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popculturebuffet · 3 years

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The Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck: The Last of the Clan McDuck! Review “It Was Worth THE Dime”

This is one of my faviorite comic book stories of all time. Given i’m a massive comics nerd, for both books and strips, that is the highest praise I can give this wonderful, epic, beautifully drawn and deeply emotoinal story. I first discovered it in the local library that had the second volume, and found the rest online at a now long dead fan site. And while it took me longer than I care to admit to really dig into Duck Comics, and even now i’ve only scratched the surface, I can say without a doubt this story is the reason I’m so deeply attached to Scrooge as a character, and that I was excited as I was for Ducktales 2017. This comic showed me just what Scrooge McDuck should be at his core as a character, and showed me what a wonderful character that is. So with all that glowing praise as you can guess i’ve been wanting to cover this for years, and even considered though back when I was more primarily a comic book reviewer last year. Any time i’ve reviewed stuff before now, i’ve considered it, and with Scrooge’s Sisters Hortense and Matilda presumably and definitely debuting on Ducktales soon, and it’s about damn time, the timing could not be better or clearer to dig into this utter triumph. But before we can take a look at the story itself we naturally have to take a look at the man behind it: Writer and Artist Don Rosa. Don Rosa is easily one of the best Duck Comics writer out there, seen by many as only second to his own faviorite duck comics writer and God of Ducks, Carl Barks. For those 1 of you who do not know, Barks was the man who created pretty much everything in the duck universe comics wise and a bit in animation too: He created Daisy, Scrooge, Gladstone, Magica, The Beagle Boys, The Junior Woodchucks, Gyro, Little Bulb, Glomgold, Rockerduck, and the list goes on. While he didn’t make EVERY duck, he made so many that it’d be impossible to imagine either version of Ducktales being possible without him. So of course Rosa was a fan and while he took up the family buisness, he was also an artist and duck comics fanboy on the side. So when, even if it meant a paycut, the opportunity to actually write and draw them came up, he lept at it and thus became one of their publishers go to guys, even if said publisher published the stories overseas where the Duck Comics are far more popular and still going to this day, and ironically where most duck comics printed nowadays get their stories from. Rosa was known for his meticous historical research and gorgeous art that he took his time drawing to get just perfect and showed on the page. The man has easily some of hte best and most detailed duck art around and I still haven’t found a duck artist that can match him.. and if you have or found one close i’d genuinely love to see that. He is a genuinely talented, spirited guy who was sadly mistreated by disney and that, coupled with tragically failing eyesight, eventually ended his career. He’s still around and I genuinely hope to meet him some day as he still does conventions. The man is not without fault: I don’t get his hatred of superhero comics, as while I get them overshadowing funnybooks and that around the time of his career they were in decline, but it’s just as unfair to write off Superhero comics as mindless. garbage as it is for people to write off the Duck Comics as “only for kids” and I genuinely wish he’d see that and see how the medium has evolved so much since then. I also grumble a bit as his refusal to allow anything besides barks into his bubble, and having to be forced to include fethry on the family tree, but that’s more personal preference. I like using as much material as you got. IT’s why i’ve wanted to, and hopefully will eventually get around to, write a sonic fanfic using bits of all the various universes that for legal, ken penders being an absolute waste of a human being, and sega being stupid reasons can’t be used anymore. I like taking everything in a franchise and putting it in a blender and it’s why I love the reboot. But there’s nothing wrong with taking things as is, not stepping on toes canon wise, but still being awesome. We’re just diffrent people and that’s okay. And a lot of his fanboy showing actually lead to REALLY good things: Goldie O’Gilt was a one off character, and while used ocasoinally overseas, didn’t really pick up as a character again until a combination of Ducktales 87 and Rosa’s work with her, as he always loved the character, and fleshing her out lead to her being used more, and gaining a sizeable fandom. He also gained the Cablleros an even bigger fandom by giving them two stories of their own, and fleshing them out a bit more. And this very comic is the peak of that, taking EVERY mention of scrooge’s past from various backstories to set up adventures, every tiny scrap, and to his credit going to both Barks Himself and various other Barks Experts Rosa was friends with to check his work, especially difficult given he likey had to find these stories in issue or pullt hem from disney archives, and complied it into one long epic that not only uses all this info effortlessly, but spins a compelling story that gives us a clear vision of what Scrooge should be, how he became the man he is, and how he lost himself only to find himself again with the help of three precocious boys and a cynical 30 something duck. So taint all bad is what i’m saying. As for how this got started, thankfully rosa himself provided the origin story for this project in the back of the volume of his works that contained the first 7 chapters of life and times, as well as detailed notes for every chapter. At the time Rosa was working for Egmont, the big european publisher who handles Disney’s much larger european comics market, hence why most of his stories appeared years earlier in Europe before debuting here. The american publisher at the time , and an old friend of his, called Rosa with an idea: A 12 issue Maxi-Series focusing on Scrooge’s history, since at the time they were all the rage.. and really even today mini series are still a viable market and many indie titles just have several minis instead of an ongoing. So it wasn’t a bad idea, Rosa just simply offered a tweak: He’d tell his publisher at Egmont about the idea, and let her get a crack team of writers and artists to do this proper, and thus Disney could publish it for free once it was done and for no extra cost. Rosa gave his publisher a fax detaling both the idea and the fact that it needed to be done right, given to the best person possible, and done with the greatest care. She agreed.. and naturally handed it to him, as he admits he hoped. She made the right call, a legend was born and here we are. One last bit before the read more and before I get to the first story itself at last: Since barks wrote a lot of side stories that fit into the canon, I COULD slot them in between chapters, but have instead chosen to review the original 12 part story as was, and do the various side stories and two epilogues, the utterly fantastic “Dream of a Life Time”, easiliy one of my faviorite comics ever, and the also really great “Letter From Home”, which will likely on some level be the basis for the upcoming at the time of this review “Battle for Castle McDuck!”, after completing the story. In other words i’m probably going to be at this for years. so join me under the read more won’t you as I begin the journey of a thousand miles with a single step as we look at the humble start of a legend.

We begin, after a fun short teaser with present Day scrooge saying his past is no one’s buisness only to get hit with an oh yeah?, with a scrap book title for the issue, something I want to bring up since while I got that’s what it was what I never got, and must’ve glanced over when I first read rosa’s notes when I got this copy, was that it isn’t SCROOGE’S scrap book, but his sister Matilda’s who dutifully and happily catologued her brother’s adventures. It’s a really sweet moment.. and something that will hit VERY hard when we reach Chapter 11. If you haven’t read this story or heard of it.. .that’s this story’s equilvent of “Last Crash of the Sunchaser” and clearly Frank and Matt drew from that story a bit for it, but we can get more into the parallels when we get there. A smaller but fun note is that Rosa had specific coin drawing templates, for different indentions and what not he used, and used them for the coins in these intro bits. Yes he admitted he has a problem and yes that’s damn impressive anyway.

It’s Scrooge’s 10th birthday, and his father Fergus has taken him up to see the family land, Dismal Downs to tell him of the mighty Clan McDuck and show him the ancestral lands, graveyards and Castle. He admits to having taken this long because the Clan McDuck currently lives in Glasgow so it’s kind of a long trip just to show your son “Hey look at the decay and rot that’s our ancestral homeland”. The Clan is on hard times, as a bad shipping deal, the backbone of a rather good barks story and I wont’ be interjecting for every barks reference as it’d get rather tiring though for what it’s worth Rosa provided tons of detailed footnotes in the back of each Fantagraphics collection, so good on him. Speaking of which though they do include 10 pages of Mc Duck family history that was supposed to open this story.. until Rosa’s editor wisely pointed out the story isn’t about them but scrooge and having read his roug draft, yeah.. there’s a good gag here and there, as well as “Dirty” Dingus McDuck, scrooge’s Grandpa and the reason Dewey is cursed with that middle name. Why anyone thought Dingus was a good name is beyond me, nor why Donald thought that was a good middle name back in 2009 is again, beyond me. Good on Don though for getting that past the censors. But yeah with no money they can’t buy the land back and they were scared off it years ago by a mystical ghost dog, the hound of the whiskervilles. There is treasure in the castle, Sir Quackly’s gold, but he accidently sealed himself into a wall while sealing his treasure in there. Their interrupted by the town assholes, the Whiskervilles who have been grazing sheep on the land and are naturally behind the hound, using the sound of it to scare off Fergus once they realize he’s a McDuck. Because apparently you can keep a Scooby Doo style hoax up for Centuries if you don’t have meddling kids around. Who knew. Back in Glasgow, we meet the rest of Scrooge’s family: His Uncle Jake, his sisters Matilda and Hortense, and his mother Downy. Jake hasn’t really been mentioned at all in Ducktales and I know next to nothing about him, which given I share a name with the guy you’d THINK I would. I mean I know a decent amount about this Jake.

But nothing about who the hell Jake McDuck is or why he lives with his brother and his family. Here, you guys watch the dancing Jake, i’m going to probably do that for hours after this review is done, i’m going to go sort this out. Okay one google and finding the Scrooge Mcduck wiki page on him, Jake shows up here likely because he was referenced in the story “A Christmas For Shacktown” and apparently borrowed from Scrooge and never paid it back. Otherwise.. there’s not a lot about him and unlike the rest of Scrooge’s family he really dosen’t do much that I can remember. Except like 2017 Scrooge, he apparently has become extremely long lived, as Scrooge and Donald STILL think he’s alive in the 1950′s.. and likely is STILL alive in some form in the Don Rosa stories, given his take place after Barks and thus in the 40′s and 50′s where Barks stories were set. Hence why unlike the Reboot, Scrooge isn’t inexpecilbly over 210. But Jake McDuck sure as heck is. Maybe this highlander is a highlander.. you know the movie and tv show type. Maybe someone cut off his head. That’s what i’m going with.

This does bring me to another point about this story: While Barks gave all of scrooge’s family their names, it’s where Rosa got them after all, it’s Rosa who really made them into characters. Fergus as a loving father ashamed his family legacy has fallen and wanting his son to do better than him, Downy as an equally loving wife and mother, Matilda as his sweet and caring sister and later her brother’s moral center, and Hortense.. well here she’s just a babbling baby but her character will become clear and glorious as we go. She is adorable here though and we do get some great bits with her. Getting back to the plot now i’ve made my points, Jake is riled up wanting to understandably kick the Whiskerville’s asses with Scrooge, who even as a sweet innocent ten year old still has the family temper already, agreeing.. but Downy gently shoots them out pointing that two middle aged-ish men and a 10-year old just aren’t enough to fight an army of them and while she doesn’t mention it the fight would just tire them out for work and accomplish nothing as while it is the McDuck’s land the combination of the hound and the lack of money to move back means it’s pointless. She also mentions their younger brother Pothole, who went to America. This will be important later.

Scrooge storms off and Fergus laments, in a scene that’s more painful the more I think about it, how his clan has fallen, with he and his brother lamenting their chances at glory are long gone.. but Fergus has hope his son can do better, and for his son’s birthday makes him a shoeshine kit in the hopes of inspiring him to greatness. This scene still resonates since many of us are poor, struggling and not doing so good money wise. I’m sure many parents have doubts and regrets about not being able to do more for their kid.

Not only that but the story carefully avoids the trap of Fergus accidently being abusive by you know, pinning his family’s future on one 10 year old. While yes he is asking a lot of Scrooge, to restore their family name.. it’s very clear he mostly just wants his son to do better than him. Even if Scrooge was just slightly more successful, Fergus would likely be happy with that. He’s not using the legacy as a “This what you must be” like say the Gems in steven universe did for Steven with Rose’s Legacy, the kind where it sort of suffocates you till youc an make it your own. He’s just saying “this is what you can be” He believes his child can be great and simply once him to reach his full potetial and is simply giving him a means to hopefully do so, a simple home made shoe shine kit. While Jake scoffs, the narration notes the idea isn’t worth a dime.. it’s worth THE dime. The dime that would set Scrooge’s destiny in motion.

The next morning, Fergus goes to check up on his son and his new buisness but Scroogey’s having no luck and about ready to just quit, the poor child. Also Matilda is dragging her baby sister around like a doll and it’s entirely precious as it is funny.

But as for those Dorty Boots, Matilda wonders why her dad dosen’t just tell Scrooge that Burt the Ditch Digger is coming. Fergus tells her to quite and then explains his plan: he’s sending Burt to scrooge, with an American dime Fergus and Matilda found, to teach his son a lesson: By giving him a hard days work, he’ll teach him what hard work truly means.. and by having Burt “cheat” him with the American dime, it’ll give him the motivation to keep going and to nto be as wide eyed and trusting. It’s a well meaning if harsh lesson, and the kind you’d expect from 1900′s parenting and fits the origin well: Scrooge still earned his first money square, as he still did work.. but his getting cheated being a lesson dosen’t diminish what it taught scrooge, and helps flesh out what I talked about above, Fergus knowing his son has great potential he just needs inspiration to reach it. And instead of just telling him that he does a con job but it’s the 1900′s. This orign, and Fergus’ part in it would be entirely untouched in Ducktales 2017, the first scrooge based adaptation since this comic came out, and I bless them for it. Frank even said this comic was used as a bible by the writers and while theirs clear deviations, and we’ll get to that, they were mainly done for good reason, and it’s very clear that while scrooge’s history is very VERY diffrent in the reboot, the core of his past is still there.

So the plan is on and young scrooge spends half an hour killing himself to get Burt’s shoes clean before getting his dime.. and realizing he’s been had, makes this proud decleration that will be the bedrock of his entire life and character.

Scrooge being naturally stubborn as you can see takes his cheats a leson: There will always be hard honest work, and he will be there to do it and he’ll be tougher and sharper than anyone trying to cheat him out of his pay. Fergus’ plan has the intended effect, and Scrooge having learned a hard lesson now has the drive and determination we know him for. As for why it gives it to him.. I had to think on it a bit but it makes sense: For some a setback like this would make them quit.. for Scrooge it’s just proof he CAN find customers, he CAN do this job, or any at his hardest and instead takes this as a lesson to be prepared ot out think and outfight anyone who dares cheat him again, and to not earn his money by being the kind of guy who cheats a kid out of an honest days pay, but as a good honest duck like his father and his father before him. =He will make his money square so he can be the kind of person this seeming stranger SHOULD have been. Granted we’ll see Scrooge doesn’t end up as the best person at times but .. we’ll get there. So with the fire inside turned from a spark into the flame Scrooge soon got to work, and by the next panel we see he’s eventually worked his stand up from a small box given to him by his dad, to a three seater shoeshining bench, who he wipes all at once by stretching one of his mother’s girldes over a light pole, a detail I didn’t get the first time around but now love. Naturally being a good kind boy much like his Nephews, Scrooge always gave his proud father a portion of his earnings, if with a full receipt for tax purposes. Because he’s still scrooge after all. His dad wonders he did too good a job while Hortense glxbit’s in agreement.

As the years go on, a now tween Scrooge is eventually able to save up for a horse cart, and starts selling Fire Wood up in the city. He eventually realizes Peat, an earthy subtance found in bogs I only know about because I had to look it up for this review, is more profitable and with some snappy marketing moves into selling Peat for the rich instead, also showing the young lad already has a grasp of how to sell to obnoxious rich people.

But while his business is booming, our young hero can’t resist visiting his family’s ancestral home and longing for it, hoping one day to have it for himself and in a nice show of how despite his temper and tenacity forged over the last few years he’s still at hear the kind, sweet optimistic lad he was just a few pages ago, he decides to tidy up the Clan’s Cemetary while he’s here.

Unfortunately as proof that Donald and Della’s terrible luck comes from both sides of the family the Whiskervilles are sub-glomgold levels of human beings.. or Dogfaces in this case, and are digging up the McDuck Clan’s graves to hunt for treasure. Scrooge tries to simply do the smart thing and flee, but the asshole brigade catch sight of him and mistkaing him for a peat burgalar chase after him.. and spend WAY too much time and energy chasing a teenage boy over some fucking bog grass you clearly aren’t selling yourselves. I mean spare a thought for how dumb this is: They could easily sell of of that peat to put up a fence or chop down some trees to get the material if their really that concerned about someone getting in the bog. Then again this isn the 1800 and 1900′s where the child death toll was simply “Yes”, so they likely thought whose gonna notice one more dead child on our property?

Scrooge heads toward the castle and is gestured in by a friendly mystery duck who gladly shows him around and can tell he’s a McDuck just by look, showing the castle is still in glorious condition as the whiskervilles are too spooked to go in, hence why they didn’t chase Scrooge inside. I’d say being afraid of ghosts but not murdering a child is weird but these are the same guys who thought murdering a child was plan A. We’re not dealing with a brain trust is what i’m saying. So the mystery duck shows Scroogey around, showing off some colorful stories about his ancestors recycled from that scrapped prologue I mentioned. THe mystery man, who brushes off Scrooge thinking he’s a McDuck asks Scrooge what he’s doing to restore the family glory and while Scrooge points out he’s already working on it, Mystery Duck points out he’s still missing something: He has the drive and the dream, but peat and shoeshining, while getting him good money for his family, aren’t the thing you can build a fortune or a future off of. He then points out where Scrooge’s dime comes from: America.. and that gives the boy the idea to head to the states. As for what he could possibly DO there to start, the mystery guy mentions his uncle pothole. So Scrooge has the dream, the drive.. and now a plan: Go to america, work for his uncle on the riverboats, and work his way up from there till he finds his fortune and restores his family name. But while his future is settled, the present is still an issue and Scrooge wants to teach the child murder club a lesson and thus borrows, though MM wisely points out it’s all his property a horse and some armor, and stuffs the armor with peat. As for what his plan is.. welllll

That.. is fucking awesome. And far from the last fucking awesome moment in this thing. It also shows off even as not quite a teen yet, Scrooge is still a badass already, and while he doesn’t have his trademark strength or fighting skills quite yet, his ingenuity is already there.. and that will always trump both. The Whiskervilles run away and into some quicksand and Scrooge vows to return one day as laird and reclaim his family land. But that’s a story for a few chapters down the line. As for who the mystery duck is, he’s naturally Sir Quackely himself, or rather his ghost, who was simply guiding Scrooge and didn’t give him the treasure as simply handing him the money wouldnn’t restore their family’s good name or continue their bloodline now would it?

For now Scrooge returns to work for a bit before finding his way to America: A cattleboat to New Orleans looking for a Cabin Boy. And so Scrooge bids farewell to his family. His Dad, feeling bad he can’t even give his boy shilling, gives him the family pocketwatch with jake pitching in with the family gold dentures. While Scrooge naturally refuses to sell the watch, he does plan to sell the teeth as soon as possible for good reason. We then get some sweet goodbyes with him, his sisters (With hortense uttering her first words to everyone’s astonishment) and loving mother as he wonders just what awaits him in America.

And there he stands on the bow of a ship, heading for a new land, in New Orleans he can be a new man. And we’ll see just what kind of man he becomes as this series continues. For now this is the end of a chapter but the beginning of a lifetime.

Final Thoughts on Last of the Clan McDuck:

This story is excellent. While there are even better chapters to come, this one is still one of the most memorable and most joyous, showing just how Scrooge became what he is, where some of his values come from, others will be instilled along the way , and beginning to flesh out his family. We see Scrooge’s love of wealth comes from starting from the bottom, growing up with a family that barely had anything and badly needed everything, but was loving and instilled fine morals in him. We also see a Scrooge far removed from the bitter old man he is in present day, an optimistic naïve young lad who only wants best for his family. It’s a nice stark contrast to who he’ll become, good and bad, and a nice way to both compare him to Huey Dewey and Louie and break your heart as his own hardens before briefly turning black later on. The art, as is standard for this series and Rosa, is breathtaking, and the story isn’t lacking in good jokes, their just downplayed so the story itself can take center stage. There’s nothing really more to say: it’s an excellent start to an even more excellent tale and stands proud among an already stellar story as one of it’s finest outings.

NEXT RAINBOW: Scrooge goes down to the mighty Missipi to work on the riverboats and meets one of his signature Rogue’s for the first time in their first form, as well as Gyro’s dad.. or grandpa.. or possibly both I don’t know his family tree. Point is, tune in next time for some riverboat hyjinks. Until then if you’d like to comission an episode of any animated show, especially ducktales and the various other duck related disney shows, or another Duck Comics story you really like from Rosa, Barks or whoever you want really, I take commissions for 5 dollars a review, with 5 dollars off your full order when you put in for more than one episode or issue. You can also follow me on patreon.com/popculturebuffet and for just two bucks a month get access to polls (which i’ll start once we have at least three patreons), and my exclusive discord server. And if you liked this review be sure to reblog it to show off. My self promotion done until next time: There’s always another rainbow.

