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latenightcinephile · 4 years

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#724: ‘Gunfight at the O.K. Corral’, dir. John Sturges, 1957.

“Look at you. Look at the proud men.”

There is a problem with Westerns being so formulaic: when you watch a few of them in a row, you start to run out of insightful things to say about them. This is the case even if each of them has been billed as a unique and important film. This is why I’m only getting around to writing about John Sturges’ Gunfight at the O.K. Corral in June, when I got the DVD from the university in January. It’s not a bad film - the performances are great; the central fight well-choreographed; the theme song as irritating as anything the 1950s produced - but there’s nothing to say about it that I didn’t already allude to with the last films I watched. Part of my self-imposed goal is to write my thoughts on each film, though, so here we go: something interesting about Gunfight at the O.K. Corral.

Firstly, the storyline of any rendition of the real gunfight is going to be ornate and episodic - it was a close-range fight that lasted about thirty seconds, so not exactly something you can plausibly base a two-hour film around. Most of these films become character pieces instead, focusing on Wyatt Earp (Burt Lancaster, here), Doc Holliday (Kirk Douglas), and their fraught relationship. Sturges in particular extrapolates the story to the point where the list of historical inaccuracies in the Wikipedia article is almost as long as the plot summary. In other words, like many key events in the history of the Western frontier, the mythology has long outstripped the facts and become like Baudrillard’s full-size map of the territory.

(I know, I know, gratuitous theory reference, but I studied The Matrix for too long not to reference it where it’s relevant. In Baudrillard the map covers the territory until the territory decays and only the map is left. Things that were recorded on the map remain because the map says they existed, whether they did or not. Nothing that happened at the O.K. Corral in reality had the metaphorical relevance it now possesses - all of it has been supplanted by the myth.)

In all of the Westerns I’ve seen lately, there has been an undercurrent of feminine force. It becomes text in films like Johnny Guitar, but the female characters of Gunfight are instrumental in this narrative. Part of this is a symptom of the lack of women’s roles in the genre anyway, but these characters are also fighting for their right to exist within the text at all.

Let’s take the introduction of Laura Denbow (Rhonda Fleming), for instance. She’ll be the love interest for Wyatt Earp, and the film shows their initial interactions like a screwball comedy played with a straight face. Earp shows up to break up Denbow’s poker game. It’s not illegal for women to gamble in Dodge City, but as Earp reminds the mayor, “every time there’s a woman at the tables there’s trouble.” The dialogue continues in a similar vein: “Start with you [Denbow] and we’ll have every tramp on the south side over here. [...] You’re in a saloon playing a man’s game. Why should you be treated like a lady?” Earp is then challenged to a shootout for Denbow’s honour, which is immediately aborted, and then Earp arrests Denbow for disturbing the peace.

Despite their clear and studied talents (Denbow’s gambling skills are respected in any saloon in the West, and both she and Kate Fisher (Jo Van Fleet) understand the men they are attached to, better than the men are able to articulate themselves) their presence and agency is constantly under threat from these men. These films are benevolent enough to allow these women to exist and have limited control over their fates, while also making it clear that their relationships to the male characters are far less relevant and nuanced than the men’s connections to each other. The point is that these films were made at a time when that sanctioning of existence was conditional, even subconsciously.

One I started seeing this pattern in the Western, I became unable to avoid seeing it. Women in the Western are Cassandras, almost every single one of them: able to understand the men and events around them, and even (in the case of Betty Earp) able to grasp the historical context they live in. And yet they’re constantly posed as obstacles to the true aim of all men: a great legacy. The script even makes a point of putting the phrase ‘It’s a free country’ in Earp’s mouth immediately after he abandons Laura to come to his brother’s aid.

This is an obstacle that doesn’t need to be an obstacle. The story is serviceable without making the romantic subplot a conflict, and if you wanted a conflict, how about the real Wyatt Earp’s common-law wife before he met Denbow? The women in the film seem to exist often to make the ideologies of the genre explicit, to fight for their place or to insist that it’s not their place to be. They’re rewards, and idyllic dreams for the future to be cut brutally short in death. They are comedies and melodramas in among all the serious business, and they underline just how serious that business is. And that’s the great tragedy with many of these films. They keep these great, insightful and complicated characters in reserve. For all the characters fight duels over a woman’s honour, they don’t allow her much dignity.

As always, I feel like these failings make these films more interesting, not less. Janet Staiger writes of the ‘structuring absence’; the missing thing that makes the film work. It’s not quite a MacGuffin, where the impetus could be anything, but rather an elephant in the room. Here, the absence of women’s agency makes the plots work, and the presence of a woman’s agency makes the film about the woman (see Johnny Guitar again). The male perspective is the invisible default. Not too long ago, I read a discussion about women’s work in the American West, and about how so often this work is the kind of bedrock which allowed men to have their vendettas. Women in these genres, in Westerns and fantasy and horror and action and crime, have always been more multifaceted than we see on the screen. That in itself tells us something about how far we’ve come.

#1001 movies #John Sturges #Gunfight at the OK Corral #feminist film criticism #gratuitous Baudrillard

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riffheartsgraziella · 2 years

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Happy Birthday to Jonalyn Saxer, our darling Rhonda! 💙✈️

#jonalyn saxer #rhonda west side story #west side story #west side story 2021 #happy birthday 🥳

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prorevenge · 5 years

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Want to f*ck with my brother? That’s cool, enjoy not going anywhere with your career.

I read a story today that reminded me of something that really pissed me off 4-5 years ago so figured I’d post about it. Not changing any names, because f*ck those people and I hope they see this.

Background: My brother is 3 years older than me and had been working at his first job for about a year before I started working at the same place as my first job. He has the mindset of a 15-16 year old and does not understand jokes. He’s not autistic, but he’s on the spectrum.

Heres where it begins

So my brother was working at this grocery store. I believe it’s only an east coast type of store because no one I’ve met from places towards the west seem to know what it is. Anyways the store is called Kroger. So my brother, who has issues, has been working at this place for a year now as a bagger. He has supervisors over him who are: Skylar (f*ck you), Brandy (f*ck you), Reba (f*ck you), and John (you’re cool). All these supervisors made the same $8.75 as my brother did despite being in a higher position.

So before long, I had started working at this grocery store too and the same people were my supervisors. It didn’t take long to notice the obvious disrespect they were showing my brother and it didn’t take long for it to rub off on me because he’s my brother. They had him doing stupid shit just to get him off the front floor because they found him annoying. They would send him outside to bring in carts when it wasn’t his turn because he didn’t do a good job when it was his turn. Okay, my brother is like 6’2, 120 pounds. He’s a f*cking stick. And this place didn’t have a machine to carry in carts, you’re literally out there for 30 mins pushing these bastards back inside.

So it came to be that he realized these people suck, other than John, and he wanted to be put in a different department. Kevin was in charge of produce, didn’t want him because of how the front end talked about him. Fuck you, Kevin, you could’ve made this whole issue disappear. (Seriously, for any of you like Kevin, don’t judge people before you get to know them, my brother isn’t a bad guy, he’s just not the society’s version of normal)

So then he tried to go to the baking department, f*ck you Margie.

So he went to HR. So this place was part of the Union and they couldn’t just fire him despite their nasty attitudes they had towards him. HR had sat up in the office with my brother and one of the main managers, whose name I can’t remember but he left that store anyways so it doesn’t matter. My brother basically told them the constant disrespect he gets from the supervisors and how it’s really making work life miserable for him. He goes into details about the tasks they make him do that aren’t even in his department of stuff to do. HR is kind of playing the managers side because of course like everyone else, she’s heard about him. And of course like everyone else, she actually doesn’t know him, just know the stories about him.

So HR brings up Skylar, Brandy and Reba. Skylar and Brandy got a strike (which means nothing because they reset like every month anyways) and Rhonda didn’t get shit because she’s head of the floor and gets away with everything, like the time she went and gave the delivery truck guys a hand job.

So, after that, Skylar and Brandy were on a mission to make my brothers life hell. Constantly just up in his shit about stupid things. Constantly making jokes that he doesn’t understand. Everyone else would be laughing and he’d be confused as to why they’re saying those things about him. So I had enough.

I finally quit that job after being there 10 months whenever I had another job lined up. After that, I made it a mission to get all of those people f*cked. I called up the main support line for the stores. It’s usually where customers go to complain but there wasn’t an option for employees to complain so I talked to customer support. I informed them of everything that my brother has been through and the struggles he’s been dealing with there. I informed them of the stupid tasks they have him do just to keep him away from the main floor, and I told them of his disabilities that they are all well aware of. They told me that they would launch an investigation and gave me a case number so I could stay updated.

