whole school has been to Steve’s house at least once in their lifetime. Which meant Steve’s parents weren’t home often. I look at the towering house and the expansive backyard. I don’t know what it’s like to be an only child, but I do know how it feels to be lonely even with others around. My gaze lowers to across the pool. Nancy smiles at Steve; they’ve been talking since we arrived leaving Barb and I alone. I don’t look at Tommy H and Carol, knowing they’re all over each other, stealing kisses and soft giggles. Instead, I look at Steve. Really look at him. His impressively beautiful hair, the cigarette behind his ear, the forgotten can of beer in his hand, the way he looks at Nancy. Like he…enjoys being around her.

I tilt my head to the side. This is the first time I am privy to observing how Steve interacts with Nancy. He seems more…genuine and real. Not this superficial, arrogant persona he puts on at school or when he’s with Tommy H and Carol. I admit my perception of Steve Harrington is based on how others view and talk about him. He’s the boy we watch walk away. The Big Man on Campus. The Casanova. A glorified asshole. But in being in his house for this brief moment and seeing how he is with Nancy separate from Tommy H and Carol…maybe I had it all wrong and Steve Harrington isn’t that bad.

A gust of wind blows past and I hug my jacket close to me. I am so cold I start to jump up and down. Sauté. Sauté. Sauté. I jump higher landing through my feet. Glissade assemblé. Glissade assemblé. I continue to jump from petit allegro to grand allegro and after a few minutes I begin to practice the Gargouillade.

“Do you ever sit down?” Tommy H shouts.

I almost miss what he said and stop jumping. From across the pool, Steve, Nancy, Barb, Tommy H and Carol stare at me with expressions ranging from awe to concern.

“She’s practicing.” Nancy says.

“For what?”

“The Nutcracker showcase next month.”

Tommy H winces. “Sounds painful.”

“What the hell is a Nutcracker?” Steve asks.

“The Nutcracker,” Nancy corrects. “And it’s a two-act ballet by Tchaikovsky.”

“Bless you.” Carol jokes, grinning. Tommy H kisses her temple.

I roll my eyes, putting my hands on my hips and pace back and forth in efforts to catch my breath. Sweat trickles down my back and I finally feel hot enough to take off my jacket.

“Diana got one of the lead roles in the second act.”

“Nancy.” I warn, marching to the other side of the pool.

“What? It’s a big deal and you should be so proud of yourself!”

“I am but…” I squeeze my jacket. Stop telling them my business!

“How long have you been dancing?” Steve asks me, sipping his beer. I am taken aback by his question.

It’s the first time Steve is talking to me directly and not through Nancy. The first time I feel like he acknowledges me enough to talk to me despite the circumstance being forced upon me by Nancy. It takes me a moment to respond.

“I-I was two when I started,” I stutter, looking anywhere but his face. “It’s how I met Nancy."

“You’re a dancer too?” He directs his question to her.

“I quit last year.”

“Why?”

“I just didn’t want to dance anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I just didn’t…” she shrugs, finishing the last of the beer. Nancy wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Diana is gonna go pro one day.”

I feel like I’m going to explode. Steve looks at me again and this time I meet his gaze.

“Pro? Sounds like sports.”

“Dance is a sport.” I interject.

Steve raises his eyebrows, though his eyes tell me he doesn’t agree with me. I’m not surprised because it’s the common stigma surrounding dance. Becoming a professional dancer is a one in a million chance. There are so many odds to win against. Making money is dependent on the opportunities you get and with whom. It’s not as stable as a regular 9 to 5 and the training is extensive and strenuous that most don’t make it.

“Diana has the grace, strength and flexibility.” Nancy continues. “Her lines are perfect; her feet are beautiful.”

“Lines?” Carol questions.

My nails dig into my palms.

"The way she moves is aesthetically pleasing. She can do crazy things with her body.”

“Is that so?” Tommy H smirks.

“Diana, show them!”

My face feels like it’s on fire. Everyone is looking at me now. I shift from side to side wanting the ground to swallow me up. All this attention on me is too much and I feel like I can’t breathe.

“No, no. I-I can’t.”

“Please, Diana?” Nancy begs, clasping her fingers together.

I want to tell her to stop. I hate being asked to dance outside of a studio. It makes me feel like a clown at a circus, ready to entertain and Nancy knows this.

“I would love to see these crazy things you can do with your body.” Tommy H’s tone suggests something else entirely.

“Me too!” Carol adds, leaning back on him.

I shake my head, tucking a loose curl behind my ear. ��It’s too cold.”

“Just a kick then!” Nancy offers.

“Yeah, just a kick, Diana.” Tommy H adds, smiling devilishly at me.

“Nancy, I don’t think—” Barb begins.

“Yeah, show us!” Carol interjects, smiling at me.

Tommy H cheers aloud while clapping obnoxiously. I glance at the faces in front of me. Barb looks as uncomfortable as I feel and I can tell she’s trying to help me out of this situation but she is overshadowed by Tommy H and Carol. Steve looks surprisingly hesitant and Nancy’s hopeful face stares encouragingly at me. I close my eyes and sigh, placing my jacket on the empty lawn chair beside Barb. Nancy squeals in excitement as I perform some last-minute stretches to warm up my hips and back.

Lifting my left leg up and grab the outer side of my foot with my left hand. I begin to push my back foot towards the sky as high as I can which is pretty high, considering its already by my ear without much effort. I turn my elbow outward so it’s pointing forward and in front of my head. I lift my other hand and grab my ankle with my right hand and meet my left hand with it. When I straighten my leg and pull my leg forward, the back of my thigh touches my head. I pull until I am in an over split.

“Holy shit. How is that possible?” Steve exclaims. Nancy claps proudly while Steve stares at me wide eyed and confused.

“That’s disgusting.” Carol says.

“What are you?” Tommy H adds.

I immediately let go of my leg and stand straight. They didn’t have to be so mean.

“Okay, that’s enough.” Barb snaps, holding my jacket out to me. I take it from her, sitting in the lawn chair beside her.

The “party” resumes as if nothing happened with Tommy H, Carol and Steve all standing finding someone or something else to entertain themselves with. Nancy watches Steve’s every move, trying to be discreet but failing. Tommy H and Carol stand near the pool and Tommy H tries to throw Carol inside again. Carol screams at the top of her lungs.

“One, two, three.”

“You’re such an asshole, Tommy.” Carol giggles.

Steve comes back with a can of beer in his hand. I can’t see what he’s doing until he quickly opens the can, putting his mouth on the side. I cringe thinking about all the germs on that can. He chugs the beer in a matter of seconds, dropping the can on the ground.

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

Steve plops himself on the lawn chair. The cigarette behind his ear, dangles from his lips. He looks at her feigning confusion.

“You’re not?”

Of course, she is.

“You are such a cliché; you do realize that?”

“You are such a cliché.” Steve responds, reaching for a lighter on the side table. He lights his cigarette and inhales. “What with your grades and your band practice.”

“I’m so not in band.”

“Okay, party girl.” He hands her a can of beer and the blade, challenging her. “Why don’t you just show us how it’s done, then?”

Barb and I look at each other. That would be Nancy’s third beer for the night. Any more and she’ll get sick. I close my eyes praying Nancy won’t do what I think she’s going to do. Barb shakes her head.

“Okay.”

Nancy standing up caught the attention of Tommy H and Carol.

“You gotta make a hole at the bottom—”

“I got it.”

“Yeah, she’s smart, you douche!” Tommy H laughs, crushing a beer can against his head.

“That explains so much.” I mutter under my breath. Barb snorts, smiling.

Nancy pokes a hole in the can of beer and quickly opens the top before she begins chugging the beer.

“Chug, chug, chug! Chug, chug, chug, chug, chug!”

I’d be impressed, if I weren’t so taken aback by the way Nancy was acting. She drops the empty can on the floor, stumbling slightly. Tommy H, Carol and Steve all cheer and whoop for Nancy who curtsies in thanks.

“Barb you wanna try?”

Barb perks up. It’s the first time she’s been addressed the entire night. “What? No. No, I don’t want to. Thanks.”

Nancy pouts. “Di?”

“Absolutely not.”

Nancy looks at Barb one more time. “Come on.”

“Yeah.” Steve encourages. I squint, shaking my head.

“Nance. I don’t want to.” Barb hisses.

Nancy ignores her putting another can of beer and the blade in Barb’s hand. “It’s fun! Just give it a shot.”

“Nancy. She said no.” I interject, sternly. I can’t believe she’s forcing us to do things we clearly don’t want to do.

“Okay. Fine.”