#scrooge mcduck #don rosa #ducktales #the life and times of scrooge mcduck #fergus mcduck #downy mcduck #hortense mcduck #hortense duck #matilda mcduck #jake mcduck #uncle scrooge #duck comics #disney duck comics #carl barks

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therabbitholestories · 4 years

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The Last Fish in the Sea | Short Story by Russell Legaspi

He stood in between the cracks of the beach where the sea once swallowed his feet with toe-curdling waters. The whispers of foaming water remained in the parched gallows of his mind as he narrowed his eyes mapping the scorched wrinkles of what was for a time his sea. This was his sea as he ventured to look out. The grains of sand waited in stillness; there were no winds to deliver them, no tides to reclaim them, only the gaping mouth of the earth’s thirst and the hours where it persists. In his right hand the rasp of the tin bucket reminded him of the worms squirming to escape. They too, did not want to plunge into a dry bed of salt. This is not a place for a fisherman they said. He scratched his head wondering the same thing. Where has the water gone? If he could walk a bit farther north, farther away from the sun, farther away from the heat, then maybe he could fish. Fishing is man’s breath. (Water is to fish fish is to man). So he stood out, looking into the vast empty paleness of the dry seabed. Here he heard no news. No word of mouth, no gush in the wind of the sea’s leaving. Only him and the timid weather that did not even say a thing of what’s to come. He only needed to look at the sky. A man only needed to look at the sky. A few steps away, heading north, he gave his back to the sun. He turned and gazed where his shadow once stood and saw again that his sea was as pale as the sky. A dull stroke of blue above a patch of grainy white, with some blotches of green and garbage that he can’t even describe. ‘My lord’ he said. As he walked back to the sand, lower into where fish could be swimming—away from him; not him but anyone—he thought it’s the nature of things. To move away from a big change. Fish are created that way. But not him. This is his sea, and he can fish as he pleases. ‘Good lord where’s my sea?’ he said. Moving farther in, he could feel his rain boots sink in the coarse grime of his seabed. Not even a flap of fin remained. It’s as if the sea decided to pack its bags and move to a different town. But people don’t just get up and go. And especially not the sea. It can’t. People should stay where they are like it always have been. He looked down to the mud and sand. To his left is the town, quiet, not a soul awake to work like him. To his right, rocks; plain grey crabby rocks. He looked behind him and there was his cottage, a washed up red square with a triangle roof that needs a bit of dry coat. His boat, he built with his hands, is there, staring at him, waiting at his dock. Stuck in the hands of weeds and more rubber tires. The boat was waiting for an answer, an explanation but all the fisherman can do is scratch his head. He looks back at the sea, where it used to be. Cascading in his head was the sound of the waves slowly washing away as the sand replaced all that he knew. ‘Did it ever occur to you that this might be a dream?’ said a voice. ‘What?’ he answered. He didn’t even bother to search for the voice. For him, a voice out at sea was his companion. That same old voice that has always kept him afloat. Only this time, the sound wasn’t of his head. ‘Where is my sea?’ he asked again, with a bit more irritation. As if it was owed to him. ‘I was asking the same thing’, said the voice. It sounded sure, like him. It sounded intelligent, sharp, and cunning. Not like him, he knew that. The fisherman knows the sound of his voice. A man knows his sound. Here in the vast quietness of the sea, there are only a few things he can hear. The wind, its changes, the sea, and its changes, and your voice, the way it never changes in your head. The fisherman searched for the voice around him, to the left, behind. ‘Careful careful, im down here’ He hears a flap. A sound he is familiar with. Another flap. He looks down. ‘Fish’ ‘Am i?’ ‘You’re a sea bass’ ‘Or a rock that happens to have fins. The only difference is that a rock can survive out here, but not me’ ‘You’re a fish’. The fisherman unable to hold on to his rod and buckets lets it drop on the sand. ‘Am i?’ ‘And you are talking’ ‘I am?’ The fish is beginning to enjoy the exchange ‘You’re a talking fish’ ‘Okay, now. Relax, you’re just repeating yourself. It’s not fun anymore’ There was nothing in front of him but the remains of the sea. ‘Why don’t you throw away that bucket of worms and say give me a better chance here, huh?’ said the fish. In quick response, the fisherman did as he was told. There were a lot of things he could not understand and maybe far more as wide as the ocean, but not fishing. He looked at his bucket of worms for the last time. It made a sound, a last cry of desperation. But then again, he thought, maybe that’s the sound of worms excited to be set free. But how can worms feel excitement, he thought. He turned to the fish lying on its side and stopped questioning how and why things are. They simply are. He scooped the fish and lifted it with one hand. Firm. And fatty. Like dinner. Was dinner. He let it slide gently on the second bucket where a bit of seawater remained from yesterday. He picked up his rod and the bucket filled with worms and began to head back to shore. Or what used to be the shore. Now the shore is everywhere. On the dry bed of soil, the fisherman, with the tip of his boots, tilted the bucket of worms until it collapsed to its side Spaghetti, he thought. ‘What?’ the fish asked ‘What?’ answered the fisherman ‘You said something’ ‘I didn’t’ ‘I mean you thought of something’ ‘I thought of spaghetti, but—‘ the fisherman didn’t continue anymore. The wide eyes of the fish were enough. (He knew it best to leave the fish out of the discussion of spaghetti). There are things in this world left not understood. Or that is the only way things are understood, by accepting the unfamiliarity. The fish looked away and both watched the few sloping dry bed of soil. ‘Now, now, now’ said the fish. So the fisherman bends over and tips back up the tin bucket with a few remaining unlucky ones. ‘What is spaghetti anyway?’ asked the fish. The fisherman scratched his head. What is spaghetti? ‘It’s dinner. It’s made with pasta. You pop a can of sauce, then you heat it then eat it’, the fisherman was sure of this. ‘What is pasta?’ the fish asked, turning to him, looking up. He looked down and saw a child for a moment. Or maybe it was just the sound of its voice. Or the innocence in its question. Or both. ‘Of course’ said the fisherman. And thought that this would be a wave of questions after questions. The fisherman knew that much. The fisherman knew that Gray clouds mean nothing versus Darker Gray clouds mean rain. He couldn’t explain how dark only that he knew by looking. And by this, he thought no one has really thought of asking these questions and if they did he wouldn’t know where to begin answering. ‘It’s probably food’ said the fish. ‘Yes it is food’. The fish can read his mind he thought. It’s a talking fish after all. And the sea is gone while the worms can squirm for freedom. The sky is plain blue as if the sea decided to flip the switch and stay up there. ‘It’s a sloppy food that’s long and has red sauce and makes squirmy sounds when you eat it, and it’s good and it comes from the can so its easy to eat’, the fisherman added. ‘Ah, so its like worms’ ‘You can say it that way’, he said. And saw the few remaining worms digging for an exit at the bottom of the tin bucket. ‘Gimme my spaghetti’, said the fish. ‘Okay’. The fisherman picked up the tin bucket—making a raspy sound at the touch of his hands. He smiled as he tilted the bucket towards the open mouth of the fish, like an oversized spoon for a toddler. As he saw the helpless worms squirm down the fish’s rib cage he thought, worms only know how to squirm. ‘It’s always better without the hooks’ said the fish. The fisherman nodded. He thought, any food is better without hooks. ‘Very good spaghetti fisherman’ the fish added. He nodded again. The fisherman sat down the edge of the dry soil just before the sandy beach, the fish beside him leaning on the rim of its tin bucket looking out into the open land where the sea once nursed them. They sat their right under a hunched over coconut tree, its still palms giving them striped shade. There was quiet for a moment. There is a lot of quiet with sea. The fisherman knows this much. The waves that he heard were inside his head, the sweeping of sand in the corners of his memory. The wind that stayed with him was like a draft in his cottage. Dull. There was always waiting with fishing. Waiting for good weather. Waiting in between the waves. Waiting when to cast the net, when to pull the net, for the sun to peak, the clouds to hover, the rain to drop, or go away. But, never to look forward for the next day, the next day comes without waiting. Days happen he thought. ‘Would you know where the sea went?’ he asked ‘It got tired and went away’ said the fish “Hmm… it did? ‘Pretty much’ ‘Do you know when it’s going to return?’ ‘Not. A. Clue’ said the fish, its cloudy eyes at him. ‘Do you have a name—‘ ‘We don’t have to tell each other our names. We don’t need names. We’ll both be gone anyway’ ‘What do you mean?’ asked the fisherman. ‘Just like the sea’, the fish waving its tailfins side to side. Nudging itself to an upright position, enough to see where the sea was. Understanding this, the fisherman searched outward. Searching for the same horizon the fish is seeing. ‘Take me higher’ said the fish. And like a mother to a son, the fisherman slid his hands under the belly of the fish and weighed it in closer. He felt its scale gripping the lines of his hand, heard the gills as they snap open then close, ‘like a soft bubble’ he thought. ‘Put me back in the bucket’ added the fish. The water should hold out for the fish for a little longer. He took the handle of the tin bucket and walked back higher farther away from the lines of what used to be water. He saw the roof of his cottage, and thought maybe it’s the height the fish wanted. ‘Faster’ said the fish. The fisherman picked up his pace and straddled along the shore into the port, wood creaking with each step. The wind too was lazy without a whiff or a whistle. At the back of his cottage stood a woodpile beside a water tank, and on the other side is his grill. The fish was looking at it with its mouth closed, its gills, slow and steady. The fisherman turned to the water tank, hiding the grill with his body. A sense of responsibility came over him before he even realized what it was, a sense of responsibility towards life. ‘What’s that?’ the fish asked ‘That’s... My grill’ ‘What’s a grill?’ The fisherman looked at the grill and felt a bit of indigestion. He was calm like the empty sea. ‘It’s nothing’. He placed the bucket on the left side of the woodpile where it faced the sea and went around his cottage away from his grill. When he came back, in his arms was a bamboo ladder as tall as him. Leaning the ladder by the side of the cottage, he snatched the bucket and in two steps up, lifted the fish onto the roof. The tin bucket and the roof sheet clashed as if it were fencing, as if the fisherman was preparing for a storm. For a moment the fish was quiet, and it surprised him. All this time, the fish had always something to say—like the sea. He took two, three more steps going up and he saw the fish, just staring out where the sea was. The fisherman raised his legs and hurdled himself up, the roof banging, complaining of his weight. ‘That’s where I live?’ asked the fish ‘Yes’ Then the fish began to look above and beyond, turning up, and then leaning forward. ‘That’, looking at the cloud. ‘Looks like that’ said the fish looking where the sea was, bubbles froth its gills. ‘Well, I guess they do, the clouds do look like the sand’ ‘And that’ now looking at the sky. ‘That’s looks like my sea’, the fish added. ‘The sky? The sky is only the color of the sea. It’s like a mirror’ the fisherman caught himself. It is the color of the sea, but how did he know all this, he thought. ‘Then how come it’s still up there, yet the sea is gone?’ asked the fish ‘You should know more about your sea’, the fisherman sat down making sure his feet didn’t go straight through his roof. ‘But you’re a fisherman’ ‘I am and…’ the sea is gone. Only a spread of white with patches of green and rocks remain. Plus a couple of tires, and a ruined rowboat he didn’t recognize. The fish turned to him, its eyes wide. ‘So the sky is like a mirror, what’s a mirror?’ ‘It’s a… thing when you look at it, you see yourself. So the sky is like the mirror of the sea looking at itself’ ‘How come I can’t see myself?’ ‘Well, it’s far, it’s really really far up there’ Both of them looked up, the sun behind sand-colored clouds. The fisherman turned towards the fish, recognized a stench. A scent he knew from the back of his boat when it’s been out for too long drying out in the sun. ‘Lets get you somewhere cooler, over those rocks’. Snatching again the wired handle of the tin bucket, the fisherman swung his fish down, catching the steps of the ladder. He faced away from the grill on the way out, and took puddles of seawater he came across. He passed the dock, passed the ruined rowboat, stepped around the seaweeds and saw crabs scrambling about. He picked up some rubbish along the way and thought maybe he should’ve brought a bigger basket for all the garbage. He was going straight for the rocks where before, he had to walk the whole shoreline to reach. His boots sank about an inch, and the drying sand made sure his footsteps remained. Another puddle spurted from the ground he stepped on so he poured them onto the fish. ‘That’s refreshing’, said the fish. The round rugged rocks are bigger now that the fisherman stood before it. From the view of the sea, it was bigger and more like an entire city block filled with holes and light passing through. He walked around it, where he was familiar, from the beach. He saw his cottage from the other end as he caught his breath. More puddles of seawater. ‘You see, I told you there was more water here. I used to play around here when I was young, we would wait for the tides to go and catch crabs here’. He thought maybe it was just the tides, but tides don’t go as low as this to the point of gone. He poured the fish onto a small basin where it can, even for a while, dip its head in water. ‘Take me again’, said the fish. ‘Don’t you want to stay there, there’s more water there’ The fish again, with eyes almost that of a child’s, wide and ready, stared at the fisherman. ‘You’re going to catch me anyway’, said the fish.

Thank you. I hope you enjoyed this short story.

Let me know what you think

You can hear the audio version through the link

https://youtu.be/enzv3llRWlQ

#shortstory #rabbithole #audiobook #lastfish

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lou-bonfightme · 4 years

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Catnapped 2: This Time, It’s Purrsonal || Part Six: If You Do a Bad Thing for a Good Reason, Is it Still Bad? || [Merou]

In which Merida and Toulouse infiltrate the Order Headquarters...[takes place: February 4, 2020]

@heart-of-dunbroch

[tw -- blood, gore, violence]

MERIDA: They arrived in London early in the morning, shifting back into their human forms in a railway park, dressing quickly in the same clothes they wore the day previous. It was icy, frost on the tracks and crunched on the ground under Merida’s boots. It bit at her fingers, and for the first half hour, Merida found this cold odd and her body’s reaction to it odd, so used to the fur and thick skin of the wolf’s body. This human vulnerability followed Merida as they started walking deeper into the city, when they arrived at the first tube station, when the tube took them underground and the forest was truly far away now, feelin’ like a dream of the wolf’s that ached in Merida, still. It didn’t like the jostle of the cars. The people. The smells-- so many smells, the city like a massive garbage heap to the wolf and to Merida too.

But then, she’d always hated London. Comin’ here those few times a year always put a bad taste in her mouth. It wasn’t just how crowded and dirty everything was, ‘course. It had been the tight braids in Merida’s hair that gave her a bloody headache before she ever arrived in the headquarters. And the corsets she’d have to wear and the damn hoop skirt and the make-up smeared on her face like she was a circus clown. London meant all those things to Merida. It meant plastic, metal, chemical-- Merida dipped into a vat of it.

This time would be quite different in multiple ways, rather obvious to mention. If she left with red on her lip this time, it’d not be from her mother’s lipstick.

One of those differences was that Merida couldn’t get into the Order the same way as well. Usually, they ended up at one of the homes of the Order members who lived in London, where they’d wash, change, and then enter through a secret passageway to the underground.

This time though, Merida kept an eye on the stops on the tube, and then grabbed Lou’s wrist when she saw the one marked in her Da’s journal.

“Here,” she instructed. They hopped off the tube and Merida looked around. Still early in the morning, there weren’t many people up still. Mostly drunks from last night and that would make this all much easier since it meant no questions. When she was certain no one was looking, she hopped down onto the tracks and she and Lou slipped into the gray shadows, like they were rats.

“Stay close!”

She broke into a quick jog, nearly a run. Merida had been up for hours at this point, but it didn’t feel like it. Her heart was keeping pace. The beast in her was alert, letting Merida use her eyes to cut through the dark. Her ears rang with the silence as they listened for the tell-tale signs of approaching cars, and her nostrils flared when she smelled the rats skittering along beside them, but she kept her focus, muttering quietly to herself until…

“Here.” Merida stopped short, panting. She bent down, feeling around the stone of the wall. A few of the blocks loosened. Merida grinned and looked at Lou--forgetting, temporarily, that they weren’t friends, that this wasn’t one of Merida’s private escapades. She was no mischeivous Order girl anymore. The rules she was breaking now, she broke as an enemy.

But for that first second, it didn’t feel like it at all. It felt like Merida was winnin’ again. I found it, Da. Got here all on me own. Think I’m worthy yet?

Merida wiggled the stone out, one, then another, stacking them on top of each other until there was a narrow tunnel, big enough for them to enter if they kneeled down. They’d crawl through here and then it’d expand, and there’d be a ladder down.

Merida told all of this to Lou now. “Soon as we get down that ladder, there will be a guard. I’m hopin’ it’ll be just one, this entrance isn’t used for anythin’ anymore. I’ll disarm him, you make sure the tunnel is clear, aye?”

TOULOUSE: They were wearing the same clothes they’d been wearing yesterday.

Never in Toulouse’s life.

(Alright, that wasn’t exactly true, considering when Lou’s depression laid down heavy on his shoulders and pushed him into the mattress, he often wore the same outfit for days at a time. However, this was in the privacy of his own home and was different.)

Never in Toulouse’s life.

Which, honestly, summed up the adventure down to the tunnel which they were now peering into. Never in Toulouse’s life had he gone on any sort of adventure. Certainly not of his own free will. Swynlake often attempted to force him to participate in adventures, but he never did much in those stupid dreams, except date ill-advised people. Which was less of an adventure and more of a very cruel prank of the town.

He had never in his life hopped onto a train track and gone down those long, dark tunnels. There was no thrill about it for him. He sneered as he stepped in a puddle of god-knows-what (not even his wolf could discern, the smells too overwhelming and all over the place.) This was breaking the law, something Lou tried not to do, as the son of a politician who made laws. Who had instilled in him the civic responsibility sense of being a decent human who followed the rules of society. He did not like the idea of Merida pulling rocks out of the wall and sent a glance towards the arched ceiling, half-worrying that the whole thing was going to collapse down on top of them now that part of its structure had been removed.

Lou did not smile at her as she grinned like a buffoon over her shoulder at him.

If anything, he looked like a wet cat. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was frowning deeply. Not so much at Merida herself but just—the everything of his current predicament.

“D’accord,” Lou responded to his instructions with a nod of his head. That was something he could do at least. He waited for Merida to begin making her way down the tunnel before sighing dramatically, dropping his arms from across his chest and carefully picking his way behind her. For a moment, he wished their telepathy extended into their human forms, so that he could say: I cannot believe you are making me crawl through a sewage pipe. Even though it was not a sewage pipe and was actually rather dry.

Instead, he stewed silently and was glad when there was a literal light at the end of the tunnel. He watched as Merida disappeared down the ladder, then waited a moment before following her over. He peaked out into the mostly empty hallway to get his bearings and was that—the flickering of candlelight?

Were there actual torches lit?

Sacre bleu, this Order was legitimately insane.

MERIDA: Merida ducked down and started their descent.

Her heart was calm, her movements swift and graceful-- a grace that had little to do with the wolf and everything to do with the woman, who had to learn how to make herself invisible, because that was the way of this world. It was ironic that this invisibility helped Merida in ways the Order would never have endorsed-- helped her sneak place to place, helped her swipe her father’s journals, helped her find places to hide and practice. So even now, in this world, she belonged only to the parts that were made for the likes of her. The tunnels they would be taking proved that. They hugged the edges of the headquarters, squeezed in between the wide, elaborately decorated, generously lit hallways that Lou and Merida would probably (if all went well) never see. These were paths that were meant to be hidden. These were paths for servants. These were paths for the women.

Merida felt nothing but a deep sense of satisfaction as she used those tunnels now, just as she had always used the Order’s ignorance. She dropped from the ladder with barely a sound and found not even a single guard here. She smirked. Of course not. Of course they would overestimate themselves. And underestimate her.

She would not do the same. As Lou went down one end of the hall, Merida tracked down the other, just enough to confirm that there were no guards. She turned around and jogged to meet him at the other end. Their eyes met. Lou looked bewildered, his nose scrunching. Perhaps at the smell. Perhaps at something else.

She’d laugh at that expression if they had time. But the quicker they did this, the better.

Merida motioned with her hand and they rounded the corner. She hurried down the hall with a hand on her belt, where her dagger rested. Their footsteps shuffled, the only sound until--

Merida reached back and smacked her hand on Lou’s chest.

Footsteps. Heavy. Wearing boots, Merida figured. She looked back at Lou, held a finger to her lips, then held up a hand in a motion that meant, Stay.

And then Merida darted around the corner.

SMASH! The clatter of metal rippled through the tunnels. A man yelped. His cry echoed too, but it was just one moment-- one moment and then it was silent again.

“C’mere, Bonfamille!” Merida called.

When Lou rounded, Merida was wiggling a helmet off the guard’s face. She tossed it to Lou. Her smile stretched over her face-- wolfish, brightening the blue flame of her eyes.

“How do ye feel about playin’ dress up?”

TOULOUSE: Toulouse was infinitely glad that there were no guards in the hallway. His stomach was tearing itself apart with nerves, though he did a very good job of ignoring them. He had quite a lot of practice at such things, having been presenting his art for criticism from very young. That foreboding feeling was a familiar companion, as a child he had felt it often; waiting for his father to come home, for the fighting to begin.

This was the same feeling—waiting for the fighting to begin.

When Merida grabbed his chest and pushed him back, Toulouse felt his heart beating in his entire body. It was a wild, loud thing. The wolf had a hold of it between his teeth. It felt like it was in Lou’s throat. What a pesky thing, that heart, his mortality. He wished the wolf would devour it. That heart of his made him a coward—made him afraid to die.

He flinched at the clamour of armor, the sound of fighting. It only took a second, but it felt like a lifetime. He didn’t move from his spot at the wall, wondering if it had been Merida, in the end who’d been bested by the guard. What would he do if that was the case? The wolf raised its head and Lou knew the answer: he would find Claude, even if he had to rip the throat out of every crazy bastard in this place.

Merida called his name and Lou gave a jerk before sucking in a breath and rounding the corner. He ran a hand through his greasy hair and scowled at her.

“Silver is not my colour. I am warm-toned,” he deadpanned—even though it was true. Toulouse never wore silver jewelry if he could help it. It washed him out. However, the helmet was not jewelry. And he also knew Merida wouldn’t take no for an answer. So, he took it from her delicately and scrunched his nose as he dressed.

“If you thought I was useless to you before, I certainly will be now,” he hissed at her once he finished, sighing harshly. The sound echoed through the helmet and rang in his sensitive wolf-ears. This was going to give him a headache. “What now?”

MERIDA: “Actually, you’re much more useful to me now, mate. Before you were a walking target. Least now if someone tries to stab ye, maybe they won’t poke all the way through.” Merida’s eyes glittered as she said this as if it were a joke.

And maybe it was a joke, though she meant every word. A Toulouse with a breast plate might not die as fast as a Toulouse without one.