Well, come to find out that all of those people were banned from working at Kroger and anywhere that Kroger affiliated with.

BONUS they did a deeper investigation into the manager and found out that he’s leaving the store a mess and not properly documenting stuff, so he got the boot as well.

I soon got him hired on at the place where I found a new job at and he likes it a lot more. Still some typical douche bags he deals with still, but not nearly on the same scale as it was.

TL;DR

Fuck with my brother, you’ll be out of a job and anywhere affiliated with that store.

(source) story by (/u/Danalle)

#prorevenge #by /u/Danalle #pro revenge #revenge stories #pro revenge stories #pro #revenge #last10

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chromecutie · 4 years

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Not A Ghost - part 25

A/N - Multi-part fic. Colossus x OC where OC has come home after being wrongfully imprisoned in the Icebox. Warnings for whole fic - references and flashbacks to harsh prison environment, including various types of abuse. Takes place shortly after events in Deadpool 2. Whole thing will end up on my AO3 eventually.

Taglist: @emma-frxst @ra-ra-rasputiin @holamor @empressme-bitch @marvel-is-perfection @hazilyimagine @marvelhead17 @rovvboat @angstybadboytrash @whitewitchdown @master-sass-blast @mori-fandom @mooleche @dandyqueen @emberbent @leo-writer . Wanna be added or removed? Holla at me.

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“Mr. Pool, you were right about upgrading to a minivan,” a younger man with an Indian accent said after giving Piotr and Rhonda awkward greetings. “It fits your friends much better than my cab did.” Cheerful music played on the radio, possibly from a Bollywood movie.

Wade answered from the front passenger seat, “With the stow-and-go seating, too! Good choice, Dopinder, you can fit so many more bodies in the trunk this way!”

With Piotr in the second row of seats, Rhonda was in the very back, scrunched between the window and Cable. She asked under her breath, “How often are you dealing with bodies?”

“Not as much as I’d like to!” Wade called over his shoulder, face covered with his red mask. “What are you even doing here? Separation anxiety? Do you need one of those thunder vests they give nervous dogs?”

Piotr said, “She is, let’s say, emergency backup.” He turned in his seat as much as he could and offered his wife a half-smile.

In the seat next to Piotr, a woman with her hair pinned into something like a mohawk turned and said with a casual demeanor, “Wade is bad at introductions. I’m Domino. Hi.” The space in the van was too awkward to shake hands, but she waved and Rhonda returned the gesture.

“Rhonda,” she pointed loosely at Piotr’s steel shoulder. “His wife.”

“Yeah,” Domino had an easy smile like nothing ever bothered her. “I heard you busted out of the Icebox a few months back.”

She shrugged, “I didn’t ‘bust out’ so much as get lucky. We were in a transfer convoy, and they had us in these cases, right. Well, when the convoy got wrecked, my case got thrown around and busted enough that I could get out, so...here I am.”

“Transfer convoy?” Domino frowned, then laughed. “Oh my god! That was us, Wade, we were there! That’s twenty bucks you owe me.”

“Naaah, no, no, no, no,” he retorted, waving a finger, “That doesn’t sound like your luck powers to me--”

“How else would you explain it? We were there, I was lucking out at the top of my game to keep us alive, and your buddy’s wife, who we had no idea was there, just so happens to get free?” Domino’s hair bounced as she nodded her head and gestured emphatically.

“Or maaaaybeee,” Wade drawled, “luck had nothing to do with it and we’re just side characters in someone else’s story right now and--”

“Uh-uh,” Domino insisted, “No. Do not launch into your whole conspiracy that we’re fictional characters, I cannot deal with that shit today.” She leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms.

Rhonda leaned forward and whispered to Piotr, “[What the fuck is going on?]”

He turned his head and whispered in reply, “[Wade is strange and it’s best not to encourage him by asking a lot of questions.]”

Banter between Domino and Wade continued the rest of the drive. Every so often, Cable would roll his eyes and rumble, “Jesus,” next to Rhonda, or Piotr would admonish the others for their vulgar word choice. They ribbed each other, the way most teams will do in anticipation of a fight. It was a pattern sweetly familiar to Rhonda, and it was all she could do not to smile as she listened to their bickering. This wasn’t her team, as she had to consciously remind herself, but it felt surprisingly nice to be on the edge of it.

Dopinder pulled into the truck stop, and parked near a row of eighteen-wheelers. This particular truck stop was some distance from any city and was nestled between the northbound and southbound sides of the interstate, rather than being set off to one side or the other. On the west and east side of the truck stop were a long row of parked eighteen-wheelers. A few of the trucks were unmarked, most were emblazoned with company logos, and one or two looked to be hauling a corrosive or flammable chemical. Between the rows of trucks were a McDonald’s to the south, diesel pumps to the north, and between were a large gas station and travel center with two dozen or so regular gas pumps.

In the central area, families were taking a rest in the middle of their road trips to tank up, get a late lunch, and restock on snacks. Wade and Domino hopped out of the minivan as if they were going to race to the gas pumps. Cable muttered a polite, “Excuse me,” to Rhonda as he grabbed his gear next to her and made his exit.

Piotr stepped out of the car and leaned back in to give his wife a quick peck. “You will stay here?” he asked with a soft expression.

Rhonda bit her lip and nodded, confirming, “I will stay here.”

“Dopinder is good people. You can trust him.” He smiled and gave her one more kiss before he turned toward the parked trucks and gas pumps. Piotr squared his shoulders and stood at his full height, officially putting on his field duty face as Colossus. It was such a familiar image for Rhonda, and it tugged at her heart in ways she didn’t expect. As Colossus headed toward the rows of gas pumps, she called sternly after him, “Be careful!”

Dopinder waited a whole minute in the tense silence of his car before speaking up, “Miss Rhonda, I’m going to get something at McDonald’s, do you want something?”

Rhonda’s gaze was locked onto the direction her husband had walked, even though she couldn’t see him after he disappeared behind a parked eighteen-wheeler. In the lengthening shadows of late afternoon, she thought she saw a shape move. “Do they still have the dollar menu?” she asked absently.

Dopinder returned with a chuckle, “Yes. I’m pretty sure if they ever got rid of that there would be riots!”

“Maybe an apple pie or something?” she replied. “I’m not picky. Thanks...”

When Dopinder slipped out of the driver’s seat to walk over to the burger joint, Rhonda waited another minute or two until she was sure he wouldn’t see her. She left the car and headed toward the rows of parked trucks.

She kept her stance loose as she walked, arms swinging at her sides, head high enough to look confident like she knew exactly where she was going. Row after row, she checked between the trucks, a feeling tugging at her that she would find what she was looking for on one of these rows.

Finally, she heard a pair of voices - both very deep, one with more gravelly grit to it than the other. Without making a sound, Rhonda crept between two trucks and ducked low enough to see two pairs of massive boots on the next row. One was definitely Colossus, and the other pair was even bigger.

“I still owe ya for stickin’ a live power line up my ass, commie,” one voice grumbled with a simmering fury and a meaty cracking of knuckles.

A rich, deep Russian accent replied, “Pivet, Fuckernaut. You would not believe how hard it is to fix steel teeth.”

Almost two thousand pounds of muscle and steel squared off, ready to tear into each other. Rhonda sucked in a breath, hoping she was fast enough.

In her years as part of X-Men, Rhonda wasn’t the type to hesitate backing up an ally. Although she’d promised to stay out of the way on this mission, she had no intention of idly standing by. Before either of these massive men could take more than two steps toward each other, she rolled under the trailer that was between her and Colossus and the Juggernaut. Gritting her teeth against the asphalt scraping her bare arms, she scrambled to her feet between them. She threw her hands up and shot sparks from her fingers and shoulders, yelling, “Cain, wait!”

When the Juggernaut saw the familiar four-fingered hand, he hauled himself to a stop out of surprise more than anything; he barely managed to stop within arm’s reach of her. He wouldn’t have recognized her by the elaborate floral painting covering her arm, and her face wasn’t familiar to him since he’d only seen it once before, but that voice and that hand - he’d seen that hand hundreds of times as it passed him cups of pudding and half-eaten lunch trays. He’d seen the little stump scabbed over as it healed to a bright pink nub. That hand used to be so quick, darting in and out of the slot in his door, and over time it had grown slower and smoother as they had gotten used to each other.

“Rhonda, what are you doing?” Colossus had stopped within inches of his wife and was ready to yank her out of the way if it meant her safety.

“Wait,” she was firm, harsher than she meant to be.

“X-Girlie,” The Juggernaut growled. “What’d I tell ya if I ever saw you wearing their colors again?”

Rhonda scoffed in her casual black leggings and purple tank top, “Do I look like I’m wearing their fucking colors?”