Barb stands up in the centre of the circle. I look up at her feeling on edge about what was going to happen and what could happen. Barb isn’t equipped to poke a hole in the can. She doesn’t know how. The silence is so loud, it’s awkward and I want to grab Barb and tell her to sit down. Barb mumbles to herself, fiddling with the blade. She presses into the can, but the blade slips, slicing through her hand. Barb flinches, dropping the can and knife on the concrete.

“Barb!” I shout, rushing to her. I hold her wrist in my hand to inspect the damage. Blood oozes out of the cut in her palm, trickling down her wrist and my fingers. “Oh my gosh.”

“Gnarly.” Tommy H laughs.

I glare at him, letting go of her wrist. “It’s not funny.” I snap.

“Are you okay?” Nancy asks, her eyebrows etched with worry. She seemed to have sobered up a little.

“Yeah.” Barb says.

“Barb, you’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.” Barb replies, her voice is shaking and I know she’s fighting back tears. Barb looks at Steve. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“Oh, it’s…it’s, uh, down past the kitchen to the left.” He stands up escorting her back to the house.

I look at my hand and the dry blood sticking to my fingers and quickly grab my jacket from the lawn chair running after them. I can’t stand to be around Nancy right now.

“I’m coming with you, Barb.”

I hold Barb’s hand under the cold water in the downstairs bathroom. Steve left five minutes ago leaving me and Barb alone. The air feels thick and heavy around us as we stand in silence. I know Barb feels embarrassed about what happened and that’s the reason she’s not talking. I understand completely and allow her the time to process what had just happened. Removing Barb’s hand from the water, I quickly soap my hands and rinse them before closing the tap. I quickly dry my hands against the hand towel and tend to Barb. I take her hand and inspect the cut.

“It’s not that deep which is good.” I comment.

“Yeah.”

The cut begins to bleed again and I take a heap of toilet paper and quickly wrap it around her finger tight to stop the blood. Barb watches me work. I tell her to hold the wound tight to stop the bleeding. Barb nods her head and sits down on the toilet seat staring at nothing in particular. I sigh deeply and crouch to her eye level placing my hands on her knees.

“Are you sure, you’re okay, Barb?” I ask, softly.

Dark brown eyes look at me. “I’ll be fine.”

I frown, growing upset with what happened by the pool. “I don’t know what’s up with Nancy or why we’re even here. Did you see how she was acting out there? I felt like I was in a circus and you, Barb. Your hand.”

“She wants us to be her guardians. So that’s what we’re going to do. Guide her and make sure she doesn’t get too drunk and do something stupid.”

“Like sleep with Steve Harrington.” It wasn’t a question. It was a fact. I shake my head. “We can’t stop her from doing that when she clearly wants to, Barb. Nancy can deny all she wants, but she wants to be here. She wants to get drunk and she wants to sleep with Steve.” And it doesn’t explain why we need to be here.

“I know…” Barb says solemnly.

Neither of us say anything for a moment. I am lost in thought, drawling circles on Barbs thighs. If Nancy would just admit how much she likes Steve, Barb and I wouldn’t be here right now. Tonight, left me wondering where did my best friend go. That person out by the pool is not Nancy, it’s a version of her I don’t know nor want to know. She didn’t notice how uncomfortable Barb and I were tonight which is so out of character, I don’t even…I shake my head again, biting my lower lip.

“Why are we here, Barb?” I ask quietly.

“Because Nancy wants us to be here for her.”

“Then why do I feel like…a handbag. An accessory in all of this? Why do I feel like she doesn’t want us here?”

Barb doesn’t answer. I sigh and stand up feeling completely drained. I want to go home. I want to take a shower and sleep. I want to do anything but be here. I hear footsteps and laughter followed by Nancy and Steve’s voice. Barb and I look at each other before springing into action. We are scrambling out the door in seconds rushing towards the grand staircase.

“Nance. Nancy!” Barb calls.

Nancy pauses, hugging the towel against her face, looking at us. Steve continues to walk the steps, not bothering to look back. I observe Nancy. She is drenched from head to toe with bits of mascara gathered around her eye.

“Where are you going?” Barb asks.

“Nowhere. Just upstairs…” she hesitates to respond finding the right words, “to change. I fell in the pool.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and go home. I’ll just get a ride or something.”

My jaw drops. Go home? Go home? She begged us to come and make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid, and now she wants us to leave? That’s all we ever wanted to do since arriving here.

“Nance.”

“Pardon?”

Barb and I say at the same time. Nancy looks at us.

“I said why don’t you go home.”

“I know what you said, Nancy, but you asked us to be here for you.”

“I’m fine,” Nancy says with a hint of attitude. “You guys can go.”

I stare at her for a moment trying to figure out where my best friend went. “Did we do something wrong?

“No.”

“You seem like you’re mad at us.”

Nancy sighs, rolling her eyes. “I’m not mad at you guys. I can just tell you don’t want to be here so you can both go home. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

Barb and I don’t speak for a moment. I’m too frustrated to say another word. I lied to my parents to be here. I lied to Mrs. Wheeler to be here. I wanted nothing to do with this and Nancy knew that, yet Barb and I were forced to be here, ridiculed and embarrassed. And Nancy doesn’t see any of it. She only sees Steve Harrington.

“Nancy. This isn’t you.” Barb says, sadly.

“I’m fine, Barb. Just go, both of you.”

Nancy races upstairs without looking back. I scoff shaking my head. Unbelievable. I turn towards the door grabbing Barbs arm.

“Let’s go.” I snap.

I am stunned when Barb resists. She looks at me with sympathy and I immediately know what she’s about to say.

“I’m gonna stay here…”

“Barb, are you serious?” I exclaim. I don’t care how loud I’m being.

“I know, I know,” Barb says pinching the bridge of her nose. “But I can’t leave her here.”

“She just told us to go home and I don’t know about you, but I’m not staying where I’m not wanted.”

“I just can’t leave Nancy here alone.”

My chest feels hollow. What about me? I want to ask. Barb was supposed to be our ride home. With Nancy staying and Barb staying with her, I had no way of getting home. But I refuse to linger around while Nancy stays upstairs with Steve. I can’t call my parents; I’m not supposed to be here across town. I’ll get in so much trouble, I doubt I’ll be able to leave my house for anything other than school and dance for a long time. I can’t risk it. I look at the door behind me. The thought of walking home alone scares me and I wish Barb would leave Nancy and come with me. Be with me, like I’ve been with her when she cut her hand.

My nostrils flare as I push down the tears brimming my eyes. No. This is your mess, Diana. You have to fix it. I swallow the lump forming in my throat and I stand straight holding my head high.

“If that’s what you want to do,” I say quietly. “I’m going home.”

“Are you going to call your parents?” Barb asks, eyes slightly wide.

I shake my head, putting my jacket on. “I’m just going to walk.”

“Walk!? Diana, c’mon. Just stay here—”

“No, I can’t.” I say with finality.

Looking defeated, Barb nods her head, pulling me in for a hug. “Be safe. Please.” she whispers.

I hold Barb tight, breathing in her floral scent. Neither of us let go for a long moment and a part of me feels like this hug was a…farewell. I release myself from her hold and glance down at her finger. It’s still bleeding, drenching the white tissue paper a bright red.

“You be safe too, Barb. Please find a bandage for your finger.”

“Yes, mom.” Barb teases.

I smile and it feels genuine. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

#stranger things rewrite #black fem reader #stranger things fic #stranger things #dianasinclair #eddie munson x black!reader #steve harrington x black!reader #eddie munson x female reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #sinclair!reader #eddie munson fanfic #steve harrington fanfic #eddie munson x sinclair!reader #steve harrington x sinclair!reader

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shifuto · 8 months

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I wonder if Lu Guang is that way because of his power

I finished rewatching season 1 and, honestly, it feels like his power is a curse: he is able to observe the past through photos, going as far as 12 hours in the "future" of these photos. He cannot change that past or intervene in any way

he has no choice but think/act critically, to remain detached, and it makes me wonder how much of the "future" has he seen through photos, about his own future, about his family, about his friends. We know very little about him and absolutely nothing about his past

of course, things started changing when he met Cheng Xiaoshi and they were able to use their abilities together - it was a perfect fit after all: an observer guiding the actor, judgment and execution

but their personalities are just too different so a lot of conflicts arise..

in episode 5, I guess was the moment when the cracks start to show.. so far, Lu Guang have been observing and, while with Cheng Xiaoshi, walking through the past while trying to not change much - and he is right after all.. changing the past can cause the future as they know to stop existing, which would mean even their lives could be no more

did he take that risk before? Or was it just preventive? Is he scared of changing the past if he had the opportunity to do so because that would mean a new present? He won't touch on certain nodes and paradoxes out of a taboo of sorts?