She didn’t wait to see how her joke might land (she didn’t have to wait; she knew that this bloke had no sense of humour, having been inside his brain). Merida dragged the Order lackey around the corner instead, grabbing his dagger for good measure. She was back the next second, ushering Lou on.

“Stand on the outside of me, aye? Try to look like ye belong here.”

They twisted down the halls, moving fast. They were still mostly empty. It was almost too easy, thought Merida to herself, though she had a good idea as to where everyone was-- already feasting down in the main halls before the month’s baptisms. An Order full of drunk men with swords, a handful of who were probably shirking these very posts in order to nip the lamb and wet their fingers with wine. Still, twice Merida grabbed Lou and they hid again as a few Knights passed by.

They were getting close now. It was about to get harder. Breaking in had always been the relatively easy part.

Merida paused when the nursery was just up one more hallway. The halls were brighter here, clean and tiled. You could hear the voices of the women not only in the nursery, but in the dressing rooms. Laughter. Singing. Merida could close her eyes and remember herself here, stuck in a chair as her mother tried to tame her wild curls into something presentable. She could remember feeling too big for her own skin. How she’d hated it--

But those songs. That reminded Merida of her mother too, and her chest burned with a yearning that no one ever truly outgrew.

Merida just had to ignore it.

“Alright,” she hissed. “This...this is the hard part. Your cousin should be in the first room to the left. But as you can hear...not exactly alone. There will be other babies too.” She sighed and licked her bottom lip.

“You could play pretend and see how far you get. Tell them that Sorcha, perhaps, sent you to…” the lie trailed off and died in the air. Merida didn’t know how to finish it off. It’d be so obvious, wouldn’t it? What Knight would enter with his helmet down? Why would a Knight come to fetch a babe?

The alternative was Merida kicking the door down, grabbing the nearest lady, and hoping no one screamed.

Someone would scream.

TOULOUSE: Toulouse tried not to let Merida’s morose humor get underneath his armor (quite literally, ha.) He was not so much worried about stabbing as he was the wolf trying to burst out of its new metal cage. It had been restless before, but now, Lou’s hands shook, and he could not tell if it was his own nerves or the wolf just below his skin.

Taking a breath, he did as he was told, because there was no reason to argue. Lou may not trust Merida, but he did acknowledge that she had more experience than him in these criminal matters.

It was silent, but never still. Lou’s eyes darted, looking at every door like it was the mouth of a trap. His ears strained, putting his new senses to as much use as possible, listening for approaching soldiers. (And, honestly, the whole thing was so disorientingly medieval, Lou felt like he had walked into some sort of renaissance faire. (His tantine had loved Renaissance faires, she had found them so creative and quaint. She’d taken him to one once when he was a boy and bought him a sword, which his mother had promptly taken away from him.)

It was with those new ears of his that he heard the women before Merida even stopped them and he felt sick to his stomach again. His gaze slid to hers, though he kept getting distracted every time there was an uproar of laughter or delighted squeals—which was fairly often. It reminded Lou, strangely, of the summer plays. The same kind of frenetic energy sizzled through the air, everyone in preparation.

Pretend…

Well, Lou figured the alternative was Merida doing something—Merida-ish, which would hurt their cause more that Lou attempting to pass as an Order member for long enough to get his hands on his nephew (though, maybe he should give Merida playing pretend more credit, considering she’d lied to Belle for months without detection.) The thought made the wolf whine in his chest.

“I’ll do my best,” Lou said, straightening his shoulders somewhat. “Wish me luck.”

With that, he didn’t waste another moment, the wolf urging him forward. He just wanted to set sights on Claude.

When he entered the room, he blinked a bit. It was much brighter than the hallway. It was immediately clear that he stuck out. All the women were lovely and perfumed, their hair shining beneath the lights. They giggled in corners, doing their make-up, holding babes. There were a few children in the corner, playing with dolls in pretty white dresses. It was clear that he did not belong. Even if he was not a wolf, or an outsider. There was not a man among the entire group. As soon as his presence was noticed, a silence settled. The flurry of activity ended.

Lou hardly noticed any of this—

He had his sights set on Claude, who was sitting on the lap of a woman he didn’t know. He swallowed once. The baby was so close, only a few meters away. Lou could cross the room in two strides and be at his cousin’s side. He kept rooted to the spot by sheer force of will. Even the wolf realizing they were surrounded and had to tread lightly.

“Oi, what are you doing down here?” one of the women, older than most of the rest if he had to guess, snapped at him.

Lou jerked slightly, though the ill-fitting armor gave him away. He reached up and removed his helmet. It was probably a poor move, but he was sweating. He was nervous. But, Lou had been trained for things like this. He was not a warrior, but he had manners.

“Pardon me, my ladies,” he said, roughing up his accent to disguise the French. It was not so hard to sound British, he sounded more British than he would like already on the day to day, having now lived in this country longer than he had ever lived in France. He had to fight to keep his accent, but now, he let it go. If it meant getting Claude back, he’d let it all go.

“I was sent by Lady de Chateaupers,” he continued after a moment, taking his time, “to gather young Claude. His grandmother would like to introduce him to a few other of the lords and ladies.” The lie was as smooth as it could be. He remembered what that vile woman had said: he’s my only grandchild. It felt in character for her to want to brag.

The two oldest women looked at each other. One put her hands on her hips, unconvinced.

“Why send you?” she scoffed.

Toulouse blinked, it was a good question. “I, uh—all the women are busy, of course., in preparation, including Lady de Chateaupers I volunteered. I have many siblings, he’ll be in good hands with me.”

Give him back, the wolf growled.

“Who are ye?” snapped the other matron.

Cannard. Lou had thought to escape without giving a name. “Uhm, Lou.”

“Not your name, boy—your family.” Her eyes narrowed.

The only families that Lou was aware of who were part of the order were the de Chateaupers and— “DunBroch, ma’am,” he said, attempting to keep the annoyance out of his voice, surely Merida was getting a kick out of this. “Lou DunBroch.”

“I don’t recognize you,” the woman said bluntly.

“Well, you DunBrochs breed like there is no tomorrow, isn’t that right, Millie?” the woman with her hands on her hips looked over at a young woman.

Millie—the woman who just so happened to be holding Claude—stood up from where she was sitting and wandered a little closer.

Lou could feel his heart in his whole body.

“He does have the DunBroch hair…”

I most certainly do not, Lou wanted to sniff. Merida’s hair was a completely different shade of red than his own. Hers was richer, redder, deeper. His was copper, dark, and earthy.

Claude looked up at Lou, blinking his pretty blue eyes. He was close enough that he could smell him. That soft, sweet smell.

Family, keened the wolf in Lou’s chest.

Lou smiled and reached up to touch his air. “Aye,” he said—trying not to sound to Scottish, he knew he’d never get away with it, but perhaps he had picked up some colloquials growing up.

Millie moved a step closer, peering at him. “Who’s your da?”

Fuck.

A second passed. Then another.

Millie drew back.

Toulouse didn’t think then, the wolf took over in a flash. He reached forward and grabbed Claude by his chunky arm and ripped him out of Millie’s grip. A clamor started at once. The baby began to cry, making Lou’s heart squeeze—hoping he had not hurt him. Millie, to her credit, launched towards Lou, her fingers curled like claws. Lou tucked Claude to his chest with one hand and pushed Millie back with the other. His helmet clattered to the ground.

“Thief!” shouted one woman.

“Help!” cried another.

“Merida!” barked Lou as he started stumbling backwards out of the room.

The oldest woman, who had been hawk-eyed from the first moment, appeared next to him and tried to wrench Claude away again. A growl ripped from Lou’s chest, his eyes flashing, before he could think about it. The woman froze in her shock.

“Beast!” she cried as she recoiled.

“It’s the wolf!”

Someone screamed then, a proper, high-pitched wail, as if she was being pulled apart.

MERIDA: This was a bad idea.

But there were no good ideas here, were there? Sometimes, that’s just how it was. But sometimes, those bad ideas became the best stories. They became the legends that men told over and over as they sloshed their beer and laughed over each other. They became the songs that children learned. The songs that Merida carried with her in her heart, never to fade no matter how far she got from this world. It would still be the fabric she was sewn with. She clutched one dagger, tilted her head, her ears ringing with the voices of her sisters, her aunts, the women who had once raised her too. She hoped this bad idea would work a miracle worth a song. She did not want any of them hurt.

She was listening for something else too. She leaned around the wall, held her breath as the conversation meandered from woman to woman. She recognized each voice enough, but they were not the voice she was listening for.

Elinor. Mum. Are you there? Mum, don’t be there. Please, don’t be there...

And then things started to fall apart, that bad idea a wobbling tower waiting for one last shove, innit? The adrenaline piqued inside her. The wolf was awake, but far away. Merida flexed her fingers over her dagger.

Who’s your da?

Merida darted around the corner at this question and burst into the room by the time the woman had let out a cry.

“MERIDA!”

Merida’s eyes found her cousin’s face in the lamplight-- young, raven-haired Senga. Her bright blue eyes widened. First, there was a flicker of relief, relief triggered on instinct, because before Merida was a traitor, before she was a beast, she was one of them. Senga believed that Merida might save them all.

She remembered that look in her Da’s face right before he picked up his knife.

Merida didn’t wait for the moment to pass. She followed the plan. Their very, very, very bad plan. She grabbed her own cousin, petal-pretty Senga, and yanked her out of the room, knife tip pointed at Senga’s throat. She slammed the door shut and locked it (because yes-- these doors all have locks on the outside. To keep people in as much as to keep them out).

Senga trembled, already sobbing.

“You’ll be fine if ye just do exactly what we say,” Merida hissed. They stumbled, all of them, down the hall. Merida’s ears rang with the sound of the men stampeding down the hall. They were going to collide in the south wing and there was no avoidin’ that.

“I don’t want to be a werewolf!” Senga sobbed. “I don’t want to die! Puh-puh-puh-lease--!”

“Crivvens, no one’s turnin’ you! Shite, Lou, here they come, give her the damn baby!”

And sure enough, they ran into the wing at the same time as the patrol of guards.

Everyone stopped and stared at everyone else.

Merida yanked Senga against her chest, that knife’s edge still at her throat. Wails from the baby filled the air, wails from Senga too. “If ye move a step more, I’ll cut her throat!” Merida threatened.

A man flipped up his visor--”Merida.”

Uncle Domnhall. Well. It’d be strange not to run into a couple of family members wouldn’t it? Merida’s jaw clicked but she didn’t loosen her grip. The rest of the armored men stood stupid-still. She could guess there were all Knights, the lot of them-- the true Princes takin’ the night off for the baptism. Though they could be suitin’ up now, heading their way. The longer Merida waited here, the more she risked runnin’ in with skilled Princes just like Uncle Dom. Could she take Uncle Dom? Maybe. Maybe because of the wolf’s strength and speed. But not even Merida was sure about that.

Merida’s heels pressed back, sliding one, two, three steps. She dragged Senga with her. “I’ll leave her somewhere ye can find her.”

“Merida!” hissed Uncle Domhall again and he drew his sword.

Merida flicked the knife tip over Senga’s chin. Senga shrieked and blood pearled, shiny as rubies. Merida’s nostrils flared. Inside, the wolf’s teeth bared.

Uncle Domnhall’s eyes hardened and in that second, she saw that her threat had the opposite effect. He didn’t believe that she’ll do it-- slit her own cousin’s throat. She might be a monster to them all, but in that moment, Domnhall made a decision based on Merida’s humanity.

He flipped down his visor.

“Fuck.” Merida shoved Senga into the wall and dodged left to avoid Domnhall’s lunge. Senga shrieked.

An order ripped from Domnhall’s lips. “ATTACK.”

The knights surged.

The thing about combat was, it was so fast. There was no thinking. Sometimes you make the right choice and sometimes you make the wrong one, and if you make the wrong one, then that’s the end for you-- no do-overs. Later, Merida wouldn’t remember if it was her years of training after all, if it was her desire to live, or if it was the wolf that directed her dance. But it only took a few seconds:

Domnhall lunged again, swinging his sword. Merida feinted much faster than he was guessing and ducked under his arm as graceful as a ballerina. She thrust her dagger straight under his armpit, between the armor’s plates. Uncle Domnhall howled and Merida swung him into the wall. She grabbed him by the helmet and smashed him into the wall. One, two, three times.

When her uncle crumbled to the ground, Merida couldn’t stop to think about whether or not she’d smashed his skull into little pieces.

Instead, Merida picked up his sword and jumped into the fray.

TOULOUSE: For Lou, time had two speeds and only two speeds: mind-spinning fast and aching slow. He had lived like a scale, attempting to balance between the two for so long he did not remember what it was like not to, for so long that he had not even realized that it was not way most experienced the world. It was exhausting, the constant push and pull. When his mind was working slow, it was like trying to walk through waist deep mud. Every step required more energy than he felt possible of giving. Every word dripped from people’s lips—his lips—like the slow drip of honey. When his world moved fast, Lou felt like he was flying. He always liked these fast-paced ups more than he liked the molasses downs.

Now, the world spun fast, but it wasn’t Lou’s brain making it happen. At least, Lou was quite sure it wasn’t. Usually, when Lou was spinning, spinning, spinning—it was more like soaring. Like rising fast through the sky. Sure, the earth was getting closer, but the trajectory was smooth. It only blipped when he was confronted by someone telling him to stop, telling him he had messed up, that things were wrong. Then, everything accordioned on itself, creating a confusion of thoughts and feelings. He was still soaring, but through clouds that had him turned around: up from down, right from left all looked the same.

That was what the bowels of this Order Headquarters felt like. All the walls looked the same. Every stone. Everything was wrong, unfamiliar. It did not fit into Lou’s brain. Their feet stumbled and tripped together down the corridors. Claude wailed and wailed and clung to the blunt edge of the armour Lou was still wearing. Lou wanted to wish that he was not wearing the armor, so that he could hold Claude close and the babe could feel his warmth and smell his skin and know that he was safe, with family.

Lou did not have time to even think to wish these things. Everything happened so quickly. As the fighting erupted, Lou felt his brain snap into place like a rubber band. As the swords flashed, Lou realized that he was holding a baby and that he needed to do something. Spinning on his heel, he shoved Claude at the woman whimpering on the floor.

“If you run, I will find you,” he threatened, a growl rumbling from his throat.

The woman whimpered and hugged Claude close like a baby doll.

The next moment, Lou turned back to face the soldiers. Two were already on top of him, since his back had been turned. One with a spear that he thrust towards Lou. The same way he’d felt it when practicing with Merida, Lou felt the wolf snatch control, turning Lou’s torso at just the last moment so that the tip of the spear glanced off of the breastplate. However, the impact almost knocked the wind out of Lou, causing him to stumble as the other man’s sword swung. He felt the breeze of it graze over his head.

In the chaos, he tried to remember what Merida had told him. However, he could only remember one thing: Claude. It was an instinct more than a thought, a gut-punch, a rod that straightened Lou’s back and kept him pinned in place.

Reaching as he stumbled, Lou grabbed the spear the one man was holding and with the help of the wolf, snapped it into two. He now had a hold of the sharp end, which he swung in an arch towards the men with a snarl like a cornered animal (which he was). One of the men tripped backwards, perhaps more afraid of the noise than the clumsy brandishing of the spear, but Lou pressed his advantage, stepping forward again, thrusting with the spear towards the soldier.

This left him open to the other man, whose sword slashed again through the air, catching Lou in the exposed arm.

It happened in a blink. It happened in the screeching groan of mangling metal as the wolf burst forth from the man and landed agile on its feet, growling low and harsh as it positioned itself in front of the woman and babe, its tail thrashing. This time, when the braver knight parried forward with its sword, the wolf lunged too, dodging the blade and snapping at the man’s wrist. With a shout, the man stumbled backwards and the wolf, unlike the man, didn’t hesitate to bound forward, grabbing the solider by the shin, its teeth wrapped around the thin metal there, which contorted itself and cut into the man’s skin, the scent of blood filling the wolf’s nose.

MERIDA: They had to get out of here.

Merida’s brain and her body had separated. Her body was acting on a different channel than her mind. It was all instinct for her body, lunging into the thicket and cutting the back of the knees of one Knight, then smashing her body into another so they barreled together into the wall again. She flipped him over her shoulder and stomped her boot once into the bloke’s neck, making him gargle and wheeze. She caught the sword of another and used all the strength of the wolf to shove it off, so hard that the bloke’s weapon was tossed aside. She jumped and kicked him straight in the chest, then spun again and her swords collided with another again.

She did all this as if the fight had been choreographed and all she was doing was following those steps. One after the other, after the other. Slashing, dodging-- she was sword and body.

But while she did these things, her mind spun, not instructions exactly, but-- things she couldn’t ignore.

That they had to go.

That Lou was a wolf now, and he could kill them all, her family--

They were still her family--

That these boys, they crumpled easily because they were young, younger than her. This was not the Order’s best soldiers. She caught the flashing, familiar green eyes of Lionel Simons, who was barely 18. Had he turned 18 when she was gone? Had he failed his first hunt? Lionel Simons might become a werewolf hunter one day and face her, a silver bullet in his rifle, but for now, he was a teenager, screaming, forced into this life the way that Merida had been forced into hers.

These truths made Merida smash and cut, but never kill.

Merida didn’t believe that Lou, his wolf, would do the same.

“NO!” She bellowed it without thinking when Lou’s teeth crushed a boy’s leg. It might have been from her body this cry came from, not her mind.

A flash of her own attack passed through her memory though. The red-hot terror and the crunch of Akela’s teeth. It was the moment she’d died. It distracted her enough that Merida let Lionel Simons slash his sword, and she moved a hair too slow. The tip grazed her, cutting her shirt like butter and kissing her skin with brand new pain.

Merida’s body kicked in again and she swung Domnhall’s sword back at Lionel. Hard. They clashed, and Merida swung a second, third, fourth time, beating Lionel all the way back down the hall before he failed to block her. She crashed her sword into his shoulder plate, hard enough to bruise him and upset his balance. She raised her sword above her head and brought the hilt down onto Lionel’s helmet. He collapsed, whimpering, and let go of his sword--

He was a coward, exactly the kind of Knight she resented because she’d always been better.

He was also, still, just a boy.

“Leave!” she spat at him. “Run! All of you! Do you want to be turned? Do you want to die?” Merida swung her arm toward Lou’s wolf and Lionel, sobbing, scrambled and retreated.Several other boys followed him at once.

Merida spun around and sprinted back to Senga, cowering there, covering the head of little Claude.

“Give me the baby,” she demanded. She wrenched screaming Claude from Senga’s arm. “Run!”

Senga crawled to her feet and tripped her way down the hall.

She spun back to see Lou, and the boy he’d bitten. “We have to go,” she told the wolf.

TOULOUSE: The wolf’s instinct had grabbed a hold of Lou and thrust him into the very back of his own mind. It was almost as if the boy did not exist. There was just the wolf and its desire to protect its family.

The wolf’s ears could hear the sound of screaming, of crying, of Merida’s breath. The wolf’s nose smelt iron, iron, iron. It wanted to taste more of it, the pit in its belly yawning. Its head shook slightly, a growl still in its throat. It wanted to bite through all the mangled armor. It wanted to taste the iron of its enemies’ blood, not the iron of a steel plate.

The bloodlust distracted the wolf long enough for the boy’s partner to pick up the spear from where it lay discarded amongst the shredded metal the wolf had burst from. With a thrust, the spear pierced the wolf’s shoulder. The blood was forgotten in favor of the flash of blinding pain. Throwing its head back, the wolf howled.

For a second, in their conscious, the wolf and Lou tumbled about, disoriented as their shoulder throbbed. Lou’s heartbeat fast in his chest as blood dripped onto the floor. No longer just the boy’s but Lou’s as well. It was Lou who seized with fear, who remembered that sharp, blinding pain—though he had not felt such a thing in many years. Suddenly, he was twenty-one again, laying dying in a dark trailer.

The spear was yanked out of the flesh, causing another flash of pain. The wolf stumbled and half-collapsed as its leg gave out beneath it, the muscles torn. It regained its balance as it retreated, pursued by the other man, whose confidence grew with every stumbling step the wolf took. Once it stood sturdy again, it realized it was much too close to the woman who was holding the babe. Her scent, the babe’s scent wiping the smell of blood from its nostrils. Still snarling, the wolf lunged towards the man, snapping its jaws.

With a shout, the man’s cowardice fled and the man followed it down the hall. The wolf stood panting, its shoulder twitching in pain, blood dripping onto the floor. It took a moment to realize that most of the hall was now still. Most of the enemies gone. But not safe—not yet.

It was then Merida yanked Claude from the girl and his cry rend through the air. Swinging his head about, Lou growled harshly before he recognized Merida’s scent and blinked to see pack, not foe. The growl died in his throat and instead, the wolf looked down the hall towards where the woman was retreating, making sure no others were coming.

At Merida’s command, the wolf’s ears flicked and he looked back at her.

With a huff of breath, the creature padded towards the exit. It could smell the direction to go in. The dampness of the tunnel they’d crawled through on the way here. It looked back over its shoulder at Merida and let out a soft whine.

Let’s go then, that look communicated.

He waited until she was following and then he slipped down the corridor, the torchlight glinting off his golden fur and making the blood on his shoulder garishly bright against the ochre red of his fur.

#bdrpmerida #merlou #catnapped 2: this time it's purrsonal #part six #if you do a bad thing for a good reason is it still bad?#this is a long title but #i couldn't think of anything else okay cool #yay !!#it's done #tech it was done yesterday but i didn't post it for personal reasons

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roxannepolice · 6 years

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Dark side of the simulacra

Simulacra and precession of simulacra are one of the concepts explaining postmodernity, one created by Jean Baudrillard. I’m about to elaborate on what he understands by these terms, but for the less engaged among you, here’s the shortest definition ever:

Death Star is a simulacrum and StarKiller Base is a preceeding simulacrum. Or so they are in the eyes of general audience.