“Whaddaya want?” His hands were still in fists, raised at the right height to fling Rhonda against the trailers that flanked them.

She spoke slowly, clearly, loudly, making every syllable heard, “I want you. To take five steps back. And sit.” Without taking her eyes off Juggernaut, she angled her head slightly toward Colossus. “Both of you.” She shot a few small bolts of lightning upward as a warning shot.

Colossus started, “Rhonda, have you lost--”

She shot another bolt upward to silence her husband.

The Juggernaut briefly tightened his fists. “You got your juice back, huh?”

There was a tense few beats before Rhonda answered. “Not like it used to be, no,” she admitted, “But I can give you a few hundred volts of go-fuck-yourself if you don’t take five steps back and sit.”

“Hm,” the walking landmass of a man shifted his feet, then pointed, “Him first.”

Rhonda could feel his breath on her from behind. “Piotr, please. Five steps. Sit.”

Stunned, angry, confused, Colossus slowly took five begrudging steps backward, and lowered himself onto the pavement. He kept one hand on his knee and the other palm on the pavement, ready to spring back up at a second’s notice. “And now?” he asked.

“Cain,” she prompted.

The Juggernaut, with his hulking shoulders and huge helmet, matched Colossus in the begrudging slowness of his steps, before also planting himself on the concrete. “Now what?” he growled.

Rhonda didn’t lower her hands. She still had her right hand raised toward Juggernaut and her left pointed lower, toward the ground near her husband. She had never threatened her husband like this, or gotten between him and an enemy, and it had her so nervous she was shaking, desperately hoping it didn’t show. They could already hear gunfire from closer to the buildings, and civilians screaming. “We wait for the fight to fizzle out. We talk, if you feel like it. But mostly, you two sit your asses here and don’t fight.” Colossus said something to her in Russian, to which she replied, “And we don’t do anything underhanded like that either.”

The three were quiet for several minutes, listening to the sounds of Wade and Cable’s gunfire and the occasional explosion.

The Juggernaut broke the silence, “So...looks like you made it home. Like I said before, you could always join the Brotherhood.”

She relaxed the sparks around her shoulders, but kept the ones emitting from her hands. “So they can use me as a political prop to say what horrible things regular humans do to poor innocent mutants?” She shook her head. “No thanks. The worst of what happened to me wasn’t even the humans and you know it - it was the other mutants.”

“All the same,” he replied, “you ever get sick of self-righteous assholes, you know who to find.”

“It won’t be you, Cain,” she softened, “Sorry.” Another silence. Colossus was seething. The Juggernaut was fidgeting.

“How’s that kid?” he asked.

She had to think a moment before Colossus prompted, “He means Russell.”

“Right,” she nodded once. “He lives at the house now. As far as I know...he’s doing okay.”

“And you, X-Girlie?” he shifted his legs and rested his forearms on his knees. “You put some weight on...looks good.”

Colossus interjected with a severe throat-clearing.

The Juggernaut rolled his eyes, hardly paying any mind and focusing on Rhonda. “How long until you could use your powers again?”

“Weeks,” she said flatly.

His helmet made a soft scraping sound as he shook his head, grunting. “Guess the collars hit you harder than some, huh.” There was a softness in his voice that most people would miss, but in their time talking in the Icebox, Rhonda had learned better.

“I never got to thank you,” she said. “I don’t think I would’ve made it home if you hadn’t helped me.”

He looked away from her, shifting uncomfortably and shrugging. “Those collars pop off like nothin’ if you know what you’re doin’.” He added in a quieter note, “I was just glad you weren’t dead.”

A heavy sigh came from behind Rhonda, and she turned to see Colossus getting to his feet. She started to protest, when he raised his palms and took two very slow steps toward her, then three, then four. “It was you? You took off her control collar when she escaped?”

“What about it?” Juggernaut retorted as if it was an insulting accusation.

Colossus took a hard look at his wife, her firm brow, strong stance, scraped arms, his painting partially peeling off her right arm, revealing the Xs underneath. The way she stood now, arms extended and firing sparks, was something he’d seen hundreds of times, but only ever directed at enemies. Seeing the worry and determination on her face, and the slightest tremble in her fingers, Colossus understood that she had no enemies here, just two people she cared about and wanted to keep them from ripping each other to pieces.

Staring down the Juggernaut, one of the most infamous mutants ever, Colossus said slowly, “I thought my wife had died years ago. You helped her when she needed it, and she came home.” Taking one more step, he held out his open right hand over Rhonda’s shoulder. “You are not my enemy today, and I will not fight you.”

Rhonda’s face softened and she let out a breath with relief. With one more look at the Juggernaut, she finally lowered both her hands.

The helmeted behemoth laughed to himself, shaking his head. Taking his time to get to his feet, he sauntered to close the distance and clasped his rival’s hand. “Fine. Today. But next time, no promi--”

“ALL MUTANTS ON THE PREMISES,” a deafening megaphone rang out, “GET ON THE GROUND WITH YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD. THIS IS THE DEPARTMENT OF MUTANT CONTROL.”

#not a ghost #piotr rasputin x oc #piotr rasputin #colossus x oc #colossus #hahahaha happy Thanksgiving motherfuckerrrrs

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violetsmoak · 5 years

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Tabula Rasa [3/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20183281/chapters/47879533

Blanket Disclaimer:

Summary: Tim and Jason have known they are soulmates for years, though neither has said anything about it. Tim thinks Jason doesn’t know, and is just trying to live with it. Jason thinks Tim knows but doesn’t care, which is fine with him, he thinks the soulmate thing is a crock anyway. But one night, a minor mishap forces them to confront the issue head-on, leading to a series of events no one could have predicted.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #danger #enemies to lovers #i’ll protect you #soulmark tattoo #soulmate aversion

First Chapter

Author's Note(s): Low and behold, plot, and not just Tim whump. (Although there's definitely a big hit of that, too)

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Jason maintains that he doesn’t run. He just makes a well-timed exit.

Out of Gotham.

He meets up with Roy and Kori who are in Key West of all places and convinces them to do something on the other side of the planet. Somewhere dusty and without reliable communication technology, where he hopes they’ll end up being abducted by aliens again.

It has nothing to do with wanting to ignore the whole soulmate thing, or the nagging flickers of guilt he experiences for having been an epic douchebag to Tim, who he now knows gives a shit about being soulmates.

Which isn’t Jason’s fault.

It’s not on either of them that Tim got stuck with Jason or that Jason had to make clear where he stood on the issue. There’s nothing worse than giving someone like Tim false hope.

“Not even breaking his heart?” Kori asks, cross-legged on the couch in her trailer, hair flickering above her like a crackling fire. She ended up getting the story out of him within a day because she’s Kori and lying to her feels like slapping a kitten or something.

“First, I didn’t break his heart. Second, if I did, he’ll get over it,” Jason insists. “And it’s better it happens now than let him mope about it for the rest of his life. At least this way he can put an effort into findin’ someone who actually cares.” Kori tilts her head to one side and presses her lips together. “I mean, it’s not like I want the kid dead anymore, but I’m not lookin’ to make friends or family or whatever with him. And at the end of the day, he’s a decent person and I’m not, so there’s that, too.”

Jason ruins everything he touches—case point, the soulmate he’s already tried (and temporarily succeeded) to kill.

“It sounds as if you already care more about the mate of your soul than you wish to admit,” Kori remarks.

“He’s not my mate.”

“No, not with that attitude.”

“You think I have an attitude? Because I don’t want anything controllin’ my actions or my destiny? The idea isn’t supposed to bother me?”

“I did not say that. But you are looking at the whole thing from just the one angle.”

“You’re tellin’ me it doesn’t bother you?”

“It does not. But I am not you, and matters of the soul are a subjective issue,” she says and leans forward. “You always have a choice, Jason. There are many who have been linked by fate yet choose not to be together. You have seen me and Richard.” Jason’s eyes flick to the creeping pattern of blues and greens that wrap around Kori’s wrist. “Xhal may have decreed we be together, but we decided it was best not to. We have different values, different understandings of the world and relationship—and we both have deep commitments outside of ourselves. That is why I believe the universe ensured he also has Barbara.” She smiles, gentle but sad. “We choose to be mates of the soul from a distance. And I am content with this. It gives me…freedom, in a way. But that decision was made after a long bit of thought and much discussion. Not because we disliked the notion of fate.”

“That doesn’t mean I need to do the same,” Jason points out, a little stiffly.

“No. It does not. But whatever you feel, you and Timothy have a bond. And you are knowingly cutting it off without giving it a chance, something which no doubt does him harm.”

“Not as much as it would if I were around him.”

“You do not know that.”