I guess, logically, it seems easier to be a mere spectator (while, if you're the one dealing with something, of course you'll want to change a "bad" outcome or make a move) but is it really easier.....?

and, if I understood his power well, it really does mean he can see the future. If he sees a photo from the "present" moment, let's say.. taken minutes ago, he would still be able to see 12 hours ahead, huh? He can know what will happen to anyone at anytime and he's absolutely powerless to do anything about it (if he so wishes)

I wonder if his overall detachment has to do with that, with the pain of merely observing through a power he probably had no choice but obtaining/being born with, with all the prospective loss and death he must have witnessed (when the "links" are lost and he can't see any further), maybe there's a fear of getting too close to someone, anyone, just to lose them in the end

Lu Guang approached him, Cheng Xiaoshi "picked" him up and they became friends and work partners. Because their powers are a complement to each other, their relationship has, at least, that common point. It's interesting to see Lu Guang being constantly "tested" by Cheng Xiaoshi's "unpredictable" predictability, and seeing how he adapts and changes

it is also interesting seeing how his detachment put a huge strain on their relationship at times. Cheng Xiaoshi has no intention of changing him after all, that's where and how they met each other, that's how their relationship started and how it's been working so far (and the feeling is probably mutual, too.. it explains why Lu Guang goes "with the flow" more often than not, even if he's the one that has to fix the other's mistakes as they come)

"please, show that you care"

"I can't"

he cares but he shouldn't care, that will only cause pain

I also wonder about Cheng Xiaoshi's power a lot.. it seems he has not used it before on his own?

I wonder if his power is actually an extension of Lu Guang's, since he's the one that seems like the person who made the "terms" in which his power is activated ("the promise of a high five" explained in episode 9)?

so we have the mysterious Lu Guang, who seemed knowledgeable of these powers and their implications and consequences, and Cheng Xiaoshi, who started dealing with the aftermath and trauma of these "dives" first-hand

...

it's likely we'll never get explanations for most these questions.. but I guess that can be a good thing, too

now onto season 2 rewatch..

#link click #shif writes

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batwingsandblackcats · 8 days

Text

your grotesque, shrouded body that you loathe and I love

Read on Ao3

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warnings: no archive warnings apply

Fandoms: Critical Role (Web Series)

Relationships: Laudna/Imogen Temult

Characters: Laudna (Critical Role) Imogen Temult

Other Tags: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Angst and Smut, post e67, Inappropriate Use of Form of Dread Feature (Dungeons & Dragons) , inappropriate use of telepathy, the sexual implications of telepathy, First Time, Introspection, they have so much to talk about you guys, character study i guess?, for both of them?, it's Imogen's POV but it's really ABOUT Laudna, i haven't written the ACTUAL smut yet so i'll add specific tags with the next chapter, i can fit so many intimacy hangups into these idiots

1/2, 6,426 words

Part 3 of won't you sing me something for the dark, dark, dark

Summary:

“Is this what it felt like?” Laudna finally asked, her voice quiet, cracked.

Imogen’s brow furrowed, her head tilting slightly as she tried to catch Laudna’s eye.

“Like what felt like, honey?” she asked, reaching up to tuck a strand of white hair behind Laudna’s docked ear. Her hand lingered on Laudna’s cheek, thumb caressing the sharp line of Laudna’s cheekbone, and Laudna leaned into the touch, her own hand coming up to cradle Imogen’s.

Laudna took a shuddering breath, finally meeting Imogen’s eyes.

“Is this what it felt like when I died?”

Having just returned from the Gray Valley, Laudna has a moment to think about her and Imogen's blooming relationship, feelings and desires waking up for the first time, and the terror of watching Imogen nearly die in the jaws of a demon.

Title from Sea Wolf's The Traitor

Notes:

Y'all, this fic has been going for m o n t h s.

I started this shortly after episode 67, and it's just been a crawl, coming out in fits and starts on my phone in the middle of the night. Sage has been begging me to just make them shut up and fuck already before they talk themselves out of it.

They'll get there. They're gonna fuck, don't worry. They have a lot to talk about.

This came about because I wanted to explore what watching Imogen almost die more than once in one battle would do to Laudna, especially since they'd JUST reunited, and they'd JUST kissed for the first time, and how that would interplay with Laudna processing her own second death and it's ramifications and her awakening desires for Imogen both romantically and sexually, and how they would try to reconnect and sooth each other in a moment alone, and how fear and protectiveness could bubble over into the physical. This may be from Imogen's point of view, but it's really about Laudna, and there's something about the way you can get into Laudna's head through Imogen's observation that really gets me.

I really am incapable of writing simple smut.

I decided to chop it into two chapters (which I'm pretty sure was Sage's suggestion) because I'm hitting a wall with the actual smut and maybe posting the first part will give me some motivation.

Anyways, y'all are lovely and I promise I read all of your comments even if it takes me a million years to respond to them. Happy reading, and I hope y'all enjoy!

Find the series playlist here

#imodna #imodna fanfic #critical role #critical role fanfic #Imodna Tunes

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doiefy · 1 year

Text

ballroom extravaganza (m?) // kim doyoung, jung jaehyun // preview

The house on the hill has been a mystery for some time. Some say hell, most say heaven—but for the good and wicked alike, it remains a safe haven built by a faceless group known as the Seraphim, on a foundation of secrets they're willing to take to their graves.

For 27-year-old Jung Jaehyun trying to escape a family and job he hates, the manor is an easy distraction: wealth and extravagance where no one knows his name, and endless entertainment riddled with the type of danger he craves. But for the Seraph who catches Jaehyun's eye one late night, it's nothing short of home. Although held together by a twisted love and afflicted by paranormal activity, the mysterious inhabitants of the house are Doyoung's only semblance of family.

Whether by fate or sheer coincidence, the two are brought together to reevaluate the ground they stand upon, and the horrors buried beneath. And to come to the slow realization: their worst fears have been in front of them the entire time, rooted firmly in both their mortal bodies and broken souls.

genre: angst, paranormal, horror

pairing: kim doyoung x jung jaehyun (yeah i'm fully aware that you nerds don't read mxm but did I ask? no :))

word count: 4.2k preview, ~50k full fic

warnings: heavy language, blood and violence, minor character death, smoking. full fic includes alcohol, drugs, sexual content (not explicit smut but heavy references to/implications of rather intense sexual relationships. despite this, minors pls dni for everyone's sanity), some vague indication of undiagnosed mental conditions and stigma, generally this fic is pretty heavy but I've become desensitized as fuck writing it lmfao.

expected release: july 2023 at the latest or i will literally go insane

this was very much (and obviously) inspired by dpr ian's mito 2, from the general ✨vibes✨ to the chapter titles. absolute banger of an album, do give it a listen while reading. tag list available by dm/ask.

one: seraph

The skies begin to bleach red And the stars begin to fall.

AT DUSK, Seraph’s Hill was truly a surreal sight to behold.

It held the briefest moment between evening and night frozen in time. While the rest of the world darkened to a deep indigo, the property sat isolated, still bathed in a brilliant amber glow. All beige brick and polished marble, it seemed to cradle the sun’s remains between its soaring rooftops and overgrown balconies. It stopped the celestial bodies in their orbits, rewriting time, rewriting space and natural law, all in some vain attempt to retain a few more minutes of daylight. The fountains spewed molten gold, the gardens flashed iridescent colours, and the stone statues lit their wings ablaze.

It wasn’t especially angelic or heavenly, despite its name. It was hardly coherent, if you stared at it for long enough: a strange mismatch of architecture styles, something vaguely between Mediterranean revival and neoclassical, with gothic fountains out front. The lack of coordination was all due to Leliel’s indecision at the time of its construction—so thought the estate’s various visitors. But as the original story went among the Seraphim, Azrael had murdered the original contractor, prompting the hiring of a second person to finish the job.

On this particular evening, the pearly gates swung open for a black car. Behind the wheel, Kim Doyoung looked out across the property—he had one hand steering the vehicle, and the other hanging casually out the window with a cigarette stuck between two fingers. The gates closed behind him, silently, on well-oiled hinges. Even the automated clang of the lock was muted, so as to not disturb guests; peace was just another one of Leliel’s attempts to emulate paradise.

He pulled the car up the driveway, making quick observation of the yard. There was no one in sight; no sign of his contact, and only a handful of familiar vehicles parked behind the west wing. He was to meet a man who had every ill intention against the Seraphim; and it seemed he had arrived too early.

Most would feel restless at this point, either overthinking the entire ordeal or simply irritated by the notion of waiting, yet Doyoung was strangely calm. He parked the car, snapped the key out of the ignition, and hastily pulled the visor down to check his reflection.