Ok, now for more elaboration. Simulacrum is basically a symbol which lost the connection with its meaning, destroying the meaning itself in the process. It’s in contrast to representation (which equates a meaning with a symbol), as simulation negates the symbol as value. Simulation encapsulates the meaning and the symbol and devours them both, transforming them into the simulacrum. A good comparison provided by Baudrillard is that of what simulation is commonly understood as and what are the result of its abuse. When you simulate a sickness (which is more than just pretending to be sick, to simulate you’ll force yourself to vomit, artificially heighten you temperature, etc.) you make people question if there even is anything like a sickness – because if all the signs can be faked, then how can it be diagnosed?

Baudrillard opens his dissertation by recalling a story about a country of cartographers – their great ambition was to create a map of their country which would be as accurate as possible. And so they would make it more and more accurate until finally they created a 1 to 1 map, basically a huge coloured blanket which covered their entire country. And if that sounds like apparent creative process behind The Force Awakens – then yeah, it should. I’ll say more, it’s the next generation of that cartographer country taking a satellite photo of that 1 to 1 map and covering that map with their satellite map.

Because Baudrillard presents four stages of relationship between a meaning a simulacrum:

a meaning, an idea (say, and idea of destruction, aggression)

an idea receives a tangible body (nuclear weapons. I mean the real ones.)

tangible reality receives abstract symbols, which don’t lose touch with the meaning – that’s the level of representation (Death Star. it’s overblown, it’s fictional but it represents a fear of a weapon capable of destroying entire planet, a fear very real during the cold war)

abstract symbols give birth to new abstract symbols, which may make an impression of being more real than the actual idea (StarKiller. Death Star only BIGGERRRRRRR, so more EVIL than the Death Star) – and this is also the point at which that symbol of a symbol may destroy its own meaning, become the exact opposite of itself (obviously both Death Star and SKB are negative symbols of aggression and how many people here on the hellsite met with very real aggression over a very not real StarKiller?)

Now, to the average viewer, that’s how TFA came to be. Take A New Hope and repeat it. Maybe make everything more – make Rey more abandoned than Luke, BB-8 cuter than R2-D2, StarKiller bigger than Death Star, Hux more skinny than Tarkin, First Order more nazi than Empire, Resistance more heroic than Rebels and Kylo Ren more evil than Darth Vader, underlined by giving him an even more evil looking lightsaber. Oh, and give Luke a more Jesus like hair than Obi-Wan had.

To fake. To dream. Perchance to watch The Last Jedi and throw a tantrum because what the hell is this?

Yes, TLJ destroyed every illusion that the sequels will be simply an originals’ simulacrum. Resident Vader didn’t get redeemed when he killed the resident Palpatine, Luke didn’t happily jump back into action like Obi-Wan, a heroic Rouge One like disobedience got people pointlessly killed, apparent neutral good Lando was a actually a selfish junk and celibate-to-be orphan looking for her parents actually knew all along her parents were dead garbage and, wait, wants a D? An evil D at that? PREPOSTEROUS, that’s against everything Star Wars is.

Well, thank the force we got such reactions. Because it shows the symbol needs to be reattached to its meaning before it gets devoured by simulation, which is exactly what I believe the sequels are here to do. Now, as I confess I didn’t recognize in 2015 but the fine people on this site have shown me, there were obvious clues this was not going to go the way we think already in TFA, but, well, they require a moment’s thought. On the most obvious symbolic level – the StarKiller didn’t simply get blown up like Death Star only once the shell fell off, a sun was reborn. Anyway, enjoy.

Devil wears Boss or how to make nazis even more nazi

Trigger warning: I go unpleasant places in this paragraph relating to WW II and nazism, up to the point of actually quoting nazi agenda, but if you want to reattach a meaning with a simulacrum sometimes you have to go to unpleasant places. That being said, if it is upsetting to you, please stop here.

Arite, how many people here have been called literal nazi supporters for rooting for Kylo Ben’s redemption?

How many for rejoicing over Darth Anakin’s redemption?

Yeah. First Order is even more nazi than the Empire. Their weapon is more destructive, Hux is more Hitler, cinematography is more Riefenstahl, oh, and look, the protagonists are a woman and a POC, in case there was any question of power imbalance represented. Well, clearly, First Order are literal neo nazis, right?

Hold your horses. LITERAL definition of neonazism from online Collins dictionary: a modern extreme right-wing political movement and ideology based on a resurgence of support for Nazi ideological principles. Ok... So, Nazism? Nazi Party, byname of National Socialist German Workers’ Party, German Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei (NSDAP), political party of the mass movement known as National Socialism. Under the leadership of Adolf Hitler, the party came to power in Germany in 1933 and governed by totalitarian methods until 1945. I can’t see anything literal here to be applied to the GFFA, especially if Star Wars happen a long time ago. Mean question, but how many woken tumblrers knew there’s “socialist” in NSDAP?

I could rest my case here. But of course, what we do mean by “literal” Nazism is racism, anti-Semitism, homophobia, cult of a leader, cult of power, belief in god given superiority... And to be fair, oversticking to historical circumstances may be just as harmful as overabstracting the subject, as I’m about to point out. But there’s still nothing “literal” in a sequel to kids’ movie.

That’s simulation at its finest. Symbols, appearances of imperialist ideologies have become completely detached from how they actually functioned historically – and themselves became a reason to send racist anons over a space opera. Now, I have a misfortune of living in a country where far right is doing well right now and if you think those guys are listening to Wagner, you’re badly mistaken. Of course, they won’t call themselves neonazis, because Nazism is a thing exclusive to Germans and European Union is heir apparent to Third Reich. And abortion is a nazi practice. And Hitler was a vegetarian, so vegetarians are evil. That’s what they actually say you know. But hatred towards people of other ethnicities and religions? Yes, very much there. Including suggestions of “final solutions”, albeit mostly in online discussions. Oh, and guess what, they can watch Star Wars and understand that they are supposed to be FO. Conclusion? Hollywood-jewish agenda. Believe me, showing the FO members die in agony won’t make actual neonazis rethink their ways. They’re romantic heroes on a quest against a globalist empire, strike them down and they’ll become more powerful.

The First Order aren’t literal neonazis. They are neo-frequent-villains-in-video-games-nazis. I would actually argue that the parallel to Nazism in Star Wars only became clear when we saw how Palpatine came to power – in thunderous applause of democratic rules, just like Hitler and it should above all warn us of the pitfalls awaiting a system as good as democracy. Making Rae Sloane, a co-creator of the first order a bisexual WOC was a conscious step at detaching FO from what the nazi party historically was. The original imperials are closer to a more abstract totalitarian system and imperial ideology, thus being more of a critique of generally understood western world in the 70s, finding its peak in Vietnam War. Interestingly, one of the movies which inspired Lucas while making ANH was Pontecorvo’s The Battle of Algiers, where “the Empire” would be... France. Somehow I don’t see Renperor being compared to de Gaulle.

Ah, but that’s not so simple. If we want to dig deeper, beyond the level of tangible history and into the world of ideas, then FO is indeed symbolic of Nazism understood as aggression, thoughtless hatred, war, will to destroy all opposition, army as a totalitarian subsystem, suspension of human rights, antiparliamentarism. That’s nothing good and historical circumstances have nothing to do with it. And Disney-LF brings this point home. Depiction of violence in the sequels is much more realistic than in the originals.

Mind probe, in the originals shown as an evil looking syringe and Vader with Leia behind closed doors (no screams, next time we see her she’s fine), in the sequels is shown as a psychological violation of the worst kind

Death Star shot Alderaan we knew nothing about into smithereens and it was soooo coool and all we saw was Leia’s horror and Obi-Wan’s impression in the force – StarKiller was a slow scene with evil red rays and horror of people on Couruscant, planet we knew well, as they were about to be burned to death

Vader was force choking anonymous imperials to death like nothing short of a comic relief, Kylo choking Hux not to death is unpleasant to watch even if you remember it was Armitage who rooted for using the SKB

Originals’ stormtroopers were faceless cannon fodder, sequels’ have Finn’s face and history of brainwashing.

So, in this sense, FO are indeed metaphorical (because still not literal) neonazis in a very realistic war circumastances of blood, suffering and subjugation. And I have no doubt that as a collective there’s nothing good in store for them in this trilogy.

But.

Allow me to quote the “best” expert on Nazism there’s ever been (yes, I’m using Hitler’s quote in tumblr post, I can’t believe it, Star Wars what are you making me do, don’t worry, I’m reaching the end of the political dissertation):

It is part of a great leader’s genius to make even widely separated adversaries appear as if they belonged to but one category, because among weakly and undecided characters the recognition of various enemies all too easily marks the beginning of doubt of one’s own rightness.

Talk about expertise in mass psychology. Take a breath, we’re about to return to the GFFA, but so many people use the nazi argument I feel they need contact with LITERAL nazis.

Consciousness of this technique of manipulating the masses is basically why I believe we’re about to get extremist Resistance and differentiated FO. Because right now we have no doubt of the former’s rightness and no recognition of variety in the latter (except for maybe stormtroopers). Additionally, we have coded them as good and bad guys before TFA’s opening crawl even appeared, courtesy of precession of simulacra, promos and how the good guys and the bad guys looked like in the originals. Sustaining this belief is a LITERAL totalitarian technique. And I believe Disney-LF is already making ground for a massive change, both with big game changers like Galen Erso and Finn, but also on a more everyday level in Solo, with actually surprisingly human imperial official coming up with Han’s surname.

FO are the bad guys because they use offensive violence and have no respect for human rights, not use offensive violence because they are the bad guys. And violence used by the Resistance doesn’t become good because good guys use it – they are the good guys because, so far, they’ve only used it defensively and avoided collateral damage. And when the agenda stops being rebuild the republic and becomes burn the first order down – we have reasons to believe it can change. Dehumanisation of the enemy is the first step to lose your own humanity. No extremists attack not believing it was the only way to achieve a noble higher goal.

To cut the long story short, villainy needs to be reattached to offensive violence and not Hugo Boss uniforms. And at this point, I’m afraid it can only be done by making it equally terrifying when dressed in cool leather jackets.

#star wars #first order #simulacra #armitage hux #kylo ren #tw: nazism #tw: world war ii #tw: abortion #tw: adolf hitler #feel like that should be mentioned

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futilescript · 6 years

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I'm sorry

Some soukoku angst (mixed in with minimal fluff) for @daughterofsinsloth Thank you for requesting! I'm not very good at fluff, I apologize.

Warning: Angst and heavy emotions

Pairing: Dazai & Chuuya (Soukoku)

Summary: Chuuya struggles to come to terms with Dazai's actions while battling

Anger washes over Chuuya's small frame in waves, feeling as though the heat from the flames licking fiercely at his body would burn him up. It starts at his neck, an unforgiving red reaching his cheeks in no time then mists itself to the very tips of his toes. Fists and jaw clenched as the fog before him clears. The Port Mafia executive pivots his body to face his former partner. Gloved hands grip furiously at the lapels of the brunette's trenchcoat, pulling him closer to his own body. "Are you listening to me?! I can’t believe you’re so stupid! How could you do something like that! Why would you-“

Dazai blinks, dumbfounded. Of course he does not realize what he has done wrong. Yet he relaxes into the grip his lover has on him, even relaxing into it; body having no choice but to flail with the movements. Chuuya's breath catches in his throat a lump forming which adds to his vexation.

"Chuuya, I made a choice." While the auburn haired man know this in his heart of hearts he realizes that it does not matter. Throwing one's own life on the line for any reason, Chuuya despises it. He did not need to absorb the damage, he should not have had to. Inwardly the anger is dissipating as Chuuya comes to the conclusion that he is the one to blame. That maybe his aggression is wildly misplaced.

Fire still wildly prods at Chuuya's veins burning his body up from the inside out though. Then as if upon instinct his hand reaches up to slap Dazai across the face. Nothing has ever been so loud. The latter does not make a single effort to stop him or rather catch his wrist to prevent him from even causing any harm. The inaction on his beloved's behalf proves to add additional fuel to his fire.

"You are reckless." Chuuya bites out through gritted teeth and what seems like will manifest into lockjaw from the mere pressure of the clench of his teeth at the moment. "Absolutely fucking reckless."

"Are you done?" No longer is the playful lilt present in Dazai's voice as his mouth moves at a leisurely pace. Seemingly burdened by the conversation. Chuuya finds that his heart is in his stomach faster than lightning strikes the night sky.

"You know what?" Nakahara spits with an obvious tone of annoyance, dropping his hands from the offending cloth he had previously been fisting, "Yeah."

It takes everything in his being to hold back the two words that sum up his thoughts, fuck you.

With that, the two former partners go their seperate ways.

Maybe he's being unreasonable. Chuuya ponders this all with his first drink of the night. Something light, a little red wine. With every tip of his head his brain supplies reasons on top of reasons to both be and not be upset.

This is stupid. He groans into his second glass of wine. Realistically speaking Chuuya knows and understands that Dazai cannot die. But it doesn't and will never stop him from reprimanding his beau's methods of "beautiful suicide" or outright selflessness. It's selfish, he knows. It's impossibly irrational to be upset at Dazai for something he cannot control. Something that wouldn't effect him in the long run. This being so the part of his brain that is constantly screaming at him never seems to die down.

What if one day it does not work? He's no longer immortal? ..Dazai dies.

Chuuya cannot fathom the thought.

Simmering in his raw emotions post-battle is never an ideal situation. Especially with alcohol. To say his tolerance for spirits is low is laughable. Chuuya does not have a tolerance if anything the alcohol tolerates him and his whining. A few shots of vodka in evolves the mafia member into a slurring mess. Consonants, syllables, and the messy grip on reality meshing together as another one of his fever dreams. Akutagawa watches with a grimace on his face, that of vague discomfort, while keeping an eye for broken glass around the table. Last time he had to press against a pressure point of his boss's to force him to submit.

Assumptions aside, it is rather obvious from the outside looking in to see what has happened to Chuuya. Seldom does the smaller boy ever turn into such a wreck. The additional blubbering of a familiar ADA detective's name is proof enough on its own. Chuuya's breath is ragged as he chugs down a glass of whiskey. It burns his throat. Alas it is nothing compared to the damage his heart took seeing Dazai injured on that field filled with still bodies. Back to the moment when he thought Dazai was going to join in and just be another body. His heartbeat stutters in his chest as he goes to rest his cheek on the wooden table. It's cold and wet but he doesn't mind. It reminds him of Dazai and his silly obsession with drowning himself. It's warm and salty. He's not entirely sure when tears started running down his face but within seconds everything cuts to black.

Chuuya wakes to the sound of running water being louder than he remembered previous to saying goodbye to the world for a while. The throbbing of his head coupled with the grating sound of water running has his body curling up. His arms cover his ears out of the fear of going deaf. The air in his chest is dead while there is a shuffling of feet behind him. Turning around he is greeted by a somnolent looking Ryuunosuke.

"What are you doing here?" Chuuya asks through a throat dry beyond comprehension. A glass of water is handed to him while he sits up in his bed. Obediently, he sips at it.

"I wanted to make sure you got home safely." His associate replies matter-a-factly while Rashomon peaks out behind his slender frame to shut off the sink water. "How are you feeling?"

"Like garbage." Chuuya laughs wryly through the brutally honest answer.

"Right then, I'll get going." Shuffling towards the door only to shout through it when closed. "Dazai wanted to talk." Chuuya spits out his water upon hearing the muffled words. As if on cue Dazai steps out of the shadows of his kitchen.

He's got to be kidding.

“I’m worried about you…” Dazai begins only to be cut off by a hungover Chuuya that absolutely does not want to be having this conversation right now.

"I can take care of myself!” Given the situation that Akutagawa was kind enough to fill him in on, Dazai knows better. Just a few hours apart and Chuuya is freefalling back into his messy habits of coping. Dazai even goes as far as to look at Chuuya pointedly, earning a mixture of an accusatory and exasperated gasp followed by a rather deep sigh.

“I just came to see how you were doing.” This earns a squint from the man sitting up shakily on his bed, a petulant pout forming on his lips. Dazai laughs nervously, trying to make light of the situation as he always does.

“And now it’s time for you to leave.” Chuuya deadpans aiming the glass of water at his lover out of pure spite. But of course Dazai expects it and dodges in time. It shatters against the wall leading into the kitchen much like how his heart shattered when Dazai decided to be an absolute halfwit.

"Chuuya." The soft tone plucks at his heartstrings, the years of companionship flooding his brain, tears form silently. His lower lip trembles as Dazai approaches him with hesitantly open arms. Chuuya rises to his knees to meet him halfway, falling into the chest that he is always sleeping on. "I'm sorry, Chuuya." The words are whispered just above his ear. Bandaged fingers rub at his neck in the form of a sorry that Chuuya will remember later. "I'm sorry."

Chuuya's shaky arms around Dazai's neck make his heart clench impossibly tight. As much as he teases his darling he does not enjoy upsetting him so. Chuuya hugs him suffocatingly close as if he were going to leave him at any second. Desperately clinging on while sobbing into Dazai's shoulder.

"Don't do it again, please." Staccato breaths patter across Dazai's collarbone. Dazai hums in agreement while pressing apologetic kisses into his hair.

“I love you.” A smile tugs at the bandaged man's mouth, to the naked eye it would be hard to find. Everything Dazai does is calm, calculated. Deliberately slow with meaning behind every action even if it's hidden. To say that attempting to read into his thoughts or actions is difficult is an understatement.

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Jokingly the auburn haired mafiaoso responds through sniffles. Chuuya on the other hand is easier to read. Almost as if he were made of glass. His expressions are earnest, even when he does try to muddle them into something else entirely try to dissuade his company. Pink tongue sharp but the conviction behind such pretty words are always clear. The tone is cold, unforgiving with a bite of adoration. One that Dazai recognizes all too quickly.

After a few moments, Chuuya pulls Dazai down onto the bed with him. Though it's an awkward position Dazai understands the sentiment.

"I love you too."

#soukoku #chuuya nakahara #dazai osamu #bungou stray dogs #skk #chuudazai #nakahara chuuya #not beta read

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thatcrazyfanfictionwriter · 6 years

Text

Secret of the Sewers: Start of Something

"Run."

A voice echoed through the endless darkness that surrounded Master Splinter like a stranglehold. He could barely breathe, could hardly see, and his entire body felt heavy. Every time he tried to move, he felt pain shooting through him so agonizing that he could barely stand it.

"Who is there?" He called out, his own voice seemingly weakened by this suffocating darkness.

"Run away…"

That same voice echoed, this time as if a godly being spoke. There was no source, but it seemed the totalitarian darkness around him was its source. A voice from all directions, without distinction.

"Don't stop. Can't stop. Run." It seemed more panicked now.

"Run." It echoed, louder.

"Run!" It seemed scared, terrified.

"Run away!"

He felt a chill run down his entire body, his every instinct telling him that something was behind him. His heart racing, he turned around to see a large silhouette towering over him. He didn't recognize the shape, but he could sense its malicious intent. Whatever it was, it was the epitome of evil.

"Run!"

…..

Splinter sat up, his fur soaked with cold sweat and his eyes dilated. His chest felt heavy, and his mind was in a fog. With deep breaths, he slowly felt his chi realign before rising from his bed. His dreams had become more and more vivid these past several days, warning him of some unknown horror. He had meditated on the meaning behind his dreams, but he still had no idea of what it could be.

He grabbed a small damp rag from the rotted wood end table, dabbing his face lightly. It had been getting more and more use over the last few weeks. He sighed.

"Perhaps the joy that only my sons could bring me will help me settle from my dreams."

He smiled, standing up and dusting off the fur on his chest and grabbing one of his robes. He slipped it on, looking in the cracked mirror he had set up, giving himself a small nod of approval. He then approached the door and took a deep breath.

"Grant me patience to withstand the day."

Splinter slowly opened the door to the main area of the small home he shared with his four sons, and was immediately greeted by the sight of his youngest son, Michelangelo, flying through the air on his skateboard.

"Cowabunga!" He screamed as he flew.

His skateboard slapped hard against the crack granite top of the makeshift lab that belonged to his brother Donatello. Vials and beakers jumped, then smashed against the floor as the blur of green and orange rolled off and smacked the concrete of the floor.

"Mikey!" Donatello shouted, picking himself up off the ground and adjusting his purple headband. "You're wrecking my lab!"

Mikey merely looked over his shoulder as he shredded down the railing of the short staircase towards the couch.

"Sorry Don!" He called, as he performed a trick jump over the coffee table, "It was in the way."

Splinter sighed, his claws pinching the bridge of his snout as he shook his head. He then reached over for the large walking stick that was leaning by the door. He loved his adopted sons very much, and they were his new world as they had been for the last thirteen years. However, there were some moments when punishment was needed.

This was one of those moments.

Mikey kick flipped towards Splinter, a goofy grin on his face.

"Hey Master Splin-"

The walking stick spun, slapping the ground hard in front of the skateboard. The wheels stopped and Mikey was sent flying off of it, landing with a loud splat into a pile of garbage the family had compiled.

"Michelangelo," He said sternly, before grabbing the skateboard, "You must learn respect for others. Otherwise, they will treat your possessions as crudely as you have theirs."

Mikey pulled his face out of the trash, his orange bandanna stained with bits of garbage stains. He spat slightly, spewing out whatever he had in his mouth before turning his attention back to Master Splinter.

"Sorry, Master Splinter." He said, his head bowing.