“Uh, yeah, I do.”

“Very well.” Kori’s brow furrows. “I will not argue with someone that has set their mind to something. I have given you my views on the matter, or rather concerning your mate and your own self-worth. Do with them what you will.”

And she strides out of the trailer; Jason sees a burst of flame outside suggesting she’s flown off.

“And what’s your take on this?” he grumbles, glancing at where Roy’s been sitting the whole time, fiddling with what might have been a DVD player once but now more closely resembles a miniature drone.

“Not my circus, not my monkeys,” Roy grunts around a screwdriver in his mouth.

Jason rolls his eyes.

“Although,” his best friend continues, putting down his tools, “don’t you think by avoiding Gotham, you’re pretty much letting the whole soulmate thing decide how you’re living your life? How’s that different from fate or destiny or the Giant Spaghetti Monster?”

Which Jason can’t summon an argument against.

He hates it when Roy makes sense.

It’s another day of procrastinating before he throws up his hands and says, “You both suck and I’m never comin’ to you for anything ever again.”

“Just call ahead next time,” Kori hums. “Stella is teaching me to make carne asada and I will require another test subject.”

“We’ve only needed to get the fire extinguisher twice,” Roy adds, and Kori nods proudly.

“You two disgust me with your domestic bliss,” Jason informs them before he leaves, although seeing them has made him feel somewhat better.

His friends are an excellent example of a successful relationship despite not being soulmates. Kori’s embodiment of joy was the perfect balm to Roy’s garbage pile of a life. Rejected by his soulmate, his addiction, losing Lian…

Actually, now that he thinks about it, Roy’s life only really started on its downward spiral after Jade ghosted him.

There’s something worrying about that knowledge, but Jason doesn’t examine it too closely.

He heads back to Gotham, a little chastised and a little wary, but determined to keep giving fate or Xhal or whoever the finger. If anyone asks (and no one does), he’s not back to the city because of Tim, but because he still hasn’t figured out who put the contract out on Johnny Lino.

It’s nagging at him more than the death of one of his informants usually does. The trail went cold almost immediately, nothing beyond the traces of a sniper in the opposite building. He’s calling it a coincidence for now, although he’s mentally earmarked it for potential problems in the future if anything else like this happens.

Maybe Johnny just got too big for his britches and pissed off the wrong mobster. One with access to the quality hitmen he couldn’t afford.

Two nights later, when he stops into a club that’s the front to a high stakes illegal poker game, he decides it’s no longer a potential problem, but an imminent right-the-fuck-now problem.

He’s there to collect his percentage from a few of the guys around the table, but once the door closes behind him, he’s suddenly getting ambushed by a table for people with knives and no qualms about dying.

Jason has never liked killing people; it’s something that occasionally has to be done, in the same way a cop sometimes has to pull his service weapon. Certain people in particular—serial rapists and pedophiles and the Joker—are part of that ‘it needs to be done’ category. Thugs like this are just small-time losers with bad judgment, so he’s not really aiming to kill any of them.

Immobilizing shots and the like.

Which is why he’s a bit concerned when he goes to interrogate the bastards about what’s going on, and the guy he reaches for suddenly starts foaming at the mouth, eyes rolling back in his head.

“What the fuck?” Jason jerks backward, glancing at all the rest and finding that they, too, are now convulsing and twitching as the life leaves their bodies.

Cyanide, he realizes when he leans close to his guy’s mouth and detects the smell of almonds. Again, I say, ‘what the fuck’?

It’s the second time a visit to an underling has resulted in death.

Something’s going on in his house, and he doesn’t like it. Maybe the trip to Florida wasn’t a good idea just now; he needs information, and he needs it now.

Except, when he canvasses the streets between Park Row and Byron, he discovers quickly that his people aren’t talking. The girls that are usually so chatty cross quickly to the other side of the streets, the hustlers on the corners are suddenly all on breaks, and the bodega clerks simply beg him to leave their shops, they have kids, you know?

The only one that will talk to him is Rhonda, one of the prostitutes that has been there longer than the rest. She’s a raw-boned woman with leathery skin and bleached, teased blond curls; once, a john tried to act out a rape-murder fantasy on her and she tasered him in the nuts until they burned off.

He’s not sure how much of that’s true, but if anyone could pull that off, it’s Rhonda.

“Someone put a price on your head, baby,” she informs him when he tracks her down, taking a long drag of a menthol cigarette. “Someone scarier than you.”

“Not possible,” he replies, trying to inject some of his usual cockiness into the words.

“There’s always someone scarier,” she informs him gravely. “Lotsa girls and runners gone to the new player. They says he’s gonna protect us better than Red Hood ever did, offer us a bigger take. More of our money in our pockets. Even gonna keep the kids safe better than you could.”

“Which you don’t believe, or you’d be jumping that bandwagon.”

“I believe what I sees, and I ain’t seen this guy,” she replies. “But he did send those Pike bastards outta here, runnin’ with their tails between their legs. Last I heard, they got picked up by one of the Bats before they set much on fire.”

“Which Bat?”

“Red Robin, I think.”

I guess I owe him for taking care of that particular headache.

“He’s pretty decent for a mask,” she adds. “Always comes down here when you ain’t been seen for a few days. He a bit softer—never leaves anyone crippled—but the alley stays safe when he comes by.”

Jason scowls inside his helmet. He didn’t come here to talk about his replacement.

“What do you know about this new guy, then?” he asks, redirecting the conversation back to his current problem. “The one trying to move in on my turf, not the wannabe Bat.”

“Oh, no, honey, that’s all I’m givin’ you. Anyone hears I told you even that and I’m in trouble. But I hear you ain’t the only one having troubles with him. Penguin’s stepped up his muscle a lot lately.”

“I guess that means I’m going clubbin’,” Jason says, and hands over a few hundreds. It’s more than the information she gave him is worth, but she’s got a kid to feed. “Take a night or two off, Rhonda. Could be a hard few days.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” she replies and pockets the money, slinking into the shadows.

The next stop on his list that night is the Iceberg Lounge. As usual, Penguin doesn’t intend to be helpful in the beginning.

“I assure you I have heard nothing of this newest player,” he croaks after Jason goes through the obligatory routine of threats and a show of violence. “But then, a good portion of my clientele has absconded to the Hungry Ghost these past weeks.”

“The what?”

“A new club—little more than the front for a brothel. But rife with rumors and scandal.” He smiles his oily little smile, the one that Jason’s broken more than once since he was thirteen and has to fight down the urge to do again now.

“It’s not like you to be so calm about this. You’re usually more of a control freak over the information game.”

“The wheel never stops turning, Hood. There’s a reason I’ve been around longer than anyone else in this business. It’s knowing the proper time to stand and fight…and the proper time to move out of the line of fire. I will still be here when the dust settles.” The man grins wide, showing yellowed teeth. “But from what I hear, you might not be.”

“That a threat?” Jason growls, hand moving to his holster.

“An observation. And don’t look like that, do you really think I’d dirty my hands on someone like you?” Penguin sniffs. “I am remaining Switzerland on this issue.”

“Switzerland, huh? So armed neutrality?”

“Indeed.”

His cold eyes following Jason as he takes his leave—and knocks out a few bodyguards that try to make a move on him as he goes.

“What the fuck?” he asks for the third time in as many days, absently rubbing the back of his left wrist. “How does Penguin not even know what’s going on?”

“Since he’s trying to stay alive,” a voice replies, and Jason almost—almost—jumps when he notices the shadow leaning over a nearby fire-escape. Red Robin materializes fully into the light but remains a conspicuous distance away from Jason. “I didn’t know you were back in town.”

Tim’s tone is careful.

“I didn’t exactly put it on MySpace.”

“MySpace hasn’t been around since 2009.”

“Yeah, well, I was dead that year, so sue me for not knowin’ that.”

He expects a reprimand or a bit of tooth-grinding like he always gets when he makes oblique jokes about his death. But Tim just shrugs. Which seems…off, somehow.

“A week ago, all the major players were sent packages,” Tim informs him, going back to the subject at hand. “Heads, hands, and hearts of their top lieutenants, and a warning to wait for orders from the new boss in Gotham.”

“So basically, someone took my schtick and went the extra mile,” Jason suggests.

And is trying to edge me out of my own business.

“B is monitoring the situation. It hasn’t spilled into the civilian sphere yet, so he hasn’t deemed it an immediate threat.”

“Of fuckin’ course not, it’s not his head the new guy wants on a pike!” Jason growls, somewhat irritated by this, but also a bit surprised. Bruce wouldn’t be leaving the matter alone if he thought Jason was in any actual danger; maybe, for once, he understands Jason can handle it.

Doesn’t explain why the kid’s here tonight, though.