The goal was to look effortlessly presentable for this meeting, and not like he had been on the road for several hours. Unfortunately, the black eyes that stared back at him from the mirror harboured exhaustion. The smoke spilling from his lips made for an even harsher appearance, leeching the colour from his cheeks and adding grey streaks to his long locks of jet hair. Someone had once told him he was a visually conflicting person: all soft curves dressed in angular shapes, fair skin marked with black tattoos, a gentle voice paired with an intense gaze. He understood now, their reasons for confusion, and how his strange sense of fashion could be disadvantageous at times like these.

He combed his fingers through his hair and tied it at the base of his neck—as well as he could, anyways; it was still too short to stay in place for too long. A bit of cream to soothe the dry patches of skin on his hands, then the cheap cologne he kept in his bag, to mask the potent smell of gas and blood. The cigarette met his lips one last time before he climbed out of the car and crushed it underfoot.

“There you are.”

Doyoung turned, his back meeting the side of his car as he searched for the source of noise. Confusion took him a moment later, when he registered a woman’s voice and a soft silhouette on the wall—dusted with the golden rays of sunset, harmoniously one with the gentle autumn breeze. She stepped out of the shadows in a flash of long, silver hair and silver jewellery. With mean eyes and a deep crease in her brow, she must have been in her early, if not late, thirties.

This certainly wasn’t who Doyoung had agreed to meet with.

“I’m sorry?” his voice came out relaxed, almost a little slurred. There was a long pause before he spoke again, this time tired. “Prince Seir sent you?”

“Foolish boy,” the woman murmured; her speech was so unnecessarily dignified and irritating, but Doyoung said nothing of it. He wouldn’t bother.

Instead, he mustered a wry grimace. “You are Prince Seir, then.” He gave a curious tilt of his head. “Why waste so much of your time convincing me that you were a man?”

“You lot who frequent this hellhole don’t seem like the type to take a woman seriously,” she snorted, throwing her head back. Her silver hair cascaded down her back, catching moonlight between each individual strand. “The women here are treated like whores and servants, isn’t that right? You likely call them to your room for entertainment.”

Doyoung scoffed. “I don’t care for women, ma’am. Never have.” He paused, realizing how that must have sounded to her. “I’m not interested in women.” It didn’t seem to help; she pointed an accusing finger at him.

“You’re really something, boy.“

“And you’re a bitch who’s wasting my time, despite my trying to take her seriously. Now, are you going to give me a job? Or will we be here all night?”

The woman stared at him for another long moment, clearly enraged. Doyoung almost wondered if he was hallucinating—her figure seemed to phase in and out of existence, and her deep anger was so out of place on a set of soft features. She could’ve been a trick of the light, a product of the disturbed mind; and Doyoung could wake up stoned and piss drunk, nowhere near the current scene. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

At last, she spoke. Paired with a deliberate, impatient gesture of her hand came the words: “Come with me.”

Doyoung obliged, following her out of the lot. They walked wordlessly up a gravel road and past a gate, into a garden. It was surrounded on all sides by white walls and arched windows—the centrepiece of the property. Eden was a stunning display of wealth and beauty.

Lanterns dangled from every rooftop, flanking tall, white columns. Water spilled from a colossal arrangement of natural stone. Twin paths of interlocking stones circled the pool, splitting at a particular junction where they then lead to several smaller courtyards. Each alcove housed a statue and overflowing pot of vibrant flowers that climbed up the walls on twirling stems. Doyoung paused before a marble statue of a young maiden and dropped a single coin in her basket, as had become customary. Supposedly Israfel had started the tradition after waking up hungover at her feet.

But the silver-haired lady ahead of him didn’t seem to know this; and even if she did, she didn’t care. Seir snapped her fingers impatiently, and Doyoung hurried to catch up.

They arrived at an alcove on the opposite side of the space, and were greeted by a stone king on his throne. He stared down at them unkindly, his fist tight around his scepter. Without hesitation, the woman reached for his crown, stuck her hand within the circlet of stone, and pushed. The back wall of the alcove, covered all over with ivy and wild begonias, quivered. Then with just the slightest resistance, it swung inwards to reveal a dark tunnel.

The woman fished a flashlight out of her pocket and switched it on. “The Seraphim’s lair.” She gave the stone king a patronizing pat on the shoulder, then sneered at him in contempt, “Hidden behind a statue of a king. A little too on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps,” Doyoung muttered wryly, and followed her into the tunnel.

With a bit of effort, they replaced the wall, though Doyoung thought it was an issue of little importance; at this hour, most would be far too intoxicated to notice.

Once the wall had been pushed flush against the statue, they were swallowed by darkness. The flashlight did little against it, but Seir forged ahead with confidence, leaving Doyoung to stumble along. It was silent for the first few minutes, before classical music began to drift through the walls, adagio and mezzo piano. Snippets of conversation followed. There was a broken moan, and then a flirtatious laugh. Slow inhales. Satisfied exhales. Deep within the walls of the property, the pair bore witness to a multitude of illicit activities.

At long last, it fell quiet again. The ground began to slope downwards, steeper and steeper, until it reached a short flight of stairs. Seir paused at the bottom, feeling carefully along the wall for something. All of a sudden, a dirty yellow glow washed across the room—what looked like a storage closet, only about two arm spans across. Pinned to the furthest wall was an arrangement of photos and notes: the Seraphim, their names, images, details, entire floor plans for the estate in which they supposedly lived.

“What is this?” Doyoung asked. He was taken aback, to say the least, by the sheer amount of detail, not to mention the unknown motivations behind it all. He stepped forward to take a closer look, reaching instinctively for the photo that had slipped loose from the corkboard. The image of a striking man with black hair and eyes flashed before him, then vanished as Seir slapped his hand away.

“Don’t touch,” she hissed.

“I was looking.”

“Look with your eyes. You’ll touch them soon enough.”

“These are the targets?” Doyoung raised a brow, doing a quick count of the photos. Eight. “All eight of them?”

Seir gave a dissatisfied growl. “I did most of the work, didn’t I? How difficult could it possibly be for you to kill them, when all the details are so conveniently prepared for you?”

“I wasn’t complaining,” Doyoung snapped. “And I don’t doubt my abilities. I doubt your abilities in miraculously tracking down every last detail about the eight most mysterious men in the city. Forgive me when I say I’m skeptical.”

“That isn’t your concern as a contract killer. You have no loyalties, you’re paid to do as I tell you, not to refute—”

Doyoung snorted in disbelief. “I’m not allowed to be curious? Believe me, you’re not the only person who has been after the Seraphims’ true identities. This house is a mystery, and I want to know how you solved it.”

There was a beat of empty silence. Then the woman's lips curled back in visible disgust, revealing a set of gleaming white teeth. Her hatred was unmistakable. “Go dig through a shithole first, go get dirt under your fingernails, go whore yourself out to the most despicable scum of the earth, then maybe you’ll figure it out yourself. You have no idea what I’ve done just to get here.”

“Well, then I commend you—”

“Your praise won’t change my mind, boy.”

Doyoung frowned. So she was conceited enough to be condescending, but not quite enough to break at his praise. Fine. He could resort to other methods.

He turned his attention back to the Seraphim, noting their angelic names and dangerous appearances. No two looked the same—each visually unique on their own—yet when lined up one after the next, they began to blur into an indecipherable, melted concoction of facial features. Brown eyes and dark gazes. Grey hair, wild manes, red lips, stained mouths. Uriel scowled at him from behind a pair of red-tinted glasses. Matariel watched with immense judgement, as if her hair wasn’t white as snow and there wasn’t a thick layer of cream blush smoothed over her cheeks.

“You’re missing one,” Doyoung noticed after a few moments—an obvious gap between Leliel and Uriel, and a name written in big, black letters: “Azrael.”

“He’s been dealt with,” Seir replied shortly.

“Didn’t leave his photo up? X his eyes out with a red marker, maybe?”

“You talk too much,” she hissed in frustration. “And Azrael was the worst of them. A cold-blooded murderer. He killed my brother.”

Doyoung scoffed. “And you hiring me to kill eight people doesn’t make you any worse than him?”

“You have no idea what type of people they are. You have no idea what they do.”

He sighed, taking two steps back. The shadows parted for him, and the room fell incredibly still, incredibly silent—and it did so incredibly quickly. One second, the woman’s voice bounced back and forth between the walls, filling the entire space with anger and disdain. The next, she was barely a whisper. Standing about an arms’ length away from Doyoung with her back turned to him, she had become strangely small in his eyes.

“I’m well aware of the things we do, dear prince.”

The silence wavered, trembling as metal appeared between Doyoung’s fingers. There was a visible refraction against the far wall and a shrill warning as something cut through the air. Then his left hand was on the woman’s shoulder and his right was drawing metal across the soft flesh of her throat. Her mouth dropped open in a silent scream, and her eyes bulged out of her skull.

“You killed an innocent man,” he murmured.