Splinter held out the skateboard, which Mikey quickly grabbed. As he watched Mikey walk over to Donatello, helping him in the clean-up efforts, a small smile graced his rat-like features. It was hard to believe that a mere thirteen years ago had passed since that fateful day. Though he often wondered how his life could have been, we was quite content with the new life he had built for himself and his sons.

Once he saw Mikey and Donny were finished cleaning up the lab, he clapped his hands twice. This quickly drew the attention of everyone, knowing that gesture as a call for their attention. They all turned to him as he leaned against his walking stick.

"My sons," He spoke, "I believe it is time we venture to the surface."

A groan filled the room emanating from the TV area.

"But Sensei…" moaned Raphael, sitting up from the couch he was hidden behind, "I'm only 200,000 points from a new high score!"

He raised the control up in the air, an old beaten piece of jump that had clearly been abused over the numerous times. By now, it was barely holding itself together with the aid of duct tape.

"You're game can wait," Splinter replied. "Unlike our hunger which isn't as patient."

The red turtle sighed as he pressed the pause button and made his way over to his Master. Leonardo, who had been training diligently in the small dojo area, walked into the room with an old towel on his shoulder.

"Let me guess," He said as he set the towel aside. "Surface?"

"Surface" The three others spoke simultaneously, two out of three of them expressing no small amount of glee.

Splinter tapped his walking stick against the ground, regaining his sons' attention. They all fell silent, turning to him.

"My sons… I know that you are curious about the outside world, but you must remember, we are not like those who walk above us. We are different, and in their world, we would not be easily accepted. That is why we must remain hidden. That is why I have trained you in the ancient art of ninjitsu."

The boys all nodded. Despite their curiosity, they knew that if they were ever discovered by the humans, they would be treated as monsters.

"Go my sons." Splinter said. "Supplies will not find itself."

"Hai Sensei." The boys said in unison.

They all leapt to their feet, grabbing their weapons from a large rack near the entrance into the main part of the sewers. In almost perfect synchronization, they darted into the endless expanse of tunnels, the thoughts of another night on the surface fueling their momentum.

…..

In the windswept streets of Madison Avenue, a young girl struggled to walk down the street. Her bare feet pattered in the multitude of puddles as the rain came down in droves. It hid the tears that ran down her face as she continued forward, leaning heavily against the wall of the building she was walking past.

She was soaked, water dripping from her flimsy clothes and down her shaven head as she turned down an alleyway. Her foot slipped and her legs gave out from underneath her. She fell, scraping her already dirty and bruised knees, the blood turning the puddles beneath her an angry red color. Unable to push herself back to her feet, she crawled towards a dumpster for cover, every fiber of her slim form shaking from the effort. As she huddled against the side of the dumpster, she took an old newspaper and wrapped it around herself, trying to conserve any remaining warmth her chilled body still had. The ink stained her hands as the wet paper disintegrated in her palms. She gripped what little she could, desperate to stay warm. Desperate to stay alive.

She heard footsteps off in the distance, their stomping presence approaching her tiny hiding place like marching men. A voice, muffled by the rain and the distance, barked out orders. She winced as she forced herself to stand on her quivering legs, ignoring the searing pain that coursed through her weakened body.

The lid to the dumpster was open, allowing for her to tumble into the waiting embrace of the garbage. There was a loud thud of the lid coming down, then silence. She held her breath, fearing that the noise would draw the attention of those just outside of her steel coffin.

"Think they went this way?" A deep and hoarse voice spoke.

"Nah, he wouldn't trap them both like that" A much hoarser voice replied. "Hr ain't as stupid as you think. Come on, I think I heard something down this way."

The footsteps began to recede as the men began to march away. Still, she didn't allow even the slightest spark of hope to flutter into her heart. She couldn't afford to. So she waited, her breath thread with both pain and fear.

"Maybe they aren't here after all." The gravel-voiced man muttered.

Suddenly, there was a muffled sound, like a radio or something of that nature.

"Shit, how'd they reach Fifth and Main? We're on it!"

The sound of their footfalls were more real this time and she sighed in utter relief. Now as safe as she would probably ever be, the girl allowed her exhaustion to overtake her as her eyes fluttered closed.

…..

The turtles approached the ladder to the surface. It was rusted and coated in a thick layer of slimy mildew, and above it, the sewer lid read 'Madison Avenue - New York Public Works'.

"We haven't searched here before." Leo pointed out as he grabbed the ladder, "We haven't marked it with an X yet."

"Oooooh." chimed Mikey, His eyes gleaming with excitement. "Rich people's trash! Think I'll find one of those fancy sports cars here?"

Leo merely rolled his eyes at his brother's question. Raph, however, slapped him hard upside the head, the sound echoed through the tunnel as he took hold of the ladder.

"Really Mikey?" He asked, "We'll probably just find their Junkers like we usually do."

Mikey sighed, then snagged his turn on the ladder. Donny looked around, making sure no one spotted them down there before climbing up himself. Leonardo reached the top of the ladder, slowly and quietly pushing the lid up off the ground. He peaked out through the small crack, looking left and right as if preparing to cross the street.

The alleyway was completely devoid of life, the perfect place for them to exit. Leonardo pushed the lid all the way off, then pulled himself onto the pavement. He stood up, then turned around to offer a hand up. Raph gratefully accepted the help and Leo pulled him from the sewer. Raphael then stepped into a nearby puddle, wiping the slime from his feet as Mikey held his hand up,

"Umm, a little help?"

Raph grabbed his hand, pulling him to his feet. Mikey dusted himself off, then turned towards the entrance of the alleyway. He spread his arms wide, a big goofy grin on his face.

"Hello! New York Cit-"

Raphael slapped Mikey yet again, eliciting a yelp from the orange turtle.

"Mikey!" He hissed, "What part of 'Stealth' don't you understand?!"

Leonardo looked back at the two, bickering like they always did. Donatello was waving his hand for help, with no response. With a sigh, Donny gripping the edge of the sewer grate and pulled himself out. Mikey and Raphael were still at each other's throats as Donatello brushed his chest and dusted his hands. He then grabbed Mikey and Raph by the neck and forced their heads together.

"There we go," He said, as they both finally stopped fighting, "We're now back on track for being silent!"

Their attempt at silence didn't last too long unfortunately. Leonardo had found a promising dumpster and took hold of the heavy dumpster lid. He lifted it open slightly, peeking inside. He gasped in utter shock before throwing it all the way open. It swung back and bashed into the back of the dumpster with a loud clang, echoing through Madison Avenue. Luckily, the natural roar of New York City filled the air and covered the ruckus perfectly.

"Hey guys!" Leonardo called, his voice slightly panicked. "Come quick!"

The three walked through the wet alleyway over to their brother, who waved for them to hurry. As the got to the dumpster and peered in, they were horrified to see a bloody girl in the dumpster, clutching a tattered newspaper like a blanket. She was so skinny that she looked almost like a skeleton, her bones giving her body a sharp angular appearance.

"Whoa!" Mikey exclaimed, "When'd they start throwing away their own?"

Raphael raised his hand to slap Mikey a third time before lowering it, genuinely curious as to why she was here in the first place as well.

"We can't leave her here." Leonardo said, looking down at her still form. "No one will find her unless we help her."

"But Leo." Donatello remarked, "Master Splinter said we weren't supposed to let any humans see us. He would kill us if he found out we brought one down into the sewers with us."

"Yeah!" Mikey retorted, "You know how hard it was to make people think giant alligators live down there? Years! Literal Years."

Leo began to examine her. Besides the scrapes on her knees, there was some pretty serious damage on her. Her bleeding and bent nose suggested it was broken, scars had been raked across her chest, and her wrists were raw and swollen There were bruises all over her, especially along the inner part of her arms where puncture marks could be seen. Her hair was gone, leaving only a rough stubble with patches where something had been stuck to her. Wherever she had come from, Leo knew she had been tortured there.

"We are helping her." Leo said, this time more adamantly then his earlier statement.

Donny went to speak up again.

"But Leo-"

One look from Leo silenced the purple turtle as the former turned his attention back to the girl.

"I'll take the blame, guys." he promised.

He reached into the dumpster, pulling her body from it. He clutched her close to him, feeling how cold and how light she was. He felt sick to his stomach, but steeled himself, unwilling to go back on his statement.

"She'll be my responsibility." He assured them. "I'll take care of her."

"She isn't a puppy, Leo" Mikey countered.

For once Raphael agreed.

"You can't just take her with us." He added. "She probably has a home somewhere."

"She isn't going back to where she came from." He said, his tone more commanding as he approached the sewer grate. "Now no more arguing."

Mikey tried once more to stop them, but was completely ignored. Raph and Donny may not have liked the idea, but they knew better than to question Leo when he got like that.

"But-" Mikey muttered in one final, futile effort.

The others left his side and began to approach the sewer grate. Leo descended with the girl. Mikey just remained silently as he saw his other brothers descend as well.

"But won't Master Splinter be mad about us not getting supplies?!"

He stood there a moment, hearing only the patter of rain, and a distant thunder strike. With a grunt of annoyance, he went after his brothers.

"Hey wait for me!"

…..

Splinter sat on his mat, enjoying the rare moment of peace by meditating. It was in this peaceful setting where he felt himself becoming one with the universe, and one with himself. He allowed himself a content sigh, a small smile paying onto his face.

"Master Splinter!" Came a cry from the sewers. "Master Splinter."

Splinter shook his head in resignation and opened his eyes, slowly standing up. He could hear the turtles barreling through the tunnels towards their home and he turned to greet them.

"My sons, you are back early. I hope you have gathered enough supplies and-"

His words caught in his throat as his sons came into view. Leo was carrying something in his arms, and upon further examination, it was revealed to be a human girl. She was unconscious in his grip, bloodied, bruised, scarred, clad only in a thin hospital gown, and frailer than any child should ever be.

Fear gripped his heart as he stumbled forward, his daughter's dream about monster turtles coming back to haunt him

"Leonardo, what happened?" he asked, almost terrified to know. "What have you done?"

"Master, it wasn't us" Donatello exclaimed, "We found her this way in a dumpster."

"Someone hurt her Sensei…" Raph added. "Hurt her really bad."

Splinter's eyes lost that initial panic, but it was quickly replaced with anger. The boys feared for a moment that the anger was directed at them for jeopardizing their safety. Leo gulped hard, then stepped forward, putting himself between his Master and his brothers.

"Master…" Leo spoke up. "This was my idea. I couldn't leave her there… She needed help."

Splinter took the child from Leo, looking down at her. She looked so innocent, so young, far too young to have been through so much brought pain. The very idea of any child suffering so brought no small amount of agony to his heart. He didn't want to ask them anymore questions, they hadn't the time any more.

"You did well," He said, abating their fears somewhat. "You may have saved her life, but we are not done yet. Donatello, grab the medical kit from your lab. Leonardo, I will need clean cloth for bandages as well as a washcloth. Raphael, prepare some hot water."

The brothers all scattered to do as they were told. However, Mikey just stood there.

"Umm, what can I do?" He asked, his eyes never leaving the girl.

"Help me get this newspaper off of her, but be careful." Splinter replied.

Mikey walked over to the girl and gently helped Splinter peel the wet newspaper off the girl's skin. The ink still clung to her skin, mixing with the bruises and scars that already marred her frail body. Mikey, usually so cheerful and go-lucky, focused on being a careful as he could. The last thing he wanted was to cause the girl more pain.

Raphael got back to Splinter first, placing the steaming water next to him and tossing one of their cleaner towels into it. Splinter looked at him, then down at the pot of water. It was clear, almost like crystal. Splinter nodded in approval, then grabbed the rag.

"Cut her gown with your sai, Raphael." Splinter told him. "We will dispose of it later."

Raph quickly produced one of his weapons, tearing the flimsy garment open. Splinter then took the rag and began to clean one of the girl's many wounds. Despite not being conscious, she visibly winced when the rag touched her skin.

STOP!

Splinter felt something pushing at him, not physically, but mentally. His vision was clouded by a hazy red image. It seemed to be a womanly form screaming at him, as if crying out in pain. Raphael looked at Splinter, a bit confused.

"Master?" He asked,

"I am fine, just-" He held his head, trying to force the visions away. "A bit dizzy is all."

He returned to his task again, and the visions manifested once more. Gritting his teeth, he ignored it as he began to gently clean the blood and dirt off of the girl. With each swipe, he revealed the deep gashes in her skin. She would need stitches if she were to live through the night. It was something that Splinter was afraid of. A sewer wasn't a hospital, and with the minimal supplies they had, she wouldn't be able to receive the help she so desperately needed.

"Got the bandages" Leonardo exclaimed.

Splinter handed Mikey the rag and took the bandages from Leonardo.

"Excellent," Splinter exclaimed. "Though I fear we may need to find more before the night is up."

He began to wrap them around the wounds as Mikey pulled the now blood soaked rag across a rather nasty set of scars. The girl hissed again, rising slightly off the table.

STOP THIS!

The red images reappeared, and this time, Splinter was not the only one affected. Both Mikey and Raphael stumbled back a few steps, reeling from what they were seeing. It was like nothing they had ever experienced before, and it was absolutely painful.

Donatello approached, carrying a small white chest with a red cross on it. Splinter turned, and grabbed it in a desperate motion. Opening it, he took hold of an old sewing needle and some thread. While they weren't meant for medical treatment, Splinter had learned long ago they would suffice in a pinch. He then grabbed a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide, hoping to sterilize the needle. The second the bottle opened, the girl's back arched.

PLEASE! NO MORE!

Splinter gritted his teeth, then prepared to begin the sutures.

"Donatello, Leonardo." He said softly. "Whatever happens next, be strong."

He pinched her skin with one hand, her body convulsing in a painful shudder. Suddenly the room filled with red, the floor moving like lava and the walls spinning with blurry images of men and women, twisted in horrific ways.

"What the Shell?!" Donatello exclaimed, voicing the sentiments of his three brothers as well.

"Be strong!" Splinter repeated.

As the needle did its work in closing the terrible gashes along her skin, the number of demonic looking silhouettes grew around them. With every moment, they drew closer and closer. The boys all huddled around each other, more terrified than they had ever been in their entire lives.

"You have to trust me, young one." He whispered, though he knew she probably could not hear him. "I am trying to help you."

He finished off the stitches as the figures' hands wrapped around the brothers. Once his hand released her skin and tied off the thread, the red images began to slowly dissolve around them. Splinter finally allowed himself a sigh of relief, glad that the ordeal was over. The four turtles, however, did not share their Sensei's relief. All of them found themselves on the ground, tears flowing uncontrollably from their eyes as they continued to hold each other.

"My sons," Splinter said softly as he tied off the last of her bandages. "It is done."

Leo looked up at Master Splinter, wiping his eyes as he gasped for breath.

"What- what was that?" Leo asked, still visibly shaken by the visions.

"I think that was her." Donny said, wiping his eyes. "But how? How was she able to do that?"

"I just want to know where the shell she got that nightmare fuel." Raph commented, just sitting there completely thrown. "If that's even a fraction of what she went through, I'm surprised she's still alive."

Mikey didn't say a word. He just looked at the girl, watching as Master Splinter carefully bandaged the wounds that he could. Part of him seemed to break at the sight of her still body just barely holding itself together.

"She can't be older than us." he said finally. "Who would do that to a kid?"

"I do not know my son." Splinter replied, finishing his work. "I do not know, but whomever is responsible for this will never touch her again."

Splinter took the remaining pieces of her hospital gown and handed them to Leo. The blue turtle slowly rose to throw the scraps away as Splinter picked up the girl.

"Raphael, fetch my spare robe from my bedroom." He ordered. "She will need something to keep her warm as she recovers from her ordeal."

Raph was gone in an instant, returning not long after with the requested robe. With his sensei's help, they got the robe over the girl's many bandages. The robe was twice her size, and the sash wrapped around her waist three times before it was short enough to tie off, further accentuating her horrible state. Splinter adjusted his grip on her, cradling her gently as his thoughts drifted to a time where he held a different little girl in his arms. However, this was not the time for revering in old memories. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts before addressing his sons once more.

"My sons." He began, "Set out the spare mattress in the living room. I believe it is best if we leave her out here in open space."

The boys quickly went to do as they were told, pulling the spare mattress out from behind their TV and laying it down in the center of the room. Master Splinter slowly lifted the girl, setting her down on the mattress as gently as he could. Donny quickly provided Splinter with a thick blanket which he carefully laid over her.

"Now what Sensei?" Raph asked.

"Now, we wait." Splinter explained. "And pray."

…..

Several tense hours past as Splinter knelt by the mattress where the small girl laid. He has sent the brothers back up to the surface to complete their task of gathering supplies, and had promised to keep an eye on the girl until their return.

Her eyes were shut so tightly that the worry lines stood out like canyons on her face. She shifted slightly, the old mattress creaking at her frantic movements. The blankets that were draped over her had begun wrapping around her in a cocoon of cloth. Through the blankets, Splinter could see her foot kicking, as if she was running from some unseen enemy. His heart broke slightly as he saw a tear roll down her face wondering what kind of horrors must have been playing through her mind.

…

The girl was in that same alley way, running and weaving through the trash strewn darkness. She wanted to stop so badly. Her chest was heavy, and she could barely breathe. Her feet bleeding with every step she took. Eventually, her legs could no longer hold her and her knees buckled. As she pulled herself into a kneeling position, she turned slowly, looking over her shoulder to see two gigantic figurines closing in on her. They were as tall as the buildings surrounding her on all sides, their eyes like spotlights, pulling her from the safety of the shadows.

"There she is." They moaned as they leaned towards her.

The girl's eyes widened as she covered herself with her bruised arms, trying desperately to hide.

"No," She whimpered, screwing her eyes shut in denial. "I'm not going back… I'm not going back!"

…

She sat up with a start and began to scream, jarring Splinter from his temporary meditation. He quickly backed away, not wanting to overwhelm the poor girl with his presence, much less his monstrous appearance. He slipped out of the living room, hiding in an alcove near his room to wait out the girl's panic attack.

The girl's breath came out in raspy gasps as she looked left and right, attempting to take stock of her situation. From what she could tell, she appeared to be in some sort of home, but there were no windows, and the smell of the mildew lingered in the air. She was underground. More than that, as she looked down at herself, she noticed that someone had bandages around her many wounds, and she could feel the stitches holding the more severe ones closed. Her hospital gown was gone, and instead, she was wearing a soft brown robe.

She had no idea where she was, nor why someone had felt the need to take care of her wounds, but one thing was clear. Whomever had her now wanted her alive, and that terrified her. She fought back the urge to cry, knowing that she needed to focus, to find out everything she could about where she was so she could escape. She closed her eye, feeling a familiar buzzing sensation in the back of her skull as she branched out her latent mental abilities. She focused, trying to find any signs of her new captors, and soon found a presence making its way towards her, unseen. She gasped in fear, gripping the blanket in a protective cocoon.

"Who… Who's there?" she rasped.

The girl mentally chastise herself for sounding so weak. However, she was surprised when the figure came up behind her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. The girl instantly stiffened at the touch, her nails digging into the fabric of the blanket. Splinter saw this and slowly pulled away.

"Child..." he whispered. "Do not be afraid. I mean you no harm."

The voice was soothing, like a loving father or a wise grandfather. The girl wanted so desperately to believe his words, but her experiences forced her to shove that hope down. She closed her eyes, curled into a ball and just began crying.

"P-Please…" She stuttered, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Don't hurt me..."

Splinter could hear the terror in her voice. This girl had been devoid of even the slightest piece of human kindness to the point where she found it so hard to believe that someone could possibly have good will toward her. He wanted so badly to hold her, like he had with his sons or like he had with Miwa so long ago. But he knew that she would not see the gesture for what it was, so instead, he simply tried to help her see the truth.

"I have no intention of hurting you." He began, slowly reaching for her again. "I only wish to help you-"

The second his hand touched her, she batted it away, screaming as red images flooded his vision.

"Get away from me!" she screeched, turning towards Splinter with her arms raised to protect herself.

Splinter stumbled back, the assault of images forcing him to his knees. He clutched his head with one hand as the other helped him remain somewhat upright. He felt the need to vomit rising, unable to stomach the images being forced into his mind. He had no idea what was happening, but his instincts told him that this was the girl's doing. Somehow, she was projecting these images onto him in some attempt to subdue him.

"Please..." He begged, struggling to think through the mental assault. "I am not... your enemy..."

The girl risked a peek at Splinter, still curled into a protective ball as she did. When she saw his rodent appearance, the red images began to slowly dissipate. Splinter gasped, sweat pouring down his fur as relief finally came. He glanced over at her, finding her staring at him in a more sympathetic than fearful manner.

"You... You're a mutant..." she whispered.

Splinter blinked in surprise, shocked that she had correctly guessed what he was on the first try. More than that, there was a hint of recognition in her eyes, as if he was not the first mutant she had encountered. He sat up, still reeling from the girl's mental attack as he met her eyes.

"Yes I am." he replied. "I was transformed into this being in an accident many years ago."

"You... You're not... one of his?" she asked nervously.

Splinter raised an eyebrow to the girl's question, then shook his head.

"I belong to no one child." He explained. "I give you my word that you are safe here."

The girl slowly uncurled, her eyes never leaving Splinter. He made sure to remain completely still, his hands in his lap and open in hopes of keeping the girl's mind at ease.

"I am called Splinter." He introduced, his voice still low and calming. "What is-"

"Master Splinter!" A loud boom echoed from the next room, "We're back! And you were right, that French Place does sell bread sticks."

The girl squeaked in fear, resuming her curled position as she tried to disappear into the blankets. Splinter sighed, then rose to his feet, approaching the tunnel where is sons were emerging from. He stood by the entrance as the girl remained hidden. Hesitantly, she peeked through her blanket cocoon, determined to learn everything she could about where she was, and who was holding her now.