“So what are you doing here?”

There’s a slight squeak of leather as Tim shrugs. “Protection detail. We’ve all been assigned to keep an eye out if whoever this is makes a move on one of the bigger names. I’m on Penguin tonight.”

“Capes guardin’ criminals,” Jason snorts. “The irony of that never gets old.

Tim doesn’t answer. No witty rejoinder, no impassioned defense of Batman’s credo.

“Still, at least you’re doing something,” Jason allows, somewhat grudging. “And you’ve been busy with the Pikes, from what I hear. I was savin’ them for a rainy day, but I guess it’s a headache I don’t have to worry about now.”

He expects Tim to display some kind of reaction to that, even if it is dark sarcasm.

“It’s my job,” he says instead, in a way that makes Jason frown. But not as much as he does when Tim shoots a grapple line and takes off without another word.

Well, that was weird. But…okay? I guess?

Tim didn’t mention anything about their soulmarks; didn’t even bother bringing it up. Clearly, he took Jason’s message to heart and is trying to be professional. Which is also good. Not a lot of people can handle rejection with any sense of maturity.

A little cold, but it’s Tim. He’s not as emotive as Dick is, anyway.

Jason puts it out of his mind, ignores that tiny flash of wrong that crops of when he thinks about the younger man’s behavior. Which doesn’t happen all that often, since he’s too busy running down his list of contacts trying to find out who exactly the new player is in Gotham.

In theory, he could go to the other Bats for information—could go to Oracle, if he butters her up a bit. She still has a thing for cinnamon buns from that place on 4th, it wouldn’t even be out of his way…

But he’s not really keen on talking to any of them right now, and not to put too fine a point on it, this is his business. It’s bad enough they’re even on the periphery of the case already.

⁂

Two days later, tracking a snitch that’s been avoiding him causes him to stumble upon a weapons deal going down in Tricorner. No local colors, but from the gear Jason calls mercenaries.

Red Robin’s in the middle of it, outnumbered by a lot and outgunned by more, and Jason throws himself into the fight without thinking too much about it. It’s what anyone in the Family does, after all, no need to ascribe any meaning to it.

Red grunts an acknowledgment—that he sees Jason and won’t accidentally break his jaw with his bō—and they settle into their usual fight pattern. Jason’s always found this all too easy—there’s something about fighting back to back with another Bat that’s just instinctive, whether it’s Dick or Damian or even Bruce.

But with Tim, it’s always been more than that. They work together like gears in a clock.

He always shied away from attributing that to their soul bond, because that would mean having to acknowledge it. Better to think it was because Tim obsessively stalked Jason when he was Robin and that Jason learned everything he could about his replacement’s style when he and Talia were planning his big return to Gotham.

But it’s out there now, isn’t it? They both know, it’s not a secret.

Just like Jason knows after several minutes that there’s something still off about Red.

Half his attention on his own fight with his own portion of the goons, Jason can still observe the other vigilante’s movements. Red is telegraphing his moves more. Nothing these brainless thugs would notice, but someone with Bat and League training could spot from a mile away. There’s a languidness in his movements like he’s not entirely present in the moment, and a lack of care in his attacks.

Jason watches as Tim takes a running jump, kneeing one thug in the chest and knocking him to the floor, then using him as a steppingstone—steps down harder than usual, dislocates the shoulder—twists and grabs the next nearest thug by the arm. Holding him, he hobbles him in the knee, then follows up with a kick to the head.

As the bullets fly, Tim tucks and rolls between two more assailants, sweeping the feet out from beneath the third, who stumbles, allowing Tim to weave beneath his outstretched arm and the gun he has pointed at him. Bowing his back into him, Tim tries to go for an elbow to the solar plexus, but the guy is shooting now even as he struggles with Tim.

Usually, he’d be attempting to ensure those shots remain nonlethal, but this time he doesn’t seem concerned with it. It’s by sheer chance that several of the slugs only hit the fourth guy in the shoulders, at points that Jason dimly recognizes as close to fatal.

Tim’s assailant is still shooting, they’re still struggling, and even as Tim twists and tries to get it out of his hands, bullets nearly hit Jason as he’s in the process of clotheslining his own opponent.

“The hell, Replacement?” he snaps as he ducks the wild spray of gunfire.

Tim ignores him but has apparently lost patience. He digs a birdarang out of his bandolier, slamming it into the meaty part of his opponent’s leg. There’s a shriek of pain and the guy crumples around the wound, then Tim whirls around and brings him down hard on the floor. As the fifth man comes at him, Tim breaks his nose and shoves him toward the sixth man, who he kicks in the chest, then backhands the last guy, using him as leverage to snap a kick at his buddy.

The guy goes flying backward, and Tim throws the final thug down on the floor, smacking him face-first against the hard pavement with enough force that blood pools around his head.

It’s quick, efficient, and merciless, and if it were anyone else the sheer beauty of the takedown would impress Jason.

Except, this is not the way Red Robin fights. Tim is always efficient, yes, but there’s a certain amount of force he always holds back. No matter how quick and brutal the fight, he takes the extra effort to avoid critical injuries.

That wasn’t there tonight; hell, he almost got Jason shot.

“What’s with you?” Jason demands when they are surrounded by feebly twitching bodies and Tim is calling in the GCPD to deal with the remaining contraband.

“Nothing you need to care about,” is the mild reply.

“I fuckin’ care if it gets me killed!”

“Then maybe you’re not as good as you think you are.”

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The tone isn’t the dry, snarky confidence Red Robin usually uses to deliver a line like that. It’s robotic and toneless and weary. Jason only remembers him sounding like that after Batman’s supposed death, when no one believed him about Bruce still being alive.

Wait. Did something happen while I was away?

“Christ, kid, who died while I was gone?” he demands.

“If we’re done here, I have a report to write,” Tim replies without answering the question, and is already walking away.

“Yeah, fine! You do that!” Jason shouts after him. It’s not like he actually cares for the answer.

And yet…

The whole thing bothers him.

Kid’s going to get himself killed, and it’s not even something I can blame Bruce for.

Mostly because he’s almost certain he has something to do with Tim’s mood. He might have overestimated Tim’s ability to handle rejection by his soulmate.

Which is disappointing, because of all the teenaged clichés he expected the younger man to fall prey to, giving up on himself the first time he faces rejection?

Typical rich boy. Got everything handed to him, so when someone tells him ‘no’, he has an existential crisis. Well, whatever. Screw him. It’s none of my business.

Though that assertion is easier said than stood by.

⁂

The next morning, Jason is still feeling uneasy about the whole thing. He didn’t sleep well, just tossed and turned for four hours before he gave up and went a few rounds with his punching bag. He decides to calm himself down another way and heads for the café he sometimes frequents that does tea almost as well as Alfred’s.

The place looks like a bar, but instead of alcoholic beverages, there are exotic teas and fancy cold drinks on display. It’s early enough in the day there aren’t more than two or three other patrons. Usually he comes in later when it’s packed and bustling and easy to disappear into the crowd; today, he appreciates the silence.

In the back corner, a television is on, broadcasting the morning news. The screen switches to a conference and, of course, it’s Tim fucking Drake front and center. Talking up something to do with his Neon Knights thing.

And it looks like Vicki’s up to her shit again.

The intrepid thorn in the collective side of the Family is needling Tim about his personal life. He’s deflects everything with his usual smile until Vale brings up Tam Fox.

Tim’s face is always so composed when speaking to the press, his smile rivaling Brucie or maybe the Mona Lisa for secretiveness. But as Vale’s questions veer toward the subject of soulmates—and Tim’s apparent lack thereof—it’s as if a thundercloud has taken residence on the teen’s face.

When Vale ignores Tim’s third polite side-step of her questioning, he jerks as if a physical snap takes place inside him.

“The last time I checked, this conference is about increasing funding for underprivileged students, not about my personal life,” he says, tone frigid. “And in case your many years of reporting haven’t drilled it into your head, no comment means no comment. If that continues to confuse you, maybe I should replace it with ‘fuck off’.”

The TV censors bleep it out, but you don’t have to be a lipreader to know it’s what he said. As the press clamor, Tim then stalks out of frame, which—

Shit.

Jason is both impressed—because even he never managed to do that when he had to deal with the press as a kid—and disquieted. Because Tim Drake doesn’t lose control like that, not least of all where the public might see it.

What the hell.

Jason heads back to his current safe house, wondering if maybe this might be something he should tell someone about. He doesn’t have to get touchy-feely about it, but he might drop a hint or two to Dick, or to Alfie, or someone who gives a shit about Tim.

They can have, I dunno, some kind of intervention or whatever white hats like they do in situations like this.

