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brawlingdiscontent · 3 years

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the men of metal, menacing with golden face, 3/?

a.k.a sequel to terrible with the brightness of gold

(cherik fic, viking au, subtle a/b/o, mature rating)

(part one) (part two)

Hi all, I am so sorry for the space between these updates! - I am so close to finishing my PhD (not in any history or medieval studies field, lol) and things are just really hectic with revisions, publications and syllabi, etc.

A reminder that the last chapter (from 5000 years ago) ended with Charles being graphically/violently threatened by a mysterious man. (See the link above if you’d like to re-read it.

Warnings: Slightly gory description, mentions/implications of violence and sexual assault, child death (not Charles’ kids)

----

In the end, they don't set off that afternoon.

It’s decided in a council, a strategy meeting that Charles is not invited to, and reported to him curtly by Lehnsherr later that day that if they start off early enough it’s only most of a day’s ride to Eoforowic, and is the preferable alternative to the vulnerability of camping overnight.

He sees almost no one before the Danish king returns to the tent bearing an evening meal.

The man in question has forgone the advisors and trailing pages, leaving his subordinates behind for the night, as no loud voices or other signs announce his arrival. The denizens of the camp are likely off savouring the hours of daylight that remain in varied nefarious ways. The long summer nights are not yet over, but in the tent it’s darker, shadowed but not yet dim enough to warrant a candle or fat lamp. The canvas walls seem to glow faintly with the strange quality of early evening light.

Charles has arranged himself in a defensive position, seated at the small table on the lone chair facing the tent flap. He took advantage of his time alone to redistribute a number of the furs from the main pile, making the corner where he intends once again to sleep more comfortable and well-padded. Together with the extra things Alex brought him--when, under the watchful eyes of the guards, they risked exchanging only a nod to confirm his task’s success--he fashioned a warm berth for himself. His current placement, with its slight chill, is a tactical necessity. He straightens in the hard, wooden seat. It’s best to avoid being caught in a prone position lest Lehnsherr take it as an invitation.

When he enters, Lehsherr carries in two rough-hewn, steaming wooden bowls balanced atop an extra stool.

“You must be hungry.”

Charles scans him for ulterior motives, finding none for now. He hasn’t eaten since the food that was left for him this morning, but can’t seem to muster up much of an appetite.

“Yes. Thank you,” he says anyway. He needs to keep his strength up.

Lehnsherr sets the bowls on the small table, nudging one slightly towards Charles, and the stool beside it. He then turns away, once again going through the routine of divesting himself of his gear. If he notices or has any feelings about Charles’ rearrangement of his space he says nothing, leaving Charles to return to his own thoughts.

That afternoon, after the monstrous man retreated, slinking off to some other part of the camp while Charles stood shaken, Charles’ guards had suddenly and conspicuously reappeared.

As he was escorted back to Lehnsherr’s tent, Charles had, briefly, turned over the possibility of telling him what happened. Of what could be construed as nothing other than a violent threat. But the man hadn’t actually done anything, hadn’t even touched Charles. And what, even, were the chances that Lehnsherr would believe him—or that he would care? In any case what exactly could he expect the Dane to do? The bear-man, whoever he is, must be powerful, as he contrived some way—whether by bribery or sheer command—to send the guards away from their positions outside the tent.

—Or, the thought had occurred to him, both disturbing and the most plausible yet, perhaps Lehnsherr had sent the man to threaten him, to warn him off and keep him in line. It is this possibility that is nearest in his mind as Lehnsherr wanders the tent.

“I trust you found your men well?” Lehnsherr questions, not turning from where he is folding his gambeson.

Charles contemplates several responses. Acerbic: ‘Alive would be a more accurate understanding.’ Another part of him wants to respond in anger, Logan’s blackened eye, the morning’s events, urging him to confront and accuse Lehnsherr. It’s an urge he knows is at least partly the product of fear. He presses his palms flat against the wood of the table and feels its uneven surface press back. In the end, exhausted, and unwilling to cause a fuss, he settles on, “I did,” then turns towards the bowl before him.

The food is hot, rabbit this time. Likely commandeered from one of the many the braziers and fire pits that dot the camp as he doubts Lehnsherr has had time for hunting. It is good, and Charles feels some appetite flare again, even when Lehnsherr has divested enough weapons and layers and joins him at the table.

A silence falls between them, not exactly awkward, but not quite comfortable either. On Charles’ end, it stems from reservation. Lehnsherr, conversely, seems content not to speak.

Charles steals surreptitious glances between bites. He studies the lines of the other man’s face trying to puzzle him out as the shadows in the tent begin to lengthen.

He’s a man become even more confusing and inscrutable after the day’s events. If Lehnsherr had sent that beast of a man to threaten him in place of doing so himself, it speaks to a capacity for sophisticated psychological manipulation, one that goes beyond and complicates his reputation for sheer brutality. For all of Charles’ careful planning he hadn’t seriously considered the possibility that Lehnsherr might be worse than Shaw. He needs to know who he’s—getting into bed with, his mind supplies—getting involved with. Only then can he have any hope to defend himself. For who can say what will happen to whatever appeal he has—the tenuous sexual hold that had checked Lehnsherr the night before—once Lehnsherr finally gets what he wants and is sated. What then can Charles possibly do to hold him back, should he prove monstrous?