"Mikey!" Raphael shouted, possibly louder than Mikey himself. "Splinter said be quiet. We don't want to wake the girl, or scare her!"

"Both of you!" Leonardo spoke, whispering. "Be quiet! You'll wake her."

Mikey and Raphael turned to Leonardo, violently shushing him. All he could do is roll his eyes as he grabbed the last garbage bag from the entryway. When the brothers entered the home, she was surprised to see that they were turtles. She hadn't known what to expect, though she'd been fearful of them being doctors or scientists of some sort. The fact that they were mutants helped the girl to keep somewhat calm as she observed them.

"Splinter!" Mikey called, "Look!"

He began to pull out some to-go bins full of spaghetti, some bread-sticks, and even different types of cheeses from their bags.

"Someone had even left some slices of cake out," Raph smiled confidently, pulling out some thin slices.

Inside her blanket, the girl placed a hand over her stomach. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been able to eat real food. The smell was absolutely heavenly and her stomach growled loudly, reminding her of that desperate hunger plaguing her. It was this noise that drew the turtle's attention towards her, much to her abject terror.

"Dudes!" Mikey said as he shuffled towards the mattress where the girl was, "Is there, like, an alligator here? And if so, can I keep-"

He stopped and looked at the little girl, staring into her eyes.

"Oh hey little dude-"

She screamed, clenching her eyes shut and covering her head with her arms. Mikey's mind was suddenly bombarded with horrific images. The room was suddenly filled with red human shadows, hospital beds, and demonic looking doctors. Pins and needles were all around him and he stumbled back in sheer terror. The girl continued to scream, only making the images worse.

"Young one!" Splinter called, running to her side.

Mikey gripped his head, suffering from a massive headache as the images continued to flood his visions. Even closing his eyes didn't seem to help. Finally, Splinter reached her, wrapping his arms around her in an attempt to calm her down. She reacted badly to the gesture, flinching violently and struggling to free herself as Splinter became subject to the terrible visions. Left with no choice, Splinter found a pressure point at the base of her skull, striking it quickly and precisely. Her screaming and the red images suddenly ceased as she sagged in his grip.

"I am sorry little one." he apologized to her unconscious form, gently laying her back down on the mattress.

"What the shell was that?" Mikey questioned, still gripping his head. "I felt like my head was being split in two."

"I cannot even begin to explain how she did this, but it is clear that this girl is no ordinary human." Splinter replied.

"She's telepathic." Leo rationalized. "That's how she's doing it."

"What, like some superhero from Mikey's comic books?" Raph questioned.

"It's the only explanation." Donnie replied, looking down at the girl. "Those images must be some sort of defense mechanism she's developed to try and combat the source of all of these scars."

Splinter stroked his chin, looking down at the girl. He could see those worry lines returning as another nightmare plagued her.

"When she reawakens, we will try again." he told them all. "And this time Michelangelo, use your inside voice."

.....

The girl slowly re-awoke, her eyes fluttering open once more. In front of her, she could see the four turtles and Splinter all kneeling beside the mattress. They had all placed their weapons back on the weapons rack, figuring it would be best if they approached her unarmed. Splinter had even left his walking stick out of easy reach. When she saw them all looking at her, she sat up, scrambling back only to end up entangled in the blanket.

"Child-" Splinter began.

"I'm sorry!" She cried, trying to free herself from the blanket. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. Don't hurt me!"

Splinter held up his hands in what he hoped was a pacifying gesture.

"As I told you before, I have no intention of hurting you, and neither do my sons." he explained.

"Sorry I scared you." Mikey apologized, giving her a soft smile. "My bros and I were worried you wouldn't wake up, so when I saw you awake, I kinda got excited."

The girl stopped struggling against the blanket, peering at the five of them. Though she was still very nervous, it was a step in the right direction for the Hamato family.

"My name's Leonardo." Leo introduced, gesturing to himself.

"I'm Donatello." Don declared.

"Raphael." Raph said with a wave.

"And I'm Michelangelo." Mikey grinned. "What's your name?"

The girl didn't reply for a moment, then in a voice almost to quiet to hear, she whispered a single word.

"Oracle..."

"Oracle?" Raph repeated. "How the shell is that a name?"

The girl flinched, afraid she'd done something wrong.

"Please... it's all I have." she begged, curling back into her protective ball.

"Easy, easy." Leo told her, reaching for her before Splinter caught his arm, shaking his head slightly.

"Maybe we can give you a name." Mikey suggested. "A real name."

The girl risked a peek through the blankets, looking at the five mutants with fearful curiosity.

"O-Okay..." she decided.

Master Splinter's ears perked up and a small smile played out on his face.

"I think I know the perfect name." he said.

The four turtles and the girl all looked over.

"How about… Hisako?"

"Hisako?" the girl asked.

"It is Japanese. It means Enduring Child." Splinter explained. "You are one that has endured much in your short life, more than any should, and yet you have the strength to keep fighting. I believe it is a fitting name."

"Yeah, what do you think Hisako?" Mikey asked.

The girl thought about it for a moment, before giving a single nod.

"Then, for as long as you wish to stay with us, Hisako will be your name." Splinter declared.

#Secret of the Sewers #TMNT #Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

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96percentdone · 7 years

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imaginepartybabyz

“someone ask me for viktuuri fic recs so I can just get this post out...”

hey skylar give us... the good reccomendations for the good content I LONG for it...

@imaginepartybabyz Y’know half the reason I wanted to make this post is because of your fics. I can’t rec your own fics to you Noa. It doesn’t work out.

I’m gonna try to keep the super popular fics everyone and their mother has already read off the list. Y’know the ones that show up every fic rec. Anyway let’s begin. Under the cut!

Finished Fics:

Masks off by emulikule “And so the story goes that a playboy comes to a town, makes it fall in love with him and then proceeds to get himself enticed by the most mysterious person there. Wait... did it really go like that?” Alright so I am weak for stories where a character loves two people, and it looks like a love triangle, but those two people are actually just the same fuckin person and they have a secret identity or some shit. It’s why I like Miraculous Ladybug. This fic??? It has that. Also it has fucking masquerades. It’s great.

Lifetime Record by futuresoon “Victor Nikiforov is a lot of things: a celebrity, a genius, the world's greatest men's figure skater, the object of Yuuri Katsuki's idolization. He's also been dead for twenty years. When Yuuri returns home in search of something to inspire him to get back into skating, what he finds is someone eager to help, unconventional, and incredibly, desperately lonely.” So I don’t typically like ghost fics because the concept of them makes me depressed. (”They can’t be together really if one of them is dead!!”) But I read this one anyway. Because. it was on the tvtropes fic rec page and didn’t contain garbage, and I have no regrets. Listen if you’re afraid of an unhappy ending. Don’t be. I hate tragedies. I would not rec this if it was one. Believe me. It’s an emotional ride.

lie to make me like you by cityboys “It’s become a game, of sorts, to anyone privy to the fact that the pattern exists in the first place: ask Victor out at the beginning of the month, date for however many days, and wait for the end to come and for Victor to say, always: I couldn’t fall in love with you. Let’s break up.” Now the truth is I really could rec all of cityboys fics because they’re all works of art but I told myself to just pick one so this list doesn’t end up 90% them. And this fic. Let me tell you. It’s fucking beautiful. I think the most wonderful aspect of this fic is there’s tension, but there isn’t like extreme angst. The climax of the fic isn’t incredibly stressful, even when there is build up to it. I think it’s truly wonderful. Also this fic singlehandedly got ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” stuck in my head forever.

Impostor Syndrome by renaissance “At some point, most people with a childhood crush will imagine meeting their idol, and might even pretend that they're dating. This is the story of how Yuuri Katsuki meets his childhood crush, and how they pretend that they're dating.” Alright we need one fake dating AU on here and this is it. This is peak fake dating AU. It doesn’t get any better than this. Everyone else go home. No but seriously this fuckin fake dating AU. has just so much going for it. At the start it seems pretty standard, but the way it develops. HOly shit. Just. Just read it.

not gold like in your dreams by ebenroot ““Victor, you could have let some psychopath into your apartment.” “Oh come on, he’s not a psychopath,” Victor chides.Christophe makes a gesture with his hand that says ‘are you seriously this naïve or are you drunk at work again?’. “Victor, you don’t know that. You don’t know anything about him. Whose name am I going to give to the police or face I’m going to describe to the sketch artist when they find your body chopped up like Hannibal Lecter’s side dish? ”-- in which Victor and Yuuri are roommates and Yuuri has a secret“ So this. Is a Penelope AU. AKA a movie I never watched, which should be a testament to how good this fucking fic is because damn. Like. You don’t have to see this movie just read this fic. It works fucking perfectly. Yuuri is constantly hiding his face in Viktor’s apartment and doesn’t give his full name, and Viktor is like “this is kinda sketchy but it’s fine” and then romance. I just made this sound so much worse than it is but listen. I was emotional. I felt things. I don’t always feel things but I felt them here. Just read it.

And Miles to Go Before I Sleep by Orchids_and_Fictional_Cities “Katsuki Yuuri has been cursed to spread misery and grief to those who dare to come close to him. Viktor Nikiforov has been sentenced to wander the earth, unable to die, granting wishes to mortals in the hopes that one of them might give his life meaning in exchange. They meet in a tempest of April snow.“ So I just binge read this all in one go. Okay first. it has gorgeous art. Holy shit. Yes. There’s art. And second. This story. The world it built. The atmosphere. The emotions. That fucking beautiful ending. Oh my god. four chapters of just. perfection. Please. Just. Please. Read this.

Waiting for the Rain by trashy_cas “In which Katsuki Yuuri meets a stranger who also enjoys frequenting empty parks on rainy mornings. Garden of Words AU“ Here’s another fic based on a movie I haven’t seen, and also won’t see because. eww. Creepy age gap. The creepy age gap is obviously not in this fic. I would not put it here if it was. No this fic is just a wonderful atmospheric experience. It really captures that rainy garden mood throughout and when it ends...it feels a little bit like the skies cleared up and the sun shines again. It’s just beautiful.

Ongoing:

don't want to be lonely (just want to be yours) by Linisy “This time the flesh and blood Yuuri wasn't around to distract him, and he watched the video intently, hypnotized by the swing of Yuuri’s hips, the look in his eyes that burned with intensity and the strong, confident line of his shoulders. Yuuri was, as always, breathtaking. Victor remembered their first meeting well. Yuuri was the last member to join the group. He was soft spoken, and he stood as if he were trying to make himself smaller, shoulders drawn inward, head tilted toward the ground, glasses slipping off his nose. Victor was surprised to hear that he was the second oldest behind Victor himself. Everything changed the first time he saw him dance. - Vitya, Katsu, Yura, Beka and Chu make up the top idol group SVD. They've been through hell together, living in their tiny dorm and working toward the day they'd finally hit it big. That day has finally come, but sometime over the course of the past three years, Victor has fallen in love with Yuuri Katsuki.” Okay so this fic has just started, and it’s an idol AU, but don’t let that turn you away because it’s masterful. It covers like five different POVs and all of them are so distinct. You can really feel the character they switch to. It has so much potential.

Lullaby of Birdland by Orchids_and_Fictional_Cities “In another world, their story might have started with ‘Hi there’, or ‘Lovely sky tonight’, or ‘Hello, stranger’. Or perhaps something less cliché, something like: ‘A commemorative photo? Sure thing! ’But in this one, it starts with an electric blue cocktail, the taste of smoke in the air. And: “You have really talented, um. Fingers.” --- Yuuri makes music with his body. Victor makes music because that's all he knows. (Or: After his poor performance at the Grand Prix Final, Yuuri is weary but not broken, and decides to give it one last shot. Victor plays piano three nights a week at a small jazz bar near the Detroit Skating Club, and does his best to get by.)” This fic has this one really clever plot point I can’t tell you because spoilers. But I think about it all the time. And you will too probably!! If you read it. I don’t even like jazz but this fic made me like jazz. Also. The feelings are real. The feelings are real and it’s got the atmosphere of a Jazz Club. Fitting considering.

On Ice, Yuri!!! by octothorpe “Russia’s rising star, Victor Nikiforov, age twenty-three, has just finished his first Grand Prix Final and is gearing up for Serious Training for the next season. Russia’s rising star, Victor Nikiforov, age twenty-three, is currently standing naked in the Yu-Topia onsen, back arched, silver hair flowing, with one arm outstretched toward a very bewildered Yuuri Katsuki.“Yuuri! Hi!” OR The weirdly-canon-but-not-really Reverse AU.“ This is the only reverse AU that matters. Okay. Every other AU was weird in some way, but this one feels...accurate. To everyone. Also it doesn’t feel gross. So there’s that. Everyone feels true to themselves, and it’s “weirdly canon” like they said, so this fic really does feel like the most accurate version of this AU there could be. Everyone is so IC. It’s beautiful.

Rhapsody by FigureSgayts “He's been a star from the beginning. Both of his parents, Yakov, and all those around him, everybody who has seen him skate, knows it. Viktor, however, continues to see himself as nothing but a potential rising star. After all, he's only sixteen and is just making his senior debut. He can't be as good as everybody seems to be making him out to be, ignoring the small (large) collection of gold medals that he has. As such, all he wants to do is focus on improving and living up to the expectations thrown at him on and off the ice. However, only a few months before the start of his first senior Grand Prix series, a sharp blue smears itself right above his clavicle. Only in his dreams can it be bruise. The late appearance of a soulmark is enough to knock Viktor a little off balance mentally. This isn't to say that Viktor will reject his soulmate. In fact, he's willing to go above and beyond to do all he can for whoever they may be, but first, he's going to claw his way to the top. If everybody expects him to be a star, then so be it. He'll be the star that they want, and once he's at the top, nobody will be able to stop him from giving his all to whoever shares his mark. After all, he is Viktor Nikiforov.” It’s a soulmate AU. But it’s also a Viktor backstory fic. AKA it’s a fucking win win y’all. It has everything you could ever want probably. Warning though Viktor is kinda an oblivious dingus at times and you’ll want to just. argh. Viktor please. But listen it’s really good at super worth it okay.

The Coin, The Stone & The Rose by Silver_Scribbles “Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov once had the world at his fingertips; he was rich and powerful and handsome, and he had everything his heart desired. Now, he is a Beast, imprisoned by an Enchantress' spell; hiding away from the world in the never-ending winter of his shame. Katsuki Yuuri is . . . odd, to say the least. Beautiful, but odd. While the rest of the villagers put one foot firmly in front of the other, Yuuri would rather loose himself to his dancing and his daydreams; always wishing for something more than his provincial life. Each is captive to circumstances beyond their control; trapped by unbreakable spells and impossible dreams. However, an unlikely meeting is about to change everything. Hope makes a final play for their salvation as the sands of time run out; but as Yuuri and Viktor learn to find themselves in one another, they also make discoveries that they're completely unprepared for . . . some wondrous, some wretched . . . and some treacherous enough to permanently tear them apart. For who could ever learn to love a Beast?“ Fuckin I don’t like beauty and the beast as like. a movie. And everyone who’s tried this AU up until this fic was doing it wrong with all the bad things about the movie. But this fic!!!! It takes the basic premise (a prince turned into a beast that can only be saved by true love) and keeps everyone in character. No fucking uncontrollable rage outbursts from Viktor. Everyone is just how they should be, and there’s none of the fucking Bad tropes that were in the original movie. It’s basically what the movie should have been. Basically.

This Conversation by RedTwice “Somewhere along his journey to share himself with the world, Yuuri finds himself travelling to Detroit to train with the world-renowned ice skating coach Celestino Cialdini. There’s just one small problem: Christophe Giacometti’s coach has retired earlier than anyone expected, leading the young skater to Celestino’s door as another full-time student. Yuuri slowly befriends Christophe as they train for the senior circuits together, and finds that this friendship is bringing out parts of himself he never expected to find, for better or worse. Or: Christophe joins Yuuri in Detroit from the beginning, and leads Yuuri down a six-year-long path of self-discovery.“ Do you want a fic where Chris and Yuuri are friends. Do you. Because. This is that fic. The viktuuri hasn’t happened yet but it will, but listen, if you also want that good friendship content. Read this. Read it. Just do it. Just. Read.

Trade Your Heroes For Ghosts by Naamah_Beherit “Having endured what was probably the worst day of his life followed by a night he does not remember, Yuuri wakes up with a hangover of the century and a desperate plea for the world to forget about his existence. Alas, the world has other plans. So does a certain Russian skater.“ Okay so like. Here’s a great canon divergence AU where Yuuri finds out immediately about the banquet. ANd it’s just. wonderful. it’s just great. Listen. Listen okay secretly all of you have wanted this. I know. I understand. But listen. It’s here okay. You can read it. It’s super good. It makes you feel good inside. All kinds of feelings. Don’t you like feelings? no probably not BUT THEY’RE GOOD FEELINGS.

And finally, everything by komagayda. (Yes Noa. It’s your turn). Everything he write is IC, and while they’re all “weird AUs” don’t we all need weird AUs? Yes. Yes we do. The workings of the worlds he’s built are so fascinating and fun, and the super accurate characterization just brings everything to life. It’s beautiful. ALso. mlm fics written by an actual mlm???? it’s more likely than you think. I couldn’t pick one fic like I did for cityboys because I’d feel like a fucking liar. And I didn’t want this to also be even longer with every single fic. So we’re just gonna do this all at once kids. It’s great. Noa is a great author. 100000000000/10. Get on reading his shit.

And there you go. Enjoy the good content. Your welcome.

#imaginepartybabyz #all these fics and authors are safe #there were other fics #but the others fics were by authors who don't always write like #tumblr pure content #and the like #and I don't feel like dealing with that backlash right now #if you want more I can give you those too #just #probably in private

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rilenerocks · 5 years

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One of the things I remember Michael saying to me on many occasions was that he thought I was the most singularly unchanged person that he ever knew. I was forever trying to decide if I should take that as a compliment or not. Since I was only 20 when we met, I figured that in the 46 years we knew each other he probably had a fair view of my behavior. In the end, I agreed with him and viewed “unchanged” not in a pejorative manner, but in a positive one. I’m consistent. My belief system has been in place for a very long time. Of course, I’ve grown, developed, evolved. But my core, my fundamental self is pretty much the same as it was when I was teenager. For people who know me well, that means I’m predictable. And complicated.

My brain speeds along at a rapid clip. I’m always processing. As yet, my motherboard hasn’t failed me. Which means nothing is ever just simple for me. I remember when I saw the movie, The Last Samurai. At a moment when the Tom Cruise character was getting his rear end kicked over and over during sparring practice, a friendly warrior came up to him, tapped him on the forehead and said, “too many mind.” I can relate. I’ve been working on slowing down and adopting practices that to help me

when my start spinning too fast.

I learned how to do revitalizing meditations to help me stay calm and cerebral when Michael was sick and needed my help. I have the Calm app on my phone and I use it regularly. I’m pretty zen when I swim. Still, a lot of my time is spent thinking, analyzing and considering, often about multiple topics simultaneously. It’s just how I roll. I think all this began when I was really young because I remember these same feelings and thoughts from my childhood.

And so it was on my long-desired trip to Glacier National Park, which in its essence was everything I dreamed of and more. I’ve been to a good number of national parks, Acadia just last month. Certain ones had more impact than others. I’ll never forget Bryce Canyon, Zion and Arches. I got to experience those with Michael which enhanced their majesty and spiritual power for me. Being on my own in Glacier, it was all about me, with my forever bond with Michael, tucked into my most interior self, like an extra vital organ. But I saw and felt Glacier through the lens I bring to everything, the one when I am simultaneously in my moment while my mind is zipping along, connecting that moment to how I perceive the world.

I went to Glacier by train which is a great way to travel and really see parts of the country that are off the main road and certainly hidden when flying. I spent almost all my waking hours staring out the window. I don’t want to miss anything. I’ve never tired of seeing cattle and horses, not since I was a little kid traveling up and back between Iowa and Chicago. On an overnight rail trip, there is so much more as you travel from state to state. I saw buffaloes and donkeys.

Numerous white tailed deer grazing and springing through the fields right next to the domestic animals. I saw a swift fox. I saw American white pelicans, great blue herons, American kestrels, a ring necked pheasant and lots of red winged blackbirds, mallard ducks and rabbits.

I saw fields planted with beans and wheat and other crops I can’t identify by sight.

The vistas are endless and impressive.

But I also saw small towns that looked economically ravished. Aging buildings and others that have already fallen. There’d be this gorgeous green landscape and suddenly piles of junked cars and garbage would appear.

The shabbiness was a stark contrast to the surrounding lush earth. And then came big sky. Endless miles of beautiful land, absolutely empty. In my mind I was envisioning herds of buffalo and tipis and the native people who made their lives here for countless years before being decimated by the relentless move west by settlers and power brokers. I’m sure that much of the land I saw was owned by big ranching concerns. But it felt so wrong. All the beauty tarnished for me. I can appreciate it but not without thinking of the cost to the people who lived here. Then the reservation appears.

The Blackfeet reservation is actually a conglomeration of tribes whose general name is Niitsitapi which means “the real people.” I saw buildings with the words “no meth” painter boldly across the walls. The very idea of reservations appalls me. Would you like to live with your people in a designated area? Me neither.

The Blackfeet tribe has rights to parts of Glacier National Park which include their most spiritual locations such as Two Medicine. Ceremonies are still performed there such as sun dances, while sweat lodges are built for the transitions and rituals of native life. I took a boat ride on Two Medicine Lake and went through their valley. You can feel a powerful spiritual presence there. I opened myself up to let it blend in with me and Michael and my own belief system. Certainly not the same as theirs but nonetheless connected if by nothing other than the surrounding natural majesty. The natives call some of the mountains the backbone of the earth. It’s not hard to understand why.