He let her crumble to the ground.

The waves crashed. Crimson lapped at his shoes. The weapon hung limply at his side, dripping rhythmically, shimmering with molten amber. He watched the pigment seep into the dead woman’s hair; he watched the white strands float down the red river. Unconsciously, he let a string of curses spill from his lips, then reached for his lighter. What a mess.

Azrael walked out of the room a few minutes later, picking blood off of his nails and bleeding smoke from the mouth.

“You’re making a mess, Doyoung.”

Doyoung looked down. Indeed, there was a trail of bloody footprints behind him: where he stood, they were pink marks against the glossy floor tile, and where the door opened to the hallway, they glistened bright red. Too distracted by his thoughts and the gruelling cleanup after Seir’s murder, he simply hadn’t realized.

Now Johnny peered at him impassively from behind his desk—neither understanding nor upset, simply observing and strangely quiet. Doyoung could feel similar stares from the others around the room; though the other Seraphim were more forthcoming with their opinions, much more outspoken than their leader. Yuta sat in the corner, snickering in amusement and wiping at the red lenses of his glasses. Donghyuck waved at him mockingly. Jungwoo mumbled a pointed comment beneath his breath.

Scowling to himself, Doyoung stepped out of his shoes. He approached Johnny’s desk without them, and set the evidence down for his inspection: a clear plastic bag that held every photo, every paper, every piece of writing from Prince Seir’s wall. In his annoyance and carelessness while taking them down from the cork board, he’d torn several pieces and crudely taped them back together.

“How did you kill him?” Jungwoo crooned from where he sat, fanning his freshly-painted nails with a magazine.

Doyoung responded with only a finger drawn over his throat and a quiet correction: “Her. It was a woman.”

“And how did she manage to piece this all together?” Johnny asked; the room quickly returned its attention to him. He had laid the images out on the table, and was glowering down at them—as if flimsy, blood-stained papers still had potential to do harm. Perhaps they did; the notion of intruders and spies in their midst was hardly encouragement.

“Ugh! That’s the photo on my driver’s license!” Donghyuck cut in, whining obnoxiously as he sauntered over, clearly and horrifyingly drunk. He reached for the two halves of his photo, only to have them snatched away by Johnny.

“Enough,” the elder grunted, gently pushing Donghyuck into a chair and returning his attention to Doyoung. “Well? Do you know?”

Doyoung hesitated—he knew exactly who Johnny would blame if he told him—and he resisted the urge to look at the person in question. “She found the old service tunnel in the east wing,” he started, then paused to survey the leader for his reaction: Johnny narrowed his eyes, but said nothing for the time being. “She snuck around our quarters through the walls and installed cameras in the air vents. That was enough for her to get images of our faces and hear our names.”

“And what about you? She had never seen you before tonight?”

“No. I got lucky. The vents in my room aren’t part of the network in the east wing, and even if they were, I was out of town for a few weeks. She mistook Jeno for me while I was gone.”

Johnny’s jaw tightened. “And she had him killed.”

“Yes.”

The revelation brought a deathly hush. Doyoung was right: they had gotten lucky. Had Seir hired any other person to kill them, had they been even a little less prepared, any one of them could have met the same fate as Jeno.

“Mark,” Johnny sighed at last, locking gazes with the one person who had kept his quiet this entire time. “Come here.”

Mark obediently shuffled to his feet, rising out of the shadows. The expression on his face was already wounded, like he knew what was to come; and when he stood motionless before the leader with his head lowered, he took on the form of a child awaiting chastisement. For several moments, Johnny simply looked him up and down, all prior emotion having disappeared from his eyes. For several moments, the air hung still, as they all held back from doing anything they might regret.

Then Johnny lashed out, striking Mark across the cheek with little remorse.

The sharp sound of contact rang through the room, snapping everyone back to attention. Yuta looked up, frowning. Doyoung tensed. Even Donghyuck seemed to sober, and momentarily quit his garbled whining.

They all knew: Johnny didn’t get violent often.

“John,” Yuta said in soft warning, but it went disregarded.

“This keeps happening, Mark,” Johnny said lowly, leaning forward against the desk so he could stoop a little lower and meet the younger man’s gaze. “Why is that? Did you forget what I asked you to do?”

Mark shook his head no—he remembered exactly what he had been told—but Johnny answered for him anyway. “I said we needed to tighten up our security. Any corridors we’ve stopped using, any rooms that could potentially give us away, I told you to block them off. So why haven’t you?”

There was a shaky breath. “Taeil said not to.”

“Taeil told you that?”

Mark nodded slowly. “He still needs access to plumbing. And ventilation. So I made the corridor accessible on both sides, but only to us— I-I thought he told you—”

“Fine. If Taeil said not to, fine,” Johnny snapped. “But you can do better than some hidden fucking entrance behind a statue that anyone can find.” The pause that came directly afterwards conveyed an even harsher warning. His voice dropped in volume, not low enough to be inaudible, but enough to sound especially cold. “You disappoint me, Mark. You’ve disappointed me too many times. For your sake and the rest of our sakes, I hope this is your last.”

“Johnny,” Yuta called his name again, this time sharply. “Lay off him.”

“When he learns his lesson,” Johnny replied through clenched teeth. “He could’ve gotten one of us killed. Hell, Jeno’s already—”

“You’ve put him through enough.”

Watching wordlessly from the sidelines, Doyoung expected Johnny to snap—to round on Yuta the way he had with Mark, claiming to have done no wrong. He waited for the room to dissolve into chaos, as it often did. But to his surprise, Johnny stayed quiet. He averted his gaze, clenched his jaw, and held back the words that were clearly on his tongue. “You can go, Mark,” he said at last, his expression easing from anger to discontentment when he caught sight of Yuta on his right. “I’m sure you’re busy.”

And to the rest of the Seraphim present, “You’re all dismissed. Doyoung, I’d like a word.”

Mark shuffled out of the room with his eyes still glued to his feet. The rest hauled a drunk Donghyuck along, and Yuta brought up the rear; he closed the door on his way out, leaving Doyoung and Johnny alone.

“You’ve been hard on Mark,” Doyoung said after a few moments, once the footsteps in the hall had faded away.

“I’ve been hard on everyone,” Johnny corrected him. There hung an air of exhaustion around the angel of night, and it was clear as day. His hair hung in dark tendrils around his face. His complexion had gone uneven, dark around his eyes like he hadn’t been sleeping well. While he usually donned various silver accents and expensive accessories to blend into the crowd upstairs, his appearance tonight was rather plain. Doyoung had left town on business only two weeks prior; but this and the thick tension he witnessed earlier suggested things had taken a turn since then.

“Should I be glad that I wasn’t here?” Doyoung asked, noting the collection of cigarette stumps in Johnny’s ashtray—it was normally empty.

And Johnny replied shortly, “I’m sure things were worse on your end.”

He wasn’t wrong; the red stains in the backseat of Doyoung’s car and the duffle bag he’d thrown in a bonfire were enough testament.

“Well, the cleanup was rather—”

Johnny wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I don’t want details.”

Doyoung watched in mild amusement as the leader rummaged restlessly around his desk for something. “I’m worried,” Johnny said absentmindedly as he produced a new pack of cigarettes from the drawer. So the collection of black remains in the ashtray did belong to him, Doyoung concluded as he watched; it seemed Johnny had fallen prey to old habits.

“About what?”

He was left waiting for an answer while Johnny fished a lighter from his pocket and raised it to the cigarette between his lips.

“Everything,” came the delayed reply, flat and emotionless, tight with irritation. “Business has been getting worse. Guests are getting bored and leaving for good. Taeil’s gone off the rails too. He’s deaf to reason.”

“What did he do now?”

“He thinks he can solve all our issues with chemistry.” His face lit up with remembrance. “Right, don’t drink the tap water, he’s laced it with something.”

“Again?”

“Yes, again. Some sort of sedative. He thinks it’ll keep people soft and pliant and dumb enough to consider extending their stay. It doesn’t matter, because it won’t work. Now all of this—” Johnny spread his hands for emphasis. “—these people sneaking around the house and trying to unearth secrets that don’t exist? Strangers putting bounties on our heads when we’ve done nothing wrong?”

“I wouldn’t say we’re completely innocent.”

Johnny gave a bark of emotionless laughter; he couldn’t deny it. The drugs and illicit substances, Doyoung’s side hustle in contract killing, Taeil’s bloodied lab in the basement, countless other things that he had lost track of. All for the sake of found family, for the sake of the most important people in his life and for the sake of their collective sanity, he would allow it.

“Tell me everything,” he said at last, resting his smoke on the rim of the bronze tray.

“Everything about…?”

“This Prince Seir you met.”