He must have been more transparent in his observation than he realized, an act which once again is misinterpreted.

“Relax, your Highness.” Lehnsherr says. “I’ll honour your wish to wait. I won’t touch you.”

“Until we are married,” Charles says aloud if only to remind himself, tracking with his eyes the slow advance of a line of shadow across the table.

“Until we are married,” Lehnsherr agrees, his voice carrying notes of something that has Charles turning back studiously to his food to avoid analyzing.

...

The sun is just ghosting above the horizon when they assemble to head off the next morning, gently bathing the plain in its orange-red glow. There’s a morning chill carried in the wind that batters at Charles’ cheeks. It wipes away the bleariness of the early hour, and makes him glad that extra furs were among the items that he’d requested Alex fetch. And yet the last edges of summer are holding on; it’s nothing compared to the winter they’ll face once the seasons change and even the memories of warmth fade.

Lehnsherr had woken him just before dawn, and they’d had a hurried breakfast in the tent by the light of a flickering taper. More of the flat, dry bread and some of the season’s last berries, foraged from a nearby bush.

They’ll be going overland to Eoforwic. It’s the slower route than sailing up the coast, which tells Charles that either Lehnsherr doesn’t want their journey observed or reported, or that he’s uncertain of what awaits them in Eoforwic.

Scanning the group, Charles counts about fifty gathered, all told. Enough to defend themselves if it came down to it, but still a small enough party to travel relatively unobtrusively.

His horse gives a restless shuffle, tugging gently on the reins in his hands. A nobleman's former mount, certainly. Fine little features stand out in the saddle, tack, and gear. The rivets in the saddle bags are detailed in a star motif, points radiating out in blades of light, as only the very wealthy could afford. It was probably scavenged from its slain owner, or, optimistically, was given up by a defeated city relinquishing its riches. Londres had given up several hundred horses in the surrender.

Lehnsherr, who’d gone off on an unnamed errand after seeing Charles matched with a horse, approaches once more. He’s leading not only a horse of his own, but a woman. Charles recognizes her dark eyes and small stature from the previous morning.

“Charles,” Lehnsherr says without ceremony, “this is Angel. She’s here to assist you.”

He looks back over at her, as she returns his gaze placidly. Assist him? The road, travelling rough as they are, is no place for an attendant. Then, focusing on her smooth expression, it all clicks into place.

Assist him. Ha. More like spy on him. He quickly re-assesses the meeting he interrupted yesterday as an intelligence report. Interesting. Sebastian, with his more traditionalist views, would likely not have thought to assign such a job to a beta or omega woman.

He manages, “a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Angel.” It’s a lie, of course, but Charles was raised with manners, and she can’t help the assignment she's been tasked with. While Charles is fairly confident in his charm, Angel proves just as enigmatic as her commander, offering merely a hint of a smile and a raised eyebrow before turning to see to her own mount.

With eyes on him secured, Lehnsherr seems relatively content to leave him alone, as he heads up towards the front of the column to rally the troops.

They set off, and Charles easily falls towards the back of the group, ghosted by Angel. If he had any remaining doubts about her occupation, they dissipate after watching her subte, silent moments, even on horseback.

Travelling en masse, they alternate bursts of speed with walking breaks to keep a sustainable pace for the horses.

He is content to pass the first canter course just relishing the abandon of the pace, the uneven terrain below the horses’ hooves. The sun gradually climbs higher until he can feel the warmth of it on his hair, and the wind blows across his face. He basks in the experience of being out in the open, running wild (if not free) after six months of siege.

The dusty roadside is lined here and there with dots of blue chicory, long stems stretching up tenaciously towards the sky. A flock of chaffinches, startled by their appearance, burst in flight. His spy, Angel, seems to have melted away into the group, perhaps prefering to operate in her usual mode when her targets don’t know she’s there. It is tempting to forget the circumstances and enjoy the moment.

But Charles is too pragmatic, hardened by bitter experience underlined by recent events, to let this lapse in Lehnsherr’s attention (Angel aside) go to waste.

In the first walking break, he looks around at the stragglers in the second half of the party for promising targets of some reconnaissance of his own. Just ahead and to his left are two burly men engaged in animated discussion. Inching subtly closer, he’s disappointed but not surprised to find that they’re speaking Danish. He has so little of the language, certainly not enough to make reliable sense of their discussion, but at the least perhaps listening might improve his facility. He listens amongst the glottal phrases for repeated sounds he might begin to decipher.

“It’s a blunt-tongued language, isn’t it?” a warm voice addresses Charles from slightly behind.

He starts and turns his body in the direction of the sound—as pleased to hear the softer tones of Saxon as he is startled at the