I stayed in East Glacier Lodge which is a beautiful old building with no televisions and sketchy internet. It lends itself well to getting in touch with what this place is supposed to mean to human beings. Their staff all seem to share a common attitude of preserving the nature of the park and its mystical energy. There are tributes to the natives throughout the lodge and the park although for me, it wasn’t enough. Keeping a piece of your ancestral land rings hollow to me. I saw a tall Native American man tending flowers at another lodge. He resembled Will Sampson who played the chief in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. He seemed to enjoy what he was doing and had positive interactions with a few people working with him. Maybe his life is happy. Maybe I’m the one with the problem.

Let me stop and say that I felt everything I hoped to feel at Glacier. As I stood before mountains that are estimated to be between 1600 and 800 million years old, I felt my smallness and the tiny place that I know I occupy, even when things feel huge. I felt the fabric of connection that still binds me to Michael and my love for the earth and its marvels. But then the guide told us that the remaining 20-odd glaciers are expected to be gone by 2030. Unimaginable. Was this destined to happen over a long period of time or isn’t it part of the upheaval we’re seeing all over the world. Climate change. I’ve heard all the arguments from people who say it’s been hot before, we’ve had hurricanes before, we’ve had fires before. Blah-blah-blah. Our planet is threatened. I have no doubt. Blazing hot temperatures in Alaska. Water supplies in India drying up. Europe sweltering. The hottest June on record. Ever. I’m not capable of simply enjoying my good fortune without thinking about all these frightening things. I’ll be dead before the worst stuff happens. But what about all the children and grandchildren? I have hope that brilliant people will find ways to turn some of this around. That we’ll stop burning fossil fuels. That we’ll get rid of plastic in the oceans. That a place like Glacier will still have snowy peaks in the summer. But to ignore it for my own mental well-being? No can do. I had the privilege of seeing so much wildlife in the park. I saw a black bear, a moose, long horned sheep, elk and mountain goats. They’re just doing their thing. But a lot can threaten the ecosystem that supports them and I worry.

Through the train window I saw the amount of flooding that occurred when the Mississippi overflowed its banks, not to mention the smaller rivers nearby. The wooded area and retaining ponds along the tracks are filled with mile after mile of algae bloom. That can’t be a good thing. As I watched animals drinking from this green pea soup I wondered about the chemical runoff from farms into the water table. Not to mention what can happen to people’s drinking water. Still thinking of Flint over here.

So yes, I am thrilled that I got to see this incredible wonder for what is likely the only time in my life. I think that inner city kids from everywhere should be brought on field trips to experience this magnificent place or others like it so they can make an early commitment to trying to rescue the earth and each other. I can’t go back and undo the genocide that happened long before I arrived. But I think it should be remembered and never ignored. Another thing Michael said to me frequently was this: “ Great. So as long as you know that somewhere someone might be having a problem or that there are systemic issues, you’re going to be bummed out. Living with you will sure be fun.” Well, we did have fun. But there’s more to life than that.

Overdrive One of the things I remember Michael saying to me on many occasions was that he thought I was the most singularly unchanged person that he ever knew.

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blessuswithblogs · 7 years

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Rich People Ruin Everything: The Old Gods of Lordran Are Garbage

(SPOILERS FOR EVERYTHING AS USUAL)

While I am rather down on Dark Souls 3 and Ringed City in particular, it does bring to light some very interesting facts about the Old Gods of Lordran: namely, they're a bunch of rat bastards. This is a conclusion that has taken a while to make. Dark Souls 1 plays the character of Gwyn and his cohorts rather close to the chest, and it's rather easy to find yourself intrinsically aligned towards the Old Order. You're exploring their world, their architecture, you've got their Strange Snake Man telling you what to do, and your only real dissenting opinion is available from another Strange Snake Man who chills out in a bottomless void and wants you to go and steal humanity from other undead and spread the Abyss. He's not exactly a trustworthy source, even if what he says may in that be instance be technically true.

Of course, that's not to say that even back then we're expected to make the final conclusion that Gwyn Is Good. The Lord of Darkness ending is certainly a thing, and there are clues and answers available to those who dig deep enough. What we don't learn until later installments is the depths of Gwyn's perfidity, which is breathtaking. Let's take it from the top and see what the Lord of Sunlight got up to in his time as King Shit of Everything.

In the beginning, age of ancients, dragons, fog, etcetera. I'm sort of assuming that my readers have a working understanding of how things went down or at very least have watched that iconic Dark Souls 1 opening. Gwyn, Nito, and the Witch find 3 lord souls in the First Flame and Become As Gods, and challenge the Dragons. Honestly things are murky from the getgo: why kill the dragons? Dragons are shown time and time again to be at very least very Neutral creatures who won't actually cause trouble until you do something beyond the pale. Sinh lived in harmony with the people of Shulva City until Yorgh shoved a stalagmite into his chest. The Ancient Dragon in Ash Lake will patiently deal with you even after you cut his dang tail off. The Dragon God (who is admittedly a fake dragon) just gives you a mist heart and sends you on your way. The kingdom of Lothric even managed to forge a working relationship with the lesser drakes who normally spend their time breathing fire on important bridges.

There are dragons who are aggressive and mean, but they all have significant qualifiers. The gaping dragon was a mutated descendant of the survivors trapped in a sewer and warped by hunger. Kalameet was one of the few survivors of Gwyn's initial purge, known to be powerful enough that even Anor Londo was hesitant to Start Shit with him. He had every reason to be angry. Drakes are lesser descendents with less well developed cognitive functions and are more like wild animals than dragons. The dragons living on Archdragon Peak are holdouts from the old war, and also maybe a dream, or fake, or in the past. Time is convoluted. It's convoluted!!!! The final dragon malefactor is, ironically, Seath the Scaleless, who betrayed his own kind out of a heady mix of petty jealousy and existential terror. There's no real concrete evidence about how the war with the dragons started, but it probably started with Seath's betrayal. Gwyn, before anything else, was a terrible coward, and probably would not have started a conflict he didn't have a strong advantage in. A pocket dragon would have fit the bill nicely.

So Gwyn had his little war and killed most of the dragons and started his pretty little age of fire. But wasn't there another Lord Soul in there? What about the titular Dark Soul? The Ringed City finally gives us an answer to this six year old question about the easily forgotten Furtive Pygmy. There were four lord souls: A soul of Life for the witch, a soul of Death for Nito, a soul of Light for Gwyn, and, of course, a soul of Dark for the pygmy. This isn't new, Kaathe told us as much way back when. What the Ringed City elucidates on is what made the Dark Soul different: it is essentially the soul that gave rise to the Abyss, and the creatures thereof, mankind chief among them. It also tells us a little bit about what early man got up to. As it turns out, primordial man actually helped out Gwyn against the dragons, though I can't say for certain if they did so willingly or not. They forged their weapons in the abyss and marched off to battle.

This is where we start to see Gwyn's true colors: the Lord of Sunlight was -terrified- of the darkness. Aldia and Gravewarden Agdayne alluded to this mortal fear in Souls 2, but the Ringed City puts forth plainly that upon seeing mankind and its abyssal weapons, Gwyn immediately freaked the fuck out and put a seal of fire on them. A seal of fire known better by another name: the darksign. The ringed knights and their armor all bear the black circle highlighted by flame. This act branded humanity with the undead curse and inextricably linked them to the age of fire, relegating them to, as Aldia put it, a "fleeting form." It seems that this, more than the Witch's transgressions, is what he considers to be the first sin. A mistaken interpretation from me, I suppose. At any rate, not only did Gwyn do this, he also decided to repay the humans who helped his bloody conquest by wiping all record of humanity's contribution to his efforts and walling off the pygmy lords in the Ringed City to contain the darkness.

When we consider that Gwyn is downright generous to all of his other friends and colleagues, giving them fragments of his Lord Soul and dukedoms and cities, we get the impression that Gwyn doesn't just fear the darkness, he hates everyone and everything associated with it. A hypocrisy, of course, because he came from it just the same, but every monarchy needs an underclass to rule. The Old Gods of Lordran draw from a polytheistic tradition found in Greek and Roman mythology where there might be gods in charge of everything, but that doesn't mean they care about you or are even very good at their jobs. There are, of course, many polytheistic religions and mythologies in the world, but the comparison here is salient because Gwyn is an extremely Zeus-like figure. Ruler of gods, fomenter of rebellion against the old order, hurler of thunderbolts, begetter of many children, and secretly kind of sucks actually oops. In the age of ancient greek mythology, the way to live a happy life was actually to do your best to stay beneath the notice of the gods and for heaven's sake, try not to make them angry. Much like the allegory of Samsara in Dark Souls 2, the pantheon of Lordran is not a one to one transplantation of the Gods of Mount Olympus, but understanding some of the mythological and religious inspirations for the lore is useful and edifying.

In ancient Greece, the gods existed to be surrogates for the random whims of nature. If your boat sunk, you must have ticked off Posiedon. If your harvest was bad, you didn't devote enough of a sacrifice to Demeter. In Lordran, however, the gods existed as a surrogate for an oppressive and destructive ruling class. The Old Gods are also referred to as the Old Aristocracy or Old Monarchy fairly interchangeably, and Gwyn dealt in lordly titles like King, Princess, and Duke for scaleless friends of the family. The actions taken by the Lord of Sunlight and his progeny to artificially extend their beloved age of fire, regardless of how harmful to the world and its people that age of fire was, mirrors the behavior of ruling classes from all times and places. Fire, after all, is disparity: heat and cold, life and death, light and dark... and haves and not have-nots. Gwyn rewrote (or at least, aggressively curated) history to exclude the achievements of mankind, devoted everything he had to their oppression, and spent every waking moment in fear of the darkness they represented. Gwyn embraced utter self-destruction over relinquishing his

power to the rightful successors of the age of fire by linking the flame at the cost of his own life. Sweet Shalquoir's description of Gwyn as a vainglorious liar is one of my favorite bits of dialogue in, well, anything ever. It's such an apt description of the character. Much like his counterparts in our reality, Gwyn's plan for the future was to leave it to his children to clean up his messes. His children either did the best with

what they had, with a sad, slavish devotion to How Things Used To Be (Gwyndolin, Filianore) or simply bounced to find something better (Gwynivere). He even has his devoted class traitor lackeys like Shira and Midir. Shira is so desperate for a piece of the pie and Filianore's ass she gladly sells out the entirety of her people and her own well being to be a fanatically loyal spear of the church. She's so deeply invested in the whole affair that she hunts the Champion of Ash down to the literal ends of the earth to try and exact vengeance for shattering Filianore's illusion. It's incredibly sad. I'll be less harsh on Midir because he was literally raised by the gods as basically a hostage slash trophy from the Dragon War and probably didn't know any better, and certainly didn't have much choice. He didn't really have anybody left to sell out. Somewhere along the line he really pissed off the Milwood Knights. Maybe. He seems like the best candidate for Abyss Dragon. Who knows!!! Lore!!!!!

I'm sure a lot of people would find it eye-rolling that I'm reading leftist, class-conscious rhetoric into the world of Dark Souls but fuck those people honestly this is a pretty straightforward reading of the text. The slighted pygmy lords still stew in the ringed city, angry that their promised dominion never came and cursing the name of the gods that betrayed them. They're forced to live in a beautiful lie, filled with monuments to the service and sacrifice of the gods and their own branding with the seal of fire, which is itself, a lie within a lie: the city has, in reality, sloughed away to dust, its resplendent nature maintained only by another illusion. The only real break from our reality is that Gwyn and his ilk were punished and deposed by the very order they created. It'd be nice if we at least got that sort of karmic justice dispensed, but, well. The Ringed City ends by using the blood of the Dark Soul to paint a new world that we will nonetheless never see, which, again, seems to be a fairly straightforward allegory for revolution. Where Bad Santa Gael fits into this I'm not really sure but that character is just kind of half baked. He's got a red hood. Red is the color of communism. Eh? Ehhhhh? I'll work on it.

The first Dark Souls was thematically open ended enough for a lot of different readings, but the direction the sequels took retroactively narrow down the number of viable interpretations. My original read on Dark Souls 1 was that of a classical tragedy, of the downfall of great people who tried to do good but were ultimately undone by fatal flaws to their characters. The tale is still tragic, of course, but information revealed after the fact makes that a ship I'm not willing to go down with. Gwyn wasn't a tragic hero he was just a typical capitalistic dickheaded oligarch who happened to commission some really nice and breathtaking architecture before lighting himself on fire on the pretense of simple vanity, to the incalculable detriment of the rest of the world. For as much as I can harsh on Dark Souls 3, I think that there is definitely value in taking such a stand and saying "no really this entire mess is the the old lord's fault seriously". It is maybe not the most satisfying conclusion to it all, and the whole usurpation of fire angle remains vague to the point of meaninglessness, but The Gods Are Bougie Bastards is a narrative conceit that I can get behind.

#dark souls #dark souls 3 #from software #lore

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celticnoise · 4 years

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Today, amidst a long and storming media interview, Callum McGregor had to deny that Celtic are suffering from fatigue.

What a ridiculous assertion that is.

Who the Hell asked a question like that?

Keith Jackson, who thinks Sevco will win on Sunday? Alex Rae, who similarly tipped the Ibrox club? Chris Jack, who will based on … oh, all past experience?

These people really do clutch at every straw they can find.

What a shock they are in for if they believe this garbage. There are a couple of players who are badly need of an extended rest – and there’s no sign of them getting one – but these are supreme athletes and I would bet on them to be able to handle whatever comes their way.

These guys are at their peak. This isn’t the Sevco team with a few over 30’s in it.

Brown and Gordon bring up the average age of a team that is very young. Furthermore – and I hate to bring up psychology again – winning makes people sharp. Winning keeps people fresh. Fatigue is a thing of the mind, or you would call it simple tiredness.

The very reason they are asking this question is that we didn’t blow Hamilton away last night.

Why not? It’s because we played within ourselves.

It’s because we kept as much energy in the tank as we could. We conserved. We scored early and basically sat on our lead, and you know we did that because when we lost the goal we got ourselves up again and won the match within minutes. A fatigued team would have settled for a point.

Honest to God, we get some amount of garbage thrown at this team, but this one really scrapes the bottom of the barrel.

Fatigued? Not in their dreams.

If you haven’t done the Sevco liquidation quiz yet do it below … another quiz will be up during the week!

Please share these articles widely, and join our Facebook Group for discussions about the pieces and other issues.

If you have trouble finding the articles you can subscribe, follow us on Twitter and get every piece on Celtic News Now. And you can, of course, bookmark the site itself and check it for updates throughout the day.

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#CelticNoise #Celtic #CelticFC #TheCelticBlog #News

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ntrending · 5 years

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Scientists are making progress with better plastic-eating bacteria

New Post has been published on https://nexcraft.co/scientists-are-making-progress-with-better-plastic-eating-bacteria/

Scientists are making progress with better plastic-eating bacteria

Rise of the plastic eaters. (Brian Klutch/)

Molecular biologist Christopher Johnson was schmoozing at a party not long ago, talking with another guest about his research, as scientists often do. Johnson works on breaking down plastics, which tend to be highly resistant to such things.

The woman he was speaking with at this particular pre-wedding soiree replied that she felt overwhelmed—hopeless—about the whole situation: how we can’t seem to stop using plastics, how they crowd landfills, how their microparticles permeate the oceans.

Overwhelmed, Johnson thought. Hopeless.

“I’m a world away from that perspective,” Johnson says, recalling his reaction.

That’s because plastics aren’t just happening to Johnson. He’s happening to them. Johnson is a research scientist at the National Renewable Energy Laboratory, and this past year, he and his colleagues created a biological enzyme that can chew efficiently through throwaway plastics like those that make water bottles and soap containers. The team is optimistic they can engineer a world where humans keep using this overabundant material—without winding up literally or figuratively overwhelmed by it. In that world, as part of a broader, robust recycling system, microorganisms will digest polymers into their chemical components so they can turn a profit as new and better products.

Currently, recycling doesn’t actually turn plastic into anything, chemically speaking: It just grinds the waste into smaller pieces, like shredding paper into strips. Manufacturers then reconstitute those pieces into lower-quality plastic. In bio-based recycling, as those in the field call it, plastic-eating organisms give you back the building blocks to make new materials and, eventually, goods.

Johnson’s group, in particular, captured the public’s imagination because its discovery was accidental and made for a great story. Skeptics feared the effort might backfire—that rogue GMO chompers might start gobbling the wrong polymers. Like the dashboard of your car. As you’re driving. It’s an extremely remote possibility but not completely misguided.

Scientists have new hope that nature might hold a solution for our most problematic polymers. (Brian Klutch/)

All that plastic trash, after all, is itself an unintended consequence. The synthetic material began, in part, as a substitute for ivory to save elephants from slaughter. But that innovation also brought us to where we are today: overwhelmed and hopeless. The amount of plastic that humans produce every year—more than 300 million tons—weighs about five times that of all people put together.

We use most of our modern polymers just once: in water bottles, shampoo bottles, milk bottles, chip bags, grocery bags, coffee stirrers. Every year, nearly 9 million tons of the litter ends up offshore. You’ve probably heard of the Great Pacific Garbage Patch: an area in the ocean’s northern half where swirling currents congregate all that refuse. But did you know that by 2050, the high seas could sport more plastic than fish?

Civilization isn’t doing a great job of cleaning up after itself, partly, Johnson and his team believe, because there’s never been a great economic incentive to. But if you can take those plastic building blocks and assemble them into something more valuable than the original—such as auto parts, wind turbines, or even surfboards—you can change recycling’s calculus. Companies can do well for themselves by doing good for the world.

———

Much of the accidental enzyme team works at the National Renewable Energy Lab in Golden, Colorado. The campus nudges against the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, which slope up quickly out of nothingness into 14,000-foot peaks. Solar panels occupy the roofs of nearly all of the buildings. Inside the Field Test Laboratory Building, where the group works, a ROYGBIV spectrum of utility pipes runs along ceilings and walls. Labs full of refrigerators, incubators, and high-powered microscopes hum behind card-access entryways. And, in a small meeting room on the ground floor, a matrix of screens backlights four scientists.

They, along with colleagues in Florida, England, and Brazil, form a kind of dream team for this particular bio-based recycling research: Nicholas Rorrer creates polymers. Gregg Beckham tries to figure out how bacterial and fungal chemicals break down compounds such as cellulose, the main ingredient in plant-cell walls and many veggies. Bryon Donohoe studies how cells with polymer-eating enzymes work. Johnson engineers new kinds of cells that secrete those enzymes. Those areas of expertise are each key to exploring how bacteria indulge an appetite for plastic—and how to manipulate them into being better snackers.

On one of the screens behind them, an enzyme skates along a close-up of cellulose, chewing off individual strands and spitting them back out as blocks of sugar—the ultimate drive-through eating experience. This simulation, the scientists say, is the same way a polymer meets its match.

The crew first learned of the concept when the March 2016 issue of Science magazine brought news that researchers in Japan had discovered a strange species of bacteria in samples of soil near a bottle recycling plant in the city of Sakai. It could chomp through polyethylene terephthalate, commonly known as PET, which manufacturers widely use to make plastic bottles and containers. A team led by Kenji Miyamoto, a bioscientist at Keio University, found that the organism squirted out an enzyme, which they dubbed PETase, that stripped the polymer into chemical pieces. They called this amazing organism Ideonella sakaiensis, after its home city. Still, not to diss Ideonella, but it didn’t work fast enough: Given six weeks and tropical temps, it could eat through a film of PET. Not exactly the stuff of efficient recycling plants. Plus, getting it to grow required some careful care and feeding.

Soon after the journal article appeared, Beckham found himself in England, having a beer with University of Portsmouth’s John McGeehan, a colleague in cellulose research and an expert at mapping the structures of tiny enzymes. They began to brainstorm how to combine forces to better understand how PETase digests PET. After all, their work already looked at how the natural degrades the natural—for example, how bacteria and fungi use enzymes to digest cellulose. Maybe that work could help them understand how the natural breaks down the synthetic.

After their brainstorming pint, the two recruited Johnson, Donohoe, and Rorrer, as well as another colleague in Florida, Lee Woodcock, whose sophisticated computer models simulate how cellular chemicals work. Then, they got started.

First, the team needed to understand how PETase breaks down its chosen plastic. The molecules in a polymer are like connected Lego bricks that can just pull apart. For PET, PETase is the puller. But to understand how PETase could grab onto and torque the plastic’s molecules, the team needed enough of the enzyme to be able to map it.

That’s where Johnson’s cellular expertise came in. Working with an outside company, they synthesized the gene that produces PETase so it could later be slipped into E. coli, a single-celled organism that is quick and easy to grow in a lab. He sent the genetic code across the pond to McGeehan’s lab. There, the mutant food-poisoner had some grub and began pumping out PETase.

McGeehan schlepped the PETase enzyme to a facility with a super-powerful X-ray microscope that uses light 10 billion times stronger than the sun to probe samples and create atomic-scale pictures. Inside the exotic microscope, supercooled magnets guided the X-rays until the scientists could see PETase itself—and not just its goo-making effects.

The enzyme, to the untrained eye, resembles the love child of a sea sponge and a human brain. Or, if you are a very lucky biologist, it looks almost exactly like cutinase, the puller for cutin, a waxy polymer that coats many plants. Cutinase has a narrow U-shaped pit that notches into cutin just so. PETase has the same U, just wider, kind of like a cutinase in a fun-house mirror. The PETase U notches into PET, like the two sides of a BFF necklace.

This is a no-brainer, Beckham thought at the time: The enzyme, he reasoned, initially evolved to eat cutin, and clearly had adapted in the presence of so much trash to have a new favorite food.