So Doyoung told him. He told him about the strange trails that had been left in dark corners of the internet and old clubs of a nearby town. They were subtle messages, sent by an individual who needed a “job” fulfilled on Seraph’s Hill. He told him about Taeyong, who had noticed a strange alias checking in and out of the estate every now and then, the same one Doyoung had seen online. Then about Jungwoo, who passed Doyoung’s name through groups and groups of distant associates, until it reached Seir herself—at which point she contacted him by email.

Johnny never interrupted nor spoke. He maintained the same posture in his chair and took occasional drags from his cigarette, never moving more than was required. Though he was quiet, he was hardly a good listener: unresponsive, horribly vague when he did react, always maintaining an overwhelming presence that loomed uncomfortably over Doyoung as he spoke. He felt as if he was talking to a brick wall, and at the same time, like the brick wall was staring into the very depths of his soul, passing judgement on every word that came out of his mouth.

“You’re on the internet often, then, if that’s how you stumbled across her.” Johnny peered at him with intrigue when he finished. “Forums dedicated to us, online discussion about us… Tell me, what do people say about Seraph’s Hill?”

“A lot of bullshit.”

Johnny was cross. “What do they say?”

“That we’re a house of mysteries. That it’s strange, how people can come in sober and ready to unearth our secrets, but always wake up wasted the next morning.”

“Doing drugs does that to you.”

“The water tastes weird. The statues in the back gardens are creepy. The whiskey is fucking overpriced, and the blonde bartender is sexy. That kind of bullshit.”

Johnny said nothing. For the next minute and a half, they listened to the gurgling of water in the fountains and the classical music from the ballroom. The hands of the clock behind them moved along without noise, but Doyoung heard ticking in his head.

“Thank you,” Johnny said at last, and put his cigarette to the dusty metal of the ashtray. A steady stream of smoke escaped his fingers, fading to nothing. “You can go now.”

Doyoung got up from where he sat, only to see his leader’s expression shift once more—almost like he’d remembered something important. There was a momentary pause, and he seemed softer.

“It’s good to have you back, Doyoung.”

He nodded in agreement; it was good to be home.

On the other side of the property, moonlight fell between the iron gates of hell—illuminating the crimson streaks on the prince’s face, and guiding the two figures who escorted her. Her silver hair made glimmering lines on the concrete, and her broken body scraped haphazardly along the ground. There was no need to be delicate, so long as her innards remained intact for what was to come next. She passed into the underground, eyes wide and unmoving, frozen in their sockets.

And a cloud passed over the moon.

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bcbdrums · 5 months

Text

Landing

A Soul Eater fanfic. Read on: AO3 | FFn

Second in a series of 31 prompt-based one-shots. Prompts from this list.

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A/N: Man I had SO many ideas for this short and I could have dragged it on and on and on... I forced myself to stop. But know...this could have really gone on. I really like this one. 2. Airport

The night was inky but for the blue and green lights laid out in a vast grid across acres of pavement, their purpose unknown to the lone observer in the nearby parking lot. But Spirit's focus was elsewhere anyway. The only red lights to be seen were flashing under the wings of the plane that distantly taxied down the runway, and he hugged himself against the cold as he watched the shape of the steel bird carrying the woman he'd chosen out of his life again.

The roar of the jet engines was deafening when it finally lifted away like magic, but Spirit didn't cover his ears nor move from his spot near the parking lot fence until he could no longer see the shape of the wings, and the red lights were mere pinpricks rising higher and higher into the night sky, soon to vanish among the stars.

Finally, when he couldn't tell one pair of flashing, distant beacons from another, he bowed his head as he rubbed his arms through the sleeves of his blazer and started trudging his way back across the huge expanse of asphalt toward some place where he could get a ride. Maybe there was still time for a drink at the airport before he had to catch the next train, and heaven knew he needed one.

Against his will, he was already replaying the entire incident in his head, from the long journey in the taxi where she wouldn't even look at him let alone speak to him, to his reluctant and humiliating signing of one paper after another in the tiny office of a county courthouse.

He really needed a drink.

"You didn't bring a coat."

Spirit jumped at the sound, his heart in his throat even though recognition was instant and his mind was relaxing before his body had fully processed the shock.

"Stein! What are you doing here?"

He had lurched back at the too-close sound out of the darkness but was hugging his arms tightly again almost instantly, suddenly realizing just how cold it was as he was forced out of his depressed reminiscence and back to the present.

"I followed you," Stein said simply.

Spirit noted the man's typical attire of lab coat, patchwork turtleneck, and time-faded black jeans, and how his hands sat comfortably in his coat pockets and a cigarette rested lazily between his lips. He had no winter coat in sight either, and Spirit did some quick calculations.

"But I left Death City before sundown," he protested. Stein said nothing, and Spirit's mind ran over the rest of the implications of his former meister's words. "You've been spying on me for over four hours!?"

"She made that take unnecessarily long."

Spirit shivered, felt his teeth chatter as he stared into Stein's knowing eyes, looked at the slight tightening at the corners of his old partner's mouth that only he would notice, indicative of his good humor.

Spirit finally sputtered something between a laugh and a scoff, and then hurried close to the younger man's side. Stein turned and set an arm around Spirit's shoulders as they started back across the parking lot and toward the shuttle station, and the weapon hesitated for barely a moment before leaning into the meister's side. It was only a mild relief—Stein was cold too—but it was better than nothing.

"Please tell me you drove."

"Ah, no, I wasn't thinking."

Spirit grimaced. The train would be warmer, but not nearly warm enough on the frosty Nevada winter's night. He didn't like the idea of buying overpriced outerwear in one of the airport shops, but he liked the idea of freezing to death even less. Even the air was starting to feel like ice, and it was becoming difficult to breathe.

"We'd better hurry before the shops close," he said, attempting to lengthen his stride despite the painful chill settling into his bones.

Stein matched his pace but didn't reply, and Spirit wondered at the man's silence after having devoted the entire evening to secretly following him and his ex-wife around.

"What is it?"

Stein didn't look at him, but Spirit noticed a change in the tension at the corners of his mouth.

"Nothing. What was it she wanted, anyway?"

A shiver ran through Spirit and he pressed in closer, matching Stein's step so their legs brushed as they walked. He hesitated in replying, but finally sighed and let it go, his throat tightening before he uttered a word.

"There was an entire folder of papers I'd forgotten to sign at the divorce proceeding. I was...distracted at the time."

For the second time that evening his mind was wrenched back to that dreadful day, the way his wife—ex-wife—had sat with such detachment and poise as he was falling apart, watching the judge nod agreement to everything her lawyer had put forth about his being an unfit parent.

"Her lawyer is on vacation for the holidays and the signing had to be witnessed by the judge who adjudicated the case for some reason. And he was in Las Vegas this weekend. Would have been nice to know before this morning..."

He recalled not for the first time that day the way Maka had sat as near to her mother as the court would allow those months ago, grinning all the while and occasionally sending dark looks in his direction. She had been visibly elated when the judge declared him stripped of all parental rights, despite the fact that Maka lived and attended school where he worked. And then he remembered the way Maka had hugged her mother after the decision... Remembered watching the brief exchange of words between the two from his lonely seat across the room, his wife caressing their daughter's face as Maka looked back into her mother's eyes with love... And then they had left together, his wife the one to bring Maka back to Death City that day before leaving again.

Despite being on the same train back, Spirit hadn't seen Maka again that day or for several weeks after. She had moved in with her weapon partner before he and his wife had officially separated, and without the court hearings forcing them together he was reduced to hanging around outside her classroom and taking his chances for fleeting, one-sided conversation. But those were fewer and farther between, and never appreciated.

Maka loved her mother. And she made it clear each time he tried to see her that there was no room left for him in her heart. It was in Spirit's nature to hold on to hope, but the hard truth was that since the divorce...he had been well and truly alone.

Except for the bottle, of course.

"If you ask me," Stein said, interrupting the downward spiral of Spirit's thoughts, "they should really change some of those custody laws."

Spirit hadn't realized tears were welling in his eyes from the memories until hearing Stein's voiced support, and he swallowed against the lump in his throat and attempted to blink the hot moisture away. Was it fogging up out there, or was that just his imagination?

"Thanks," he finally said, his voice hoarse. He hoped Stein knew he meant for more than the encouraging words.

Far more.

He felt Stein shiver, and after a moment, Spirit released himself from the tight hold he still had on one bicep to slide an arm around Stein's waist. They were only about twenty yards from the shuttle station, and distant headlights suggested they wouldn't have too long a wait once there.

"I'll buy you a drink. One drink," Stein said. Anyone else listening would have only heard the meister's usual monotone, but Spirit heard the command.

Unseen to Stein, the weapon smiled softly. There would be no drowning his memories and sorrows in too much alcohol this time. But perhaps, now that he wasn't alone... He wouldn't need to.