All thoughts of that vanish, however, when he turns the corner and notices a crowd gathered outside the building where he’s been staying. Large plumes of smoke are billowing above it, and there are a firetruck and two police squad cars parked out front.

What the…?

Jason hurries over and stares up, dumbstruck, to see a chunk of the edifice missing.

The spot where his bolthole used to be.

Someone firebombed the place.

Murmurs rise up all around him.

“I heard the guy living there was cooking meth, and it blew up.”

“Nah, there was a terrorist holed up in there. Probably didn’t set the timer on his bomb properly.”

“This fucking neighborhood.”

“I know, right?”

But Jason barely synthesizes the information, so fixated on one thing.

Someone knows.

Maybe they don’t know about him—he’s never come out of here without either a mask on or a hoodie or hat—but someone must have seen Red Hood come to this place. He’s swept for bugs and cameras, so there’s no way they’ve got a visual on him, but somehow they knew that was his apartment.

It’s too precise.

Which means his other places might be compromised, too.

Jason turns and walks away from the building, thoughts racing.

He wonders furiously about who it could be, who knows about his boltholes. Roy and Kori, obviously; he told them in case anything ever happens to him or if he doesn’t contact them for a while. He’s got a list of Roy’s in Star City and the tropical hideaways Kori’s come to enjoy over the years. They all call it insurance, but it’s a way of checking up on each other.

He could see the Joker figuring it out, but the gradually escalating attacks on Red Hood are too subtle for that maniac. Jason doubts they’ve seen the end of him since he made his last disappearing act, but this isn’t him. The clown likes an audience, likes to be noticed. These attacks are being done from the shadows and required a lot of planning.

Could be Talia, since he’s sure she’s been keeping tabs on him even long after they parted ways. She’d see it as leverage, as protecting an investment even if it didn’t give her the returns she expected.

And the Bats, of course, but none of them is the type to send a message with explosives, even when they’re all at odds.

It looks like Jason will have to lie low for a bit, watch his territory from the shadows. Deep surveillance.

He heads for his apartment in Crime Alley, which should be safe enough; he never goes anywhere near it when in uniform. Jason can regroup from there, remote-access surveillance from the moment before the safe house was bombed, check on the other boltholes from afar and—

And run straight into Tim Drake.

The kid’s bundled into a winter coat, but it hangs open, revealing the clothes he was wearing during his news conference meltdown. He’s missing the suit jacket, and his tie is loose under the collar of his shirt, carrying a plastic bag from the bodega down the street. Jason can see what looks like a week’s worth of ramen and TV dinners through the flimsy plastic.

All of which only serves to magnify that expression of absolute defeat on his face. That shifts into careful blankness when he recognizes Jason heading toward him.

The sight of him is the cherry on the top of Jason’s already shitty day.

“No,” he snaps, stalking forward and shoving a finger at Tim. “Fuck you. I’ve got enough of my own shit going on, I don’t have time to deal with your…all of this.” He gestures at the remains of Tim’s billionaire playboy costume. “What the hell are you even doin’ here, anyway?”

Tim sighs, weary. “I live here. Like…a block away.”

And it’s a measure of how messed up this new player in town has Jason that he actually forgot that tidbit. It makes him angrier to have it pointed out to him.

“Of fucking’ course you do! You’re everywhere else, why not my neck of the woods now, too?”

“I’ve lived here for a year and you never said anything,” Tim points out.

“Yeah, well, I never ran into you before, did I?”

He doesn’t add that that was before their whole soulmates thing got yanked out in the open.

“Being off-planet helps with that, I always figured,” Tim says blandly, and shoulders past Jason with all the strength of a sleepwalker.

Which just rubs Jason the wrong way.

He feels like he’s being dismissed, feels guilt that he doesn’t want to be feeling, and is still raring for a fight. Jason snaps his hand out and roughly pulls the other man around to face him; he expects a fist to block him, or for Tim to shove him off. Instead, he simply sways a bit on his feet like he’s trying to find balance.

Wrong, wrong, wrong!

“What the hell is your problem, Drake? Don’t tell me you’re sulkin’ about the soulmate thing? Is this the reason for the lame-ass robot impression you’ve been doin’ lately?”

Tim’s expression doesn’t change. “I honestly haven’t had the time to think about it. There’s a lot of work to keep me busy.”

“Right, forgot, you’ve got to be the perfect clone of B to get him to notice you. Guess that tanked today, huh? Newsflash, kid, you weren’t the first to be replaced, and I’m bettin’ you won’t be the last. Go get a life.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Tim replies vaguely. “It would be easier to do if you stayed away, though.”

“Yeah, well, my life would have been a lot easier if you didn’t exist!”

There’s a breath of heavy silence in the wake of that sentence.

Jason’s fury fizzles out like a candle doused in water the minute the syllables pass his lips. Right away, he wants to take it back, because of the way Tim nods, his expression slamming into a wall of resignation that gives Jason an uneasy feeling at the back of his neck and a pit in his gut.

He backtracks. “Look, that’s not what I—”

Whatever convoluted explanation he was going to dredge up is lost, because at that moment two things happen near simultaneously: a gunshot rips through the ambient noise of the night, and Tim jerks forward, suddenly in Jason’s space, shoving him to one side.

Blood sprays across Jason’s face, and there’s a searing hot pain on the side of his neck, that experience tells him is a bullet.

Just like experience tells him the kid now slumped in his arms, eyes wide and still trapped in that awful blank stare took the brunt of the shot—to his head.

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

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<3 Violet

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rideofbrunhelga · 7 years

Text

nycc recap!

OK.

so now I'm on my computer finally ( I slept most of the day lmao ) so lemme give a rundown on my nycc experience!

thursday:

So. I got a SUPER late start because I barely slept this week due to work stress and just general stress about getting a bunch of stuff done prior to leaving for NY. I drove to Hamilton station in NJ and was told that their overnight parking was full so I had to drive to Trenton. Then I think because I was so in a tailspin just trying to get there when I was already running behind, I missed the train and had to wait for the next one. I got into NY around 2:30. I was meeting my BFF and she thought I wasn't getting in until 2:45ish so I waited for her outside MSG at Penn Station for a bit.

So, we finally made it to the con around 3:15 and it was packed. I couldn’t even believe it (this was both our first con). But right when we walked in, the shrine with spongebob pineapple was at the entrance and I got emotional (I was also tired so emotions were running high) but there was a huge line. Not for the shrine, but to meet Spongebob and Patrick who were basically in front of the shrine. The guy told us they would be leaving soon so we decided to come back later.

We walked around for a bit, we got a pic with BB-8. They explicitly told us not to touch him. And then after our pic I subconsciously used him to pull myself up LMFADJSAKLDJAKDJA. omfg the girl looked like she was ready to murder me but it was a complete accident the second I did it I was like OMG I’m so sorry. and I HIGH TAILED IT THE HECK OUTTA THERE.

While we were walking (by the way I felt like I couldn’t even stop to look at things because people were EVERYWHERE you felt like you had to keep moving), we saw Kevin Smith. I didn’t know who he was and I was standing right next to him and this guy ran up to him to get a selfie and he was like “thanks man it means a lot” I was like “who is this guy?” lmfao. Then I noticed there was security and the one said “he can’t take anymore pictures he’s on a tight schedule.” and my friend then realize it was Kevin Smith hahahahaha. Then we headed back to the shrine and spent a good half hour there. NO one was taking pictures with it. I have no idea why because it was so neat. The people at the Nickelodeon booth didn’t care that we were just like having a full on photoshoot with it so that was cool.

We went outside and there was this Jigsaw escape room and we’re like “oh yay fun” but the girl was like “we’re closed for the day” so :(. Oh well. We bought overpriced drinks and sat on the floor for awhile to decompress before we met up with our other bff for dinner.

We then had dinner at this ramen place on the upper west side. It was fun except so bizarre. This woman tripped over my friends chair, fell to the floor and for like 45 min she refused to get up from the floor. The owner looked panicked and kept asking to call the ambulance and she was screaming “NO!” “NO!” like 500x making a HUGE scene. She wouldn’t get up and was just sitting there. Someone eventually called an ambulance because like wtf? If you don’t think you can get up you can’t just sit on the floor of a restaurant the whole night? People were so uncomfortable and trying not to laugh because she was being so dramatic lmfao. When the EMTs came they basically were like “lady we’ve been doing this for years, your shoulder is not dislocated and we need to get you off the floor” so finally that was that. Then we went to have gelato and they made mine into a really beautiful flower I was like omg?? Then I went back to my friend’s apartment and we watched AHS: Cult which I think I cannot watch another episode of because it was so traumatic.

friday

I woke up around 7. Took a shower and got ready for the panel. I knew I wanted to get there around 9 because I planned to sit through the first panel. In line I met two girls from the Facebook group and they were so sweet and so fun. We all sat together and managed to get front row. I’m not sure HOW that happened but I think it’s because the rows behind us were reserved so people assumed our row was (it wasn't). so that was so good! Especially considering I think I was in the first 100 people at Hammerstein and still managed front row.