The form, function, and evolutionary idea in hand, the team submitted their paper for publication in October 2017. But the origin story—their most beloved part—was problematic. “One of our reviewers said, ‘No, you have to show that,’” Beckham recalls.

<em>Ideonella sakaiensis</em> is just one organism that can use plastic as fuel. (Brian Klutch/)

This is going to be a crap activity, he imagined. It seemed so obvious that cutinase had Darwined its way into PETase. But to show how that had happened, they would have to wind back the evolutionary clock, shrinking the wide PETase U back to a wee cutinase U, and in the process, they thought, making it unable, or at least less able, to chew plastic. Then they would reverse course, turning the cutinase back into PETase, showing how one became the other.

Beckham would have to eat (and digest) those words.

———

The team began the first half of the experiment, turning PETase back into cutinase, in late 2017. First, they tweaked the DNA that makes the enzyme PETase. Specifically, they mutated two amino acids so their replacements pinched into a U, creating an enzyme that was closer to cutinase. For his part, Rorrer—the polymer guy—began to harvest bottles from colleagues, including staff favorites such as Diet Pepsi and Diet Dr Pepper. (Today, the refuse still lines the top of his cubicle.) He used a standard office hole puncher to snip out circles. He then placed those in close quarters with versions of the modified enzyme, expecting he’d come back to find it making minimal progress, if any.

But that’s not what happened. When Rorrer returned four days later, he found the hacked enzyme was not only working, but it was eating about 30 percent more than the PETase from the Sakai recycling plant. The team members began to doubt themselves. Maybe I mislabeled the samples, Rorrer thought. Donohoe, the cell-breakdown specialist, suspected they’d mixed up the samples. They repeated the experiment two more times but kept getting the same outcome: The new enzyme had a good appetite. Donohoe recalls, “I’m like, ‘I guess we have to believe it, even though I don’t know how to.'”

The result still left open whether PETase had morphed from cutinase in the “oh, of course” way the team had surmised. But the unexpected outcome is still good news: It means they can improve what evolution hath already wrought. “Nature hasn’t necessarily found the ultimate solution,” Beckham, the chemical engineer, says.

When they announced the discovery in April 2018, people latched on to its oopsiness. John McGeehan got a Goop award from Gwyneth Paltrow’s pseudoscience wellness brand. He tried to reject it, but there is no rejecting Gwyneth Paltrow. But for this group, being famous wasn’t enough. And improving PETase a little wasn’t either. “There’s probably room here to make it a heck of a lot better,” Beckham says.

———

Ideonella sakaiensis, turns out, is far from the only organism that can use plastic waste as fuel. “Bacteria probably do just evolve to eat things all around them,” says genetic engineer Johnson. Biologists have known for decades that existing enzymes, such as the so-called esterases that microbes and fungi spit out, can break down PET and nylon.

Plastics floating in Lake Zurich carry four organisms primed to eat polyurethane. In the ocean, investigators in India have discovered bacterial species that can degrade polyvinyl alcohol, which waterproofs paper. Another group found a fungus whose cutinase also munches PET. None of these, though, can feast fast enough at scale to be useful to industry—yet. With more than 300 million tons of plastic produced every year, organisms would need to churn through around 906,000 tons on all days ending in “y” to get the job done. Taking four days to dissolve the surface of a Diet Dr Pepper bottle isn’t fast enough.

In its own search for better polymer eaters, the dream team recently recruited new players from Montana State University who study extremophiles boiling in the brightly colored pools of Yellowstone. Selfie-snapping tourists throw a lot of trash into those hot springs. At temperatures like these—sometimes more than 400 degrees—plastic melts.

To a bacterium, munching overheated junk is like taking speed: Everything happens a lot faster. If the scientists can find an extremophile, or engineer one, that likes it hot and eats PET, then they’re one step closer to a process that works fast enough to be useful in the real world.

In that scenario, a future recycling plant would heat or dice up the plastic, then throw it in a big pot of hot water and sprinkle in some PETase (or other hungry enzyme). That would produce a soup of polysyllabic ingredients: terephthalic acid and ethylene glycol, the stuff that companies can spin into stronger, higher-value polymers.

First, though, they need a better enzyme. “Life will find a way,” Beckham says, smiling as he paraphrases Jurassic Park. Still, nature could use an assist. So the team starts by exploiting evolution’s secret: random mutation. Sometimes new genetic code makes the organism better suited for its environment, and the microbe lives to pass that wonkiness to its offspring. In the lab, though, we can accelerate evolution by, say, feeding the would-be plastic-eaters only PET. If they don’t sit down to dinner, they starve.

The team is also trying to create new life by injecting the PETase gene into bacteria that is less picky than Ideonella. Beckham pulls up an unpublished paper and scrolls to before-and-after pictures. After four days in a test tube with a new mutant, a bit of hole-punched plastic is what he calls “a soupy mix of crap.” “Crap,” here, is chewed-up plastic parts.

The effort, in other words, is working. As Beckham looks at his pictures, he laughs and recalls a link people sent him when the team’s first paper came out. It pointed to a 1971 book called Mutant 59: The Plastic-Eaters. In the tale, a polymer-dissolving virus takes over—killing spacecraft, crashing planes, sinking submarines, and generally causing uncontrollable chaos as it destroys seemingly all the plastic in the world.

Nonfictional researchers plan for their engineered organisms to stay in the lab, in tubes, and, eventually, in industrial processes. Such organisms might even already exist on the outside, having evolved the old-fashioned way. Remember, the world has bacteria that eat lots of other things we love: metal, bread, cheese, our own skin. And we’re all still here, nibbling bread and cheese, sitting on metal chairs. Given an eons-long head start, the microbes have not yet managed to take over. So, unless nature gets remarkably better remarkably fast (it took something like 50 years to make the inefficient version of PETase), or a rogue actor stages a coup, no bitsy beasts will be gutting your Walmart kayak anytime soon.

Beckham does give more credence to a concern that carbon, spit out during digestion, eventually becomes carbon dioxide, a greenhouse gas that contributes to climate change. But any addition would be dwarfed by gases from other industries. His group wants neither a bio-warmed world nor one without plastics.

Instead, they aim to create a real economic incentive for reclaiming most polymers. Right now, what comes out the recycling end is just PET with weaker bonds: It’s challenging to make another bottle out of it, and it’s worth about 75 percent of what the original plastic was. It goes into textiles or carpets. Those usually wind up in landfills.

Biologically breaking down plastic, though, produces components that can become the precursors to pricey materials like Kevlar, which sells for two or three times as much as recycled PET and goes into stress-resistant products like snowboards. These materials give companies a cash-based reason to reclaim plastic. Innovators might even use them to build flightier aircraft, more-efficient cars, and hardy, lightweight stuff we haven’t thought of yet. Stuff that maybe does its part to reduce greenhouse-gas emissions.

This world won’t exist tomorrow, or next year. But it’s a foreseeable future, synthesized through the dream team’s microbes, or others’, and whatever nature brings to the polymer picnic table. If they succeed, we’ll be able coexist with plastics, not atop of a heap of them.

This article was originally published in the Summer 2019 Make It Last issue of Popular Science.

Written By Sarah Scoles

#Animals

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animalhead · 5 years

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Top 10 Albums/Songs of 2018

Top 10 Albums of 2018

10. Death Grips - Year Of The Snitch - All I could think about on my first listen of this album was Michael Jackson. It's pure theater, pure performance. Multi-layered and captivating. Metal af.

9. Olafur Arnulds - re:member - For the past couple years I've managed to slip a random soundscape/classical album into my list which I'm sure everyone greatly appreciates. Well, this year is no exception. I'll explain myself again - I live in a noisy-ass, toddler-and-baby world and my brain needs some quiet every now and again. I won't pretend to know the state of modern classical music, or what makes a classical album important today, etc. I'll just say that listening to this album makes me feel good. Olafur Arnulds never fails to give me my space.

8. Ashley Monroe - Sparrow - Maybe the saddest album of the year thematically. I don't know if I've heard a more powerful blend of poetry, soul, and country music. Sparrow feels like a crossover, but a crossover from what to what? Where did she come from? It's like Bill Withers and Carole King secretly raised a kid in Nashville. "Hands on You" is the sexiest jam of the year.

7. John Prine - The Tree of Forgiveness - I think the last time I put John Prine on my Top 10 list, I said that I had a feeling it would be his last album. Thank god I was wrong. I can't remember where I heard this, but someone said that the genius of Prine is that he infuses the absolutely domestic with sacred meaning. It's so true: who else can sing about putting stuff on layaway and taking the garbage out and somehow make it seem like the meaning of love and life? And The Tree of Forgiveness proves that he hasn't lost a single step. Just listen to "Egg & Daughter Nite, Lincoln Nebraska 1967" and then "Summer's End". Laugh, cry, repeat. I will forever love John Prine.

6. Sarah Louise - Deeper Woods - Joanna Newsom has been on hiatus and I've been getting desperate for the sort of ethereal, naturalist root music that she does so well. Luckily I found Sarah Louise, who has a Grace Slick-meets-Joan Baez-meets-Nico thing going on. I'll always be a sucker for stripped down spooky Robert Frost folk, and this one covers all the bases. Haunting.

5. Remember Sports - Slow Buzz - I actually really liked this album so thanks TZ for recommending it; I wish I had more time with it prior to now. Lyrically it is excellent - it's unique, vulnerable, smart, and relatable all at the same time. The vocals have that indie Pinegrove guts-exposure that makes it so believable. I would absolutely go to a show and stand in the back in my Violent Femmes t-shirt and nod along unassumingly. That said though, I can't get it out of my head that there is something so heartbreaking about this album - it's world-weary and it dares to ask the universe to give back the prom queen angst and Nick-and-Nora breakup 'sad's that were par for the course before weekly school shootings and nazis part deux. I respect it for that.

4. Mitski - Be the Cowboy - Such great instrumental breakdowns, such strange melodies, such a well-crafted album from start to finish. The way Mitski blends synth with acoustics with electric strings is perfect. She manages to be obscure and 'out there' while simultaneously being so open and accessible; no easy feat.

3. Hop Along - Bark Your Head Off, Dog - Hop Along was a breath of fresh air this year and I think I listened to BYHOD the most of any album. It's light and airy, but cutting and witty also. It plays like a 90s femme alt-rock collection and it's glued together with poignant lyrics. The vocals of Francis Quinlan are fantastic, whose improvised repetition and early indie style rings with the urgency of someone who knows something big is going to happen but can't get anyone to pay attention.

2. Saba - CARE FOR ME - Remember a little album called Good Kid, M.A.A.D City? CFM is the Chicago version. Saba takes you to the honest extremes of his emotion, pulling out raw despair and depression at times and love and hope at other times. No other album this year had me hanging on every word, rooting for the artist throughout the entire track list. To say the album feels like a movie seems to cheapen it, though it has the dramatic peaks and valleys of a blockbuster. No, it's a memoir. Saba treats the listener like a friend, venting and raging on "LIFE", laughing and dreaming on "SMILE", utterly disassembling the music industry on "GREY", and storytelling like a master on "PROM / KING". Listen to this again and then go amend your lists. Oh yeah, Chance is on it.

1. Snail Mail - Lush - I have a hard time putting my finger on exactly why I loved this album so much this year. Maybe it's the vocals - smooth and swaying, sort of pissed off, sort of disappointed. Maybe it's the space - tracks are minimalist, echoed, and beautifully bare. I tend to lean toward the personality of it all. It feels like Lindsey Jordan is breaking free of something, and that gives the whole album an optimistic, eyes-on-the-horizon vibe that is intoxicating. Top notch album that defined the year for me.

Worst Album of 2018

Decemberists - I'll Be Your Girl - I used to get pumped when a new Decemberists album came out - their stuff was interesting, smart, nerd fuel. These days when they release an album, I only find myself thinking 'ugh just please don't be complete shit'. And this album wasn't exactly that, but it wasn't exactly anything. It's just the last of the crinkled post-its on the bottom of Colin Meloy's weird poem trashcan. There's no real heart or message anywhere. Their last good album was The King is Dead (and it was a really good album), but the band itself is increasingly feeling like Meloy's jackoff mirror. I'm pretty sure he's holding the rest of the band captive in his grapevine garland-draped, all-too-rustic cellar.

Top 10 Songs (that weren't on my Top 10 Albums) of 2018

10. Parquet Courts - "Total Football" - "...and FUCK TOM BRADY!"

9. Metric - "Dressed to Suppress" - Great track on a really fun album.

8. Natalie Prass - "Short Court Style" - Now That's What I Call Music 1,563.

7. Old Crow Medicine Show - "Look Away" - OCMS still finding beauty in the rust of the south.

6. Kanye West - "Ghost Town" - Most heartfelt track on a decent, but maybe a little lazy (?) album.

5. Unknown Mortal Orchestra - "American Guilt" - Making Americans examine our own social presence.

4. Israel Nash - "Rolling On" - Big full-bodied sound wall.

3. Courtney Barnett - "Need A Little Time" - CB gettin' deep.

2. Leon Bridges - "Beyond" - Pure, wonderful love song.

1. Dawes - "Crack The Case" - Beautiful. One of the best current singer/songwriters.

Top 5 Players from MTV's The Challenge (so sue me)

5. Sylvia - I don't know why I like Sylvia so much. She headbutted that drunken, cig-smoking mom, Marie. She's just a little firecracker. A fiesty underdog with a lot of heart.

4. Shane - Shane is a self-titled bitch. He's the snakiest, slimiest player there is. He actually threw an entire challenge so that a certain player on his team would be voted out.

3. Wes - Arguably the arch-nemesis of Bananas before Devin came along. Always hatching schemes that are way too complicated and get him thrown out.

2. Devin - The way this dude fucks with Johnny Bananas is hilarious. Someone had to come in and usher out the old heads - Devin is the man for the job.

1. Cara Maria - She's a force and completely independent. She was the first woman to ever win The Challenge solo. She can be a bit cringey sometimes, but she's a beast.

#top 10 lists #top 10 songs #top 10 #albums #rating #review

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nightmareonfilmstreet · 6 years

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Review: BLACK MIRROR Season 4 (Part III - Episodes 5 & 6)

New Post has been published on https://nofspodcast.com/review-black-mirror-season-4-part-iii-episodes-5-6/

Review: BLACK MIRROR Season 4 (Part III - Episodes 5 & 6)

SPOILER-FREE REVIEW

“Metalhead” is pretty good. A bit daring and experimental, but that sort of thing is always to be applauded, especially when it’s pulled off so well.

“Black Museum” is the single best episode of Black Mirror I have ever seen. (Please direct all vitriol to the comments section, below.)

From here on out: Spoilers.

And, if you haven’t already – read Part I and Part II of my review.

EPISODE 5: METALHEAD

Someone’s been reading their Cormac McCarthy.

“Metalhead” is an exercise in minimalism, in a lot of ways. It’s the shortest episode in Season 4 (though you’d never know it, with the torturously ratcheting tension dragging seconds into hours). The story is fairly straightforward: Civilization has been wiped out. A group of survivors are trying to get something from a warehouse to help someone at their base camp who is dying. They accidentally activate a “Dog” (a robotic murder machine on four legs), which systematically kills them off until it’s just Bella (strong work by Maxine Peake), our protagonist, and the Dog, locked in a desperate chase across post-apocalyptic Scotland.

This is the only episode of Black Mirror to be shot entirely in black and white. And not just black and white: a stark, high-contrast black and white with a touch of warmth in the grade. More Pi than Nebraska. This isn’t a gimmick, either. It’s more subtle manipulation of all of us on the edge of our seats as Bella struggles to get the key into a lock, or dig a tracker out of her body, the Dog coming on relentlessly somewhere behind her, just out of sight. It turns the episode into a horror film.

Oftentimes, especially in Science Fiction, flash and pizzazz are covering fire for a cardboard story. (See Blade Runner: 2049, every Transformer film ever made, etc.) There’s real danger in stripping something back as far as “Metalhead” was stripped…but there’s also a kind of freedom, for both the creator and the viewer.

We never find out just how civilization fell. There are a few clues: Bella’s fondness of peppermint candies tie this episode to Season 4, Episode 3: “Crocodile.” It isn’t too much of a leap from that world to the world of “Metalhead:” if even our memories have no sanctity, why shouldn’t the police have total access? To our front gates, to our front doors, to our cars? If we have nothing to hide, then why would we need privacy? Why kick a door down, or smash a window, when we could just give the Lawmen the keys?

(Do these arguments sound familiar? They should: we’re already a few steps down this road in the U.S.) But humans are fallible. We are imperfect, and make imperfect decisions. We can be bribed and swayed by emotion. Enter Robocop. (Think I’m joking? Dubai already has them.) But that’s all speculation.

Brooker never tells us, and that’s part of what makes the episode so effective. We’re thrown into this post-apocalyptic world, and all hell breaks loose. There’s no chance for Bella to sit across the fire from Clarke (Jake Davies), reminiscing about the day it all went wrong, or how different things used to be back before X happened…because everybody’s dead before we even have our bearings. Maybe that’s a clue in itself. Maybe that’s how the world ended: all at a stroke, without warning. Not with a bang, but with a few hours of screaming.

“Metalhead” is like a poem, and a poem is not a puzzle to be solved. What makes Cormac McCarthy’s The Road so incredible isn’t the long exposition about exactly how things came to be this way. It’s the human story, fully alive and fully realized, that we’re thrust into. Same here. What matters isn’t the nifty, smart, cynical explanation for all this. What matters is that Bella loves someone named Graham, who she is trying desperately to see again. That the people whose house Bella breaks into killed themselves while watching television, staring into the omnipresent Black Mirror. That’s important.

The fact that everyone we met in “Metalhead” died trying to get a new teddy bear to comfort a dying child, even in a world where every step outside could be your last; what that says about humanity, even in the face of annihilation: There’s nothing more important than that.

EPISODE 6: BLACK MUSEUM

In a season of some of the finest science fiction I’ve ever seen on television, “Black Museum” is the best of the lot. It may be the best of the series. (I’m sure someone will take me to task for saying so, but these are just my opinions, so pipe down.)

“Black Museum” is an anthology story inside an anthology series. While her car recharges (I’m sure Elon Musk is working on it), a young girl named Nish (Letitia Wright) heads over to the nearby “Rolo Haynes’ Black Museum.” Haynes (Douglas Hodge: perfection) leads her through a macabre museum of tragedy and horror, telling stories about some of the exhibits as he goes. But when they get to the main attraction, it becomes apparent that some things are not as they seem.

There’s something here for everyone. For the hardcore Black Mirror fans, the first walk through the titular “Black Museum” is a giddy dream come true. Look! There’s the Parent Unit from “Arkangel!” Ooh! And there’s Robert Daly’s DNA gizmo from “USS Callister,” with Tommy’s sucker still on it! The bathtub where Anan was murdered in “Crocodile!” And…a mask of Charlie Brooker? (Yep.) There’s so much here. There are nods throughout the entire episode, more than I have space to point to. Just trust me. Bring your baskets. It’s an Easter Egg Hunt.

For those swept up in the political rage orgy that has been the last year or so, Brooker’s slipped in a few jabs. If some of the scummy things that Rolo says seem to ring a bell, it’s because his is not the first garbage mouth to form the words. “Fake news!”, “Hatchet job!”

When he first meets Nish, who is (as far as he knows at that point) a foreign woman of color, he jokes that she should be used to the heavy security she has to go through to get into the museum. “Our immigration guys are pretty tight these days,” he says. Black Mirror has dealt with this sort of thing before, but this season has taken a bit of a stronger stand. The giant wall in “Metalhead,” for example, which fails to keep out the threat, but bars the way of an innocent struggling to survive.

For the Black Mirror addicts, there’s the story of Dr. Dawson. Based on a short story by Penn Jillette called “The Pain Addict,” it is one of the darkest, most brutal things I’ve seen in ages. It’s a return of sorts to the edgy full-black of the pilot episode, and it’s brilliant.

In large part, its brilliance lies in its self-referentiality. There’s a thread under all the blood and pain and pleasure, only just noticeable if you know what you’re looking for. Brooker is talking to us. Dawson slowly becomes addicted to pain. To horror and fear. At first, his addiction is vicarious: he sees others suffer and literally feels their pain…without consequence. When he goes too far, something in him changes, and he becomes dependent on that next-level voyeurism.

He watches people suffer, and he can’t stop. Sound familiar? I’m writing about exactly that, right now. When his addiction becomes too severe, Dawson too obviously sick and weird to be around people anymore, Rolo sends him home. “Binge a miniseries,” he says. Come on. We’re all watching the pain. We cue up Black Mirror and watch politicians forced to fuck pigs, mothers murder babies, murder whole families, watch women dig shrapnel out of their faces and rob shotgun suicides, and Netflix asks us: “Are you still watching?”

Of course we are. We’re addicts.

There’s more. My god, there’s so much more, here. Not the least of which: did you notice that the “Black Museum” is at a crossroads? That Rolo Haynes, in his snappy suit and snakeoil smile, offers people miracles? Offers to make their wildest dreams come true…for a price? Did you notice that Clayton’s “soul” (his wife’s word, not mine) is trapped in eternal torment, fully-rendered copies of one infinite moment of boundless, limitless pain distributed across the world? Suffering without end, at the hands of…other people?

Rolo may be the devil.

But Hell is other people.

Black Mirror Season 4 is now streaming on Netflix. Let us know what you thought of the series in the comments section, below – or over on our Facebook Group. And, be sure to read Part I and Part II of my review of Black Mirror Season 4, if you haven’t already.

#Binge #black mirror #Black Museum #Brooker #Charlie #horror #horror review #horror reviews #Metalhead #miniseries #netflix #new horror #review #sci-fi #scifi #tv

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