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theculturedmarxist · 7 months

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There is a huge lobby for normalization of SARS Cov 2. Entire industries depend on the public’s return to normal consumer and working behaviors. As such, the rationalizations and reassurances to the public that SARS Cov 2 is a normal seasonal Coronavirus are relentless. These are constructed like homilies and catch-phrases, such as “we must learn to live with it,” and, “it’s endemic,” with the implication of its endemicity referring to the abandonment of efforts which acknowledge its existence, such as testing.

It is a complete misconception that introduction of a virus to the immune system makes subsequent infections like a common cold, and that virulence is due to novelty. If nerves, organs, and immune systems could speak, they would tell a tale of exceptional inflammation, aging, and death, which we must turn to science to hear. Professor Fuhrer would be taken aback to find there are efforts to examine specific mechanisms which tell another tale than his own.

Here, I will give you, the reader, clear enumerations where SARS Cov 2 is unlike a common cold.

SARS Cov 2 triggers a unique, long-lived inflammatory overreaction unseen in Sepsis and influenza. https://genomemedicine.biomedcentral.com/articles/10.1186/s13073-023-01227-x

It caused cells of the immune system to react in a way to create further inflammation and activation of the immune system for an extended amount of time. For technical facets of this, please see the paper.

SARS Cov 2 sends T cells into the brain while lethal influenza does not.

SARS Cov 2 directly causes autoimmunity by reprogramming a special type of T cell called the T regulatory cell, which has never been observed before. https://www.frontiersin.org/articles/10.3389/fimmu.2020.589380/full

The human genetic line has not propagated any sarbecovirus elements therefore never has faced Sarbecovirus infection to the extent to evolutionarily adapt, except in the unlikely theoretical possibility of extremely negative selection (meaning infected humans did not create progeny.)

There are more exceptional facets but these are simple and digestible. There is also more to write about but I must make a confession. The status quo has morphed in such a way as to browbeat scientists into disavowing a harsh reality in order to acquiesce to corporate and business interests. As we see the average life expectancy decline, we have been left intellectually out in the cold. The truth tellers have been assaulted and crushed, and the individuals that comprise the public, in denial, will put off the realization of a below 70s life expectancy until each one approaches retirement in piecemeal, just as all the grains of sand in an hourglass do not fall at once.

#covid 19 #covid pandemic #covid isn't over #long covid #immune dysregulation #public health

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jjtheclown555 · 1 year

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The Beauty of Death

tw. minor descriptions of blood, passive suicidal ideation

content. nikolai went hunting, bringing reader back to his home not knowing that they are the incarnation of death

pairings. vampire!nikolai x death!reader

word count. 1.7k words

a/n. i would like to thank vari (if they see this) for the idea and gabs (if they see this) for helping me figure out where to go with the story. I wrote reader as being czech because I like to project (it's not heavily shown, just 2 pet names are in czech). Finally, I'm pretty sure reader is gender neutral but if there are any implications of reader being female please let me know so I can edit it.

Right as his fangs sunk into your skin, blood pulsing against his tongue, he pulled himself away. The crimson on his lips wasn’t warm like a human—providing heat to his forever-cold body—nor was it sweet like many other women he had taken blood from. Your blood was bitter, a poison that caused him to jolt, coughing it up with urgency.

You sit up on white sheets that had been stained with red, watching as Nikolai kneels on the ground, hunching over where he had crashed in his haste. He spits the last of your blood up, a few red drops landing on your feet. You curl your legs into your chest, eyebrows knitting together in concern about the man kneeling before you.

Nikolai glances up, face scrunching at the smell of your blood dripping from the wound he made on your neck. He stares as your hand moves to the bite mark, gently touching it and moving your blood-stained fingers in view. You smear it between your fingers, watching as it spreads along your hand. Nikolai watches, taking your hand and bringing it close, almost touching your blood to his lips once more.

“What are you?” He asks, grin surfacing with a raised brow. “Neither your blood nor your scent is that of a human. Your blood is painful. I’ve had the blood of hundreds but none have ever hurt.” He runs his thumb over your fingers, looking at the blood contrasting his pale skin. You watch as Nikolai gently plays with your hand before he looks up at you once more, forming eye contact and tilting his head as he awaits your answer.

You reach your other arm towards him, helping him get up and sit next to you on the bed. “You said you like quizzes when you first brought me here, yes?” Nikolai begins nodding vigorously, his grin widening until you’re convinced he couldn’t possibly smile wider. “Then how about I give you three guesses to figure out what I am? Your best three guesses.” Laughter rings out and Nikolai claps his hands a few times before standing before you. He taps his chin and lets out small questioning noises.

“Another undead perhaps?” You immediately shake your head.

“Hmm. Do you take really poor care of your body?” A second

wrong answer.

He looks disappointed that he hasn’t figured it out, pouting at you. He deeply breathes, “I need to make this last one count!” You let out a small hum as you watch him pace. Nikolai scratches his head, observing you. Looking you up and down, walking around the bed to see every angle for a hint. Right as he begins analyzing you up close, his eyes instantly light up as he walks back in front of you. He does a slight spin, bowing theatrically. He tilts his head up to meet your eyes and shouts, “Aha! I think I know! You’re some kind of god, aren’t you?”

You smile, nodding your head. “Correct, Nikolai.” He cheers, fangs showing as he shouts praises for himself. He couldn’t look happier about being right. He grips your shoulders and asks question after question about what you do, how you got here, and why you’re among unholy creatures. You chuckle at his excitement, “Well to begin, I am death-”

“Like Mara? From the myths?”

You nod and he gazes at you, eyes widened in amazement. “Yes, but my name will suit me just fine.” Your lips turn up at the sight of his intrigue. “As for why I’m here, I enjoy watching the living up close. I don’t influence people's deaths—that would be needlessly cruel—but observing others and watching as they step closer and closer to their collection to the underworld is a bit of a hobby. And how I’m here,” You pause for a moment before your lips quirk up in a sly smile. “Do you really think a god couldn’t go wherever they please?”

Nikolai lets out a small chuckle, “I suppose you can do anything you want, can’t you?” He sits next to you, the bed shaking slightly under his weight. “I’m in the presence of a god, that’s something I never expected to happen in this neverending lifetime.” He inhales the scent of your blood again, a slight twinge pulling at his features as he attempts not to make a face of repulsion. “Is your blood going to be what finally kills me?”

“It won’t.” You say shuffling back to lay back against the mattress. “Not much went into your system. Were you to continue drinking despite the taste, you may have died from it if not you’d fall quite ill while I’d remain unaffected.” He hums along, kicking his legs back and forth and he processes your explanation. He bites his lip, a small amount of blood pooling from it that he quickly licks away. “I suppose you’ll have to continue hunting for food, láska, as I’m sure you’ve noticed my blood will not suffice.”

He glances at you before pulling himself over you, caging you between his arms. “I figured the blood of a god would be heavenly, the sweetest I’d ever taste, I suppose I was wrong.” As Nikolai speaks, you look over him hovering above you. You notice every detail from the scar on his eye to the smile lines curling down his cheeks to the build of his body. For a moment, you tune him out, focusing on his strange, cold beauty. In an instant, your eyes trail up to his lips and without thinking you quickly peck them as his sentence ends. He’s startled, allowing you to shove him off of you, laughing to yourself.

His eyes widen, mouth falling agape while his brain slowly clicks together what had happened. “The look on your face!” You cry out as laughter rings through your throat. Nikolai doesn’t respond, for a moment he is completely speechless and you fill the empty noise from him with your hysterics. He softens up as he recognizes the peck. His breathing slows as he finally processes what you had done.

“What the hell was that for?” He shouts out, tone exasperated.

“Humour, of course.”

Nikolai huffs, “So you find it funny to mock me?” He rolls his eyes and you click your tongue. Your head tilts at his question, vaguely offended at how he took it. “You think I’m mocking you?” He nods, a disgraced pout on his face. “That’s not how I wanted you to feel in the slightest! I apologize if I offended you, it wasn’t my intention.” You smile, fidgeting with your fingers. Nikolai can’t help but notice how awkward you seem for that of a god. “You looked pretty and I wanted to do something unexpected. I intended for you to laugh with me but I suppose I read you wrong.”

His lips quiver and a cackle emits from him. “You just wanted to make me laugh? That’s so cute! You’re so adorable.” Your eyes waver and he smirks at your faulty expression. “Am I making you lose your composure? A vampire, a being of sin, with a god?” He looks down at the wound on your neck once more before meeting your eyes. “Sorry, I’m going on and you’re still bleeding. I should probably clean you up.”