This girl and DJ were hyping the crowd and then the first panel started. It was for both Amazon’s Man in the High Castle and Electric Dreams shows, both Phillip K. Dick works. It was cool. It would’ve been cooler if Bryan Cranston was there but Liam Cunningham from GOT was there and Rufus Sewell.

Finally that ended (lmfao). I swear. 85% of that crowd was there just for Arnold. There was 45 min in between panels. It got a lot more crowded for Arnold. The DJ was spinning some 90s tracks and people were dancing in the aisles lmfao. The hype girl then brought some people on the stage, one of them in Helga cosplay ( she was AMAZING, she was stomping around like Helga too we all were cracking up ) and two 14 yr old girls in Arnold apparel. She asked them how they got into Hey Arnold! since they were so young, and the one girl said from watching The Splat and we all cheered. The other girl was like “it’s a long story” I was like ok I guess? Then we played a game where the DJ played like two seconds of a 90s cartoon theme and the audience had to guess what it was. I also got another Arnold hat that they were giving away.

FINALLY it was 12:15 and the panel began.

It was hosted by Keely Flaherty (sp?) from BuzzFeed. She was cute. They started playing the music and introducing everyone. Everyone got a huge reception, especially Craig and Franny. I was freaking out. I started getting choked up the moment I saw Craig LMFAO. The audience was going NUTS. They spoke about doing the show all those years ago and if they remembered their first auditions (Toran revealed he didn’t originally audition for Arnold, he possibly auditioned for Stinky but wasn’t sure). Craig said they were doing the auditions where they made Ren and Stimpy. Then they discussed each of their characters at length. Craig noted he voiced all the animals including Abner, lol. Anndi also talked about how she was competitive like Phoebe, and tried to join Boy Scouts as a kid.

It was revealed that Toran was playing a character of Che, who is Olga’s love interest in the film. We saw the character lineups that we’ve seen before as well as some new ones. Everyone was laughing with Rhonda’s newly revealed jungle outfit. Craig said she Rhonda is going to have a hard time in the jungle. Olivia was like “Thanks Craig. Do you hate me or something?” lmfao.

They were showing new stills and every time a new one was shown the audience oooh’d and ahhh’d. Craig then introduced the trailer and I died. I really fricken died. I was a mess. The girls I was sitting with were choking up too. When the lights went back up, Franny looked over at Anndi with her hand over her mouth like she was ready to cry and they hugged each other, Anndi started crying. Most of us stood up and clapped and cheered. I CRIED EVEN MORE. Craig was like “let’s play it one more time!” and we all cheered lmao. So we watched it again, and I caught things the second time around I for some reason didn’t notice the first time. We then had a Q&A.

The one girl I was sitting with asked a really great question about if Craig incorporated any of the technology and animation styles from Dinosaur Train and Ready Jet Go into TJM. He seemed impressed by the question. People asked about Mr. Simmons sexuality, Gertie’s role in the film, Phoebe x Gerald, so on and so forth. Some people just complimented Craig on things that they loved about the show. There were a couple weird moments. Someone asked Craig how it felt when the first movie didn’t do well leading the series cancellation...I was like ??????? He then got up from his seat and was like “WELL AT LEAST WE’RE GETTING THE JUNGLE MOVIE NOW!” and we all cheered :D

SADLY the panel came to an end and I started crying again. It was so much fun. I can’t even express it properly here. The vibe in there was awesome and everyone was so excited and happy. They were taking a group picture on the stage and people then rushed up to the stage to shake Craig’s hand like a freakin rockstar (I have pics of it). It was so funny. He was like “guys I have to get off the stage” lmao.

I then had a couple hours to kill between the panel and the signing so I headed over to Javits. It was MOBBED. I wasn’t sure how it could be worse than yesterday but it was lmao. I saw amazzzzzing cosplay. My phone was dying and my portable charger was drained but I was like whatever we can’t take pics at the autograph session anyway (which apparently was not enforced -_-) I sat for awhile and calmed my nerves down and then realized I had no idea where the signing was since it wasn’t clear in my email. I asked so many people and staff and NO ONE knew. I finally found it in the corner of the Autographing area. I saw the one 14 yr “it’s a long story” girl hanging around there and I was like “is this the line for Arnold?” and she was like “Yeah, but it’s for lottery winners ONLY.” I was like ‘I know I have a ticket.’ and she shot me this weird look and was like “You’re lucky.” LISTEN HONEY, YOU WEREN’T EVEN BORN WHEN THIS SERIES ENDED I’VE WAITED TOO LONG FOR THIS don’t sass your elders like that!

I got in line. I was pretty okay waiting. I realized Lucius Malfoy from Harry Potter and Pornstache from OITNB were doing signings at the booth next to us lmao. Finally the cast came out and I was okay, totally calm. Then I was up next and my heart started beating out of my fricken chest lord have mercy.

I can’t tell you everything because I feel like I blacked out a portion of it lmao. Craig was the first person you go up to. I said “Hi Craig.” and he said “Hi! What’s you’re name?” I said Andrea and he asked me to spell it. Then I was like “It’s really so nice to meet you.” he asked me if I watched the show growing up and I as like ?!?!??!?!?!@!@PUQIOERDuwqajdJALSDJAKLD YES. I told him how I made a petition when I was 11 and mailed it to Nickelodeon. He got a kick out of that and asked if I sent to the 1515 New York address, which I do remember was the address I had at that time. He’s like “so maybe in a way you influenced this” I was like, “I hope so!” and he asked me if I went to the panel and I was like ALDJASLKDJAKLJLK YES. I told him how the energy in the room changed once the first panel was over. I was like, “IT WAS COOL AND ALL BUT WHEN IT ENDED THE ENERGY CHANGED” and he loved that and said he heard the hollering from the audience backstage and asked the staff what the audience was cheering for and she said it was for them and he couldn’t believe it! I told him that it really meant so much to me to that this was happening. I told him I was beyond thrilled for him and couldn’t wait. He thanked me and I really felt like he meant it. He was sooooo nice and so interested in what I had to say. Franny was next to him and I said “Hi Francesca, so nice to meet you” And she asked how I pronounced my name and such. I told her I was like “I don’t know if you remember but a few years ago I emailed you about doing a paper on Helga.” She was like “YEs!” And I thanked for her for taking the time to do that and giving such great answers. She asked me if I graduated college, what I majored in, what I was doing now, what the class was for, etc. Like, me? Let’s talk about you? Then I spoke with Anndi, who asked if I would consider shortening my name to hers lol. She was very very sweet and warm and beautiful in person. I think I blurted something stupid to her and Olivia at the same time about Instagram like, “you guys are so cool!” LMAOOO. What a moron.

Anyway they all were incredible and down to earth, they seemed just as excited to meet us as we were to meet them. Olivia asked if I went to the panel, and Anndi said “She was in the front row!” I think they asked this because prob some of the lottery winners were not even fans lmao.

I’m missing some detail because like I said, I feel like I blacked out aldkjasdjasdkl, but it was AWESOME. The whole day was just so fun. It was beyond my expectations. The trailer was incredible - I really am so stoked now. Like, the movie looks so fun and action packed. I am so glad I decided to go because it was really something I will remember and hold close to me the rest of my life. I wish we could all have a screening to watch the movie together because it was too fun being in that room with all the fans experiencing that collectively. I am so grateful for the experience, and to be apart of such an incredible fandom that has such a wonderful cast and creator behind it. I could not ask for better. I feel so lucky.

I love you guys! I hope you enjoyed my coverage on ig story. I’m gonna image dump on here soon from my experience. I’m so excited, we are so close and it’s all feeling real now!

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the-record-newspaper · 4 years

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The killing of Rhonda Hinson Part 46

Rhonda Hinson’s Datsun as it was discovered on the morning of her death on Dec. 23, 1981.

Editor’s note: This is a continuation of a series about the Dec. 23, 1981, unsolved murder of Rhonda Hinson.

By LARRY J. GRIFFIN

Special Investigative Reporter

For The Record

With the recent case of Baby Michael solved using forensic genealogy and all the publicity—maybe this could be an option for the DNA found under the arms [of Rhonda Hinson’s sweater].—Comment offered by a respondent to the Remembering Rhonda Hinson Facebook page.