You watch Nikolai get up and leave the room. You wait a few minutes for him to return, kicking your legs back and forth and humming to yourself. You see him come back in with a wet cloth so you sit up and stretch a little as he reaches over and wipes the crimson that stains your neck and fingers. “Sorry, I don’t have any bandages so this will have to do.”

He’s unusually soft. You think. In the last few hours since you met, you saw Nikolai as a very eccentric man, always keeping you on your toes but in this moment he’s quiet, gentle, sweet even.

“Do you know what I want more than anything?” He asks, pulling you out of your trance. You tilt your head, asking what it is he wishes for. “Freedom.” A soft twitch of his lips doesn’t go unnoticed by you as the cloth continues to glide against your skin. “I wish to know what it takes to reach that freedom, to be as free as a dove flying through the skies rather than one trapped within a golden cage. I attempted to rid myself of my emotions, I killed the loved ones who trapped me in that cage…” He hesitates, “I killed my dearest friend, the only one who understood me truly.” You don’t know how to feel, whether to feel pity, or empathy, or to remain indifferent. “Even after all of that, I still feel trapped by my humanity. After hundreds of years in this world, trying to free myself, I’m still stuck in that cage.”

“Would death free me?”

Your heart cracks, you swear you can feel it. You swear you can hear it. A twinge and a small breaking noise. You know there are ways for vampires to be killed and you’re sure he knows too. You fear for him. You see death daily. You enjoy witnessing as people reach the inevitable, but you can feel that the two of you meeting may have shifted his death date. “Death can’t free you. All death will do is trap you further, leaving you in the underworld for the rest of eternity…” You trail off and silence falls between you both. It’s deafening, neither of you can bear it. You’re the one to break it though, with a quick statement, the kind that leaves him thinking everything and nothing all at once. “Your freedom shouldn’t be in spite of your emotions or your love. Your freedom should be a piece of it.” You cup his cheeks, “So fly, můj milovaný, like those doves you love so much.” You kiss his cheek. It’s cold. But it feels nice. “Your freedom is close. I can feel it.”

You get off the bed, slow steps reaching the doorway where, for a second, you turn back to him. “I should go, Nikolai, but you can just call my name if you want to see me again.” You walk out the door and he hears you skip down the hall, loud thumps as you walk down the stairs. “Okay, Mara-” A short pause before he whispers out. “I mean, Y/N, moya ptashka.”

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thebardostate · 11 months

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Where Does Consciousness Come From?

(This is Part 2 of a three part series on consciousness. Part 1 is here. Part 3 is here.

A 25 year bet was settled last week when two rival scientific explanations for consciousness - Global Workspace Theory (GWT) and Integrated Information Theory (IIT) - both failed to discover any neuronal correlates of consciousness (NCC) in the human brain. Neuroscientist Cristof Koch and philosopher David Chalmers agreed that neuroscience can't yet explain how our brains produce consciousness.

I say "yet" because it is an article of faith among the disciples of Richard Dawkins and Daniel Dennett that consciousness (if it exists at all) will eventually be shown to be a mere illusion or "epiphenomenon" generated by biochemical activity in our brains. They argue that the mind is only what the brain does, so consciousness ceases when the brain dies. They dismiss as pseudoscientific "woo" fantasy any notion that consciousness might survive the physical death of the brain.

Source: @myjetpack

Materialist neo-Darwinism appears to enjoy broad support across the physical and biological sciences, in medicine, and from science popularizers like Neil DeGrasse Tyson and Carl Sagan. It can fairly be called the orthodox scientific view.

And yet, we see from the results of the wager that the origins of consciousness remain an open question. It is considered one of the greatest unsolved problems in science. Thus far, scientific orthodoxy has gotten us exactly...nowhere.

What is it Like to be a Bat?

Enter Thomas Nagel, a marquee name in the philosophy of mind and cognitive science. In 1974 Nagel published the widely influential essay "What is it Like to be a Bat?" in which he argued that there's a lot more to being a bat than just hanging around upside down in the dark. Bats perceive their world thru echo location. Nothing in human experience prepares us for what that must be like: bats don't "see" their homes because they're in pitch darkness, nor do they "feel" their way along in the dark because they're flying thru the air. We can speculate, but we humans don't have a clue what it feels like to be a bat. And yet, science knows a great deal about bat brains.

In his 2012 book Mind and Cosmos Nagel argues that the materialist neo-Darwinist conception of reality is almost certainly false, with far-reaching implications for evolution and quantum physics. He is incredulous at the just-so story that Dawkins, Dennett, et. al. are expecting us to swallow:

It is prima facie highly implausible that life as we know it is the result of a sequence of physical accidents together with the mechanism of natural selection. We are expected to abandon this naive response, not in favor of a fully worked out physical/chemical explanation but in favor of an alternative that is really a schema for explanation, supported by some examples. What is lacking, to my knowledge, is a credible argument that the story has a nonnegligible probability of being true.

However, Nagel is no sock puppet for religion, as some of his materialist critics have insinuated. In fact, he is an atheist:

I do not find theism any more credible than materialism as a comprehensive world view. My interest is in the territory between them. I believe that these two radically opposed conceptions cannot exhaust the possibilities.

Back to the Drawing Board

So if consciousness doesn't come from the brain, then where does it come from?

In Nagel's estimation it's high time science started looking for alternative explanations instead of continuing to double down on materialist neo-Darwinism, which by now has had ample time to put up or shut up (Karl Popper called these breezy we'll-solve-it-someday assurances "promissory materialism".) Nagel critiques the three basic approaches that materialists have pursued thus far:

Treat consciousness as a black box, and infer what might lurk inside the box by carefully observing its behavior from the outside. This is the behaviorist approach, whose sterility was so evident by the late 1960s that it sparked the cognitive revolution in psychology.

Systematically trace all mental events to physical counterparts "somewhere" in the brain. This is the approach that GWT and IIT take, using medical techniques like functional MRI to observe the brain as we carry out various activities. One of the problems with this approach is brain plasticity, the ability of the brain to rewire itself (e.g., after a stroke); plasticity makes it difficult to pin down exactly where in the brain mental events occur (to say nothing about how the brain pulls off the plasticity trick in the first place.) Another problem is that mental activities can interact and overlap, such as when we drive a car and talk on the phone at the same time. Sometimes we can multitask, and sometimes we can't. Where do those complex interactions play out in the brain? What about things produced by the brain itself but not experienced by the senses like imagination, the placebo effect and hallucinations? And finally, there is a world of difference between images from fMRI and the actual, subjective, first-person experiences we have when performing those tasks. They're just not the same. I'll have much more to say about this approach to consciousness research in Part 3 of this series.

Deny that there is any such thing as consciousness - this is eliminative materialism aka illusionism, whose most prominent proponent is Dennett. But if we buy into this, why should we stop at questioning our own consciousness? Why don't we just deny that anything exists at all, and go full-on nihilist atheist? Philosopher Galen Strawson called illusionism "the silliest claim ever made" while philosopher John Searle called it an "intellectual pathology." (Plus which, when you get down into the weeds of eliminative materialism, you find that it's just reheated behaviorism anyway.)

Nagel believes these materialist accounts are all incomplete because each in its own way fails to explain the familiar first-person experience of being alive and conscious. But even setting that aside, he points out a further problem for the neo-Darwinists.

Why Did Consciousness Evolve?

In its own way, materialist Neo-Darwinism is a "theory of everything" in so far as biology goes. As such, it must be able to explain why consciousness evolved in the first place.

It's quite plausible that natural selection could have produced organisms that adapt and reproduce without being conscious. We can imagine robot-like zombies that carry out a series of evolved instructions and reproduce without ever having experiencing first-person subjective consciousness, like little automatons. And yet, we are conscious. Why? What evolutionary purpose could first-person awareness have served?

A standard materialist explanation is that consciousness emerged as a byproduct of evolution (a "spandrel" as Steven Jay Gould called it) rather like junk DNA. If we are not satisfied with the just-so story that the mental comes as a free bonus to the physical, then we will have to look for our answers elsewhere.

Opening the Window on Consciousness

We landed in this situation because science has sought to explain nature entirely in physical terms, without invoking theism. It has been spectacularly successful - particularly in the physical sciences - but the cost has been excluding consciousness along with the gods. Eventually this exclusion was bound to be challenged. We cannot have a complete picture of the world without understanding our own consciousness that makes that picture possible. If consciousness isn't generated by the brain, the implications for evolution and quantum physics will be far-reaching. (Nagel, 2012)

In the concluding part of this series we'll take a fresh look at the medical evidence for certain so-called 'paranormal' phenomena. These have been systematically excluded from mainstream scientific consideration because, if they proved true, they would undercut materialist explanations of consciousness. What do medical anomalies like Near-Death Experiences and Terminal Lucidity imply about the nature of consciousness?

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