In 1984—approximately three-years after the killing of Ronda Hinson—Alec Jeffreys and his associates at the University of Leicester in England discovered that each person’s DNA varies, rendering every individual on the planet unique. Moreover, they found that specific areas of the long human DNA molecule exhibit a characteristic that they labeled as polymorphism—meaning that the molecule can assume many different forms.

Subsequent to that revelation, Jeffreys developed an efficacious process by which these areas of human DNA could be both identified and analyzed—a procedure that he named DNA fingerprinting or, as it is most commonly known, DNA typing. It was also during the same year that DNA typing was utilized to implicate Colin Pitchfork in the brutal rape and murder of two teenage girls in the rural English hamlet of Narborough. A DNA match was confirmed, eliciting a confession from Pitchfork. It was, incidentally, the first time in which mass DA screening was used to solve a crime.

Prior to this advancement, the only failsafe method for making positive identification of suspected perpetrators was fingerprinting. To date, it remains an extremely powerful forensic tool, with this caveat—fingerprints are not always found at a crime scene because criminals have discovered gloves and the necessity of wiping prints from objects touched during the commission of crimes.

As previously reported in an earlier installment, fingerprints were found on the driver’s side window of the 1981 Datsun 210 on the day of the killing of Rhonda Hinson—Wednesday, Dec. 23, 1981. According to an SBI document detailing the nascent investigation:

“One (1) area of fingerprints was noted on the window and (2) lifts were made from this area. The rest of the door on the driver’s side was fingerprinted without results. The door on the passenger’s side was not fingerprinted, as it had been exposed to the weather on the outside and had been locked at the original crime scene.

However, in a report written by Detective Gene Franklin on Feb. 10, 1995—over 13-years subsequent to the murder—he noted that a substantial amount of evidence had been lost or destroyed, among which were the negatives of the crime scene photos and the, “...fingerprints taken from the door and windows ….”

“We were given a couple of explanations by law enforcement as to what happened to the fingerprints,” Judy Hinson explained in a recent follow-up interview. “One was that a person at the SBI Lab in Swannanoa was responsible for corrupting the fingerprints. We were told that he had attempted to enlarge the prints and messed them up during the process. So, we contacted this man in Swannanoa to ask what happened. He told us that the story we were told was not accurate, that he did not mess-up the prints, and that he would be willing to come to Burke County to quickly straighten things out.”

There is no indication that the fingerprints-of-interest lifted from Rhonda Hinson’s Datsun were ever matched to any individual/individuals present at the crime scene the early morning of Dec. 23, 1981.

Even though his/her fingerprints may be absent or may have been assiduously wiped clean, it is still virtually impossible for even the most fastidious perpetrator to remove every biological indication of her/his presence from the site of a crime. DNA fingerprinting provides an investigator or criminologist with an effective tool for utilizing the most infinitesimal amount of genetic material to identify those individuals who were at the scene of a crime.

DNA can be found in almost every cell in the human body—skin, hair follicles, semen, saliva, and blood are frequent sources of DNA collected at a crime scene. But DNA can be left behind by simply touching something or someone at the site. Touch DNA, as it is commonly known, can provide a complete profile of the perpetrator by using just a single skin cell from her/his finger pads.

It was during the John McDevitt administration, in 2007, that Captain Becky Weatherman of the Burke County Sheriff’s Department and SBI Special Agent Marc Sharpe submitted Rhonda Hinson’s sweater to the SBI Lab to ascertain the presence of DNA on the fabric. The test results indicated that DNA—not belonging to the descendant—was found in both armpit areas, likely the “signature” of the person who removed her from her automobile. Suddenly, “new life was breathed” into what had become a moribund, stagnant 26-year-old investigation.

But the question remained, whose DNA was it—the shooter who, for whatever rhyme and reason, pulled Rhonda from the driver’s seat of the Datsun before fleeing the crime scene or one of the young men who discovered her Datsun backed into a ditch on the west side of Eldred Street and, according to witnesses passing by the crime scene, removed her from the vehicle?

According to a Friday Dec. 23, 2011, article about the discovery of the sweater DNA, written by Matthew Hensley for the Morganton News Herald, a DNA profile was obtained and logged into state and national DNA databases. “…And the sheriff’s office is just waiting for someone to enter a match,” Mr. Hensley reported. “New DNA samples are entered into these databases daily, including samples from every person in North Carolina charged with a felony and many convicts, and Weatherman is hopeful this is how investigators will crack the case.”

The Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) oversees DNA databases referred to as Combined DNA Index System (CODIS) and the National DNA Index System (NDIS). These are repositories of DNA fingerprints gleaned from felons and from biological fluids obtained from crime scenes, such as assaults, homicides, and rapes.

Though DNA profiles can be compared through referencing these sources, there does remain a couple of challenges: First, as late as 2019, the databases are still not being systematically used by every state and jurisdiction across the nation. Second, the databanks only contain DNA from those who have been implicated in the commission of crimes. Unless a person-of-interest has a profile previously indexed in the databases, it would be impossible for an investigator to obtain a match for a DNA sample extracted from a crime scene.

Unquestionably, there are instances in which the evidence uncovered during an investigation points to a specific suspect who has never been involved with the jurisprudence system; therefore his/her personal data would not appear in anyone’s records. However, investigators have avenues available to them through which the DNA of a person-of-interest could be collected.

According to sources, it is legal for law enforcement to request that a person submit a sample of her/his DNA. In doing so, it is incumbent upon the officer to inform him/her that it is voluntary and carries with it no legal obligation to provide one—in accordance with the provisions of the Fourth Amendment of the Constitution.

Another option is to obtain a probable cause warrant compelling a person to provide a DNA sample. Probable cause can be established if an investigator has reason to believe that an individual is somehow connected to a crime or crime scene. In many cases, strong circumstantial or indirect evidence has provided ample justification for the successful attainment of a probable cause warrant.

When asked if they believe that enough substantive circumstantial evidence exists to merit a probable cause warrant to collect DNA samples from any person-of-interest connected to the case, Ms. Hinson replied simply yet emphatically, “Yes we do!”

Additionally, if evidence is deemed insufficient to obtain a probable cause warrant, law enforcement has the option of resorting to familial DNA testing—asking a family member of a person-of-interest to submit a DNA sample. Humans share much of the same DNA; however, the minor variations, which differentiate individuals, can express themselves across close family members.

According to Dr. D.P. Lyle, in his book, Forensic for Dummies, brothers, sisters, parents, and children share more DNA than nonrelated individuals. While the DNA of relatives is not similar enough for true DNA matching, it is close enough to suggest a connection and to provide ample bases for obtaining a probable cause warrant.

“To our knowledge,” Judy Hinson averred, “there has only been one attempt to match DNA gleaned from Rhonda’s sweater to anyone. We were told by Marc Sharpe [SBI] that after Bryan Lowman died, his wife gave Marc her husband’s toothbrush to use to get a DNA sample and make a possible match.” Judy said that they never heard back from anyone about the outcome of any attempted match, and can only assume that nothing of consequence resulted.

[NOTE: Mr. Lowman had been a person-of-interest to investigators, at one juncture, but was never connected to the killing of Rhonda Hinson, despite some rumors to the contrary. Marc Sharpe was contacted earlier relative to discussing the Hinson case with this writer—especially the efficacy of polygraph testing—but said he preferred not to comment, even though he is no longer actively connected to the investigation.]

As of this installment and according to the extant information available, there is no indication that any sustained effort has been made to actively seek and obtain—through request or warrant—DNA samples from the principals connected to the investigation into the killing of Rhonda Hinson. Rather it appears that the Burke County Sheriff’s Department continues to wait for someone to enter a match in the state and national DNA databases against which they can compare the DNA profile of the sample lifted from the sweater of the 19-year-old who has been dead for over 38-years.

Upon reading last week’s installment of The Killing of Rhonda Hinson, a number of respondents expressed dismay at having to wait a week to learn the identity of the person whose DNA was recovered from Rhonda Hinson’s sweater. One frustrated reader wrote, “I hate waiting another week, left hanging in mid air [Sic] stranded. I wish these articles were not left hanging…just like a movie that does not complete the scene…you are left waiting until a sequel is written and movie made….” A couple other respondents offered similar observations.

Understandably, it is disconcerting and exasperating to be “left hanging” with no answers visible upon the immediate horizon. However, one equally frustrated friend and follower of the Remembering Rhonda Hinson Facebook page proffered a different perspective in response to the former complaint:

Imagine waiting each week for 38 years. Left hanging with no answers. We are only getting a glimpse of what the Hinsons have been through! And Rhonda was THEIR daughter.

So whose DNA was collected from the blood-soaked sweater of Rhonda Annette Hinson? That is—and has been—a question best addressed to the Burke County Sheriff’s Department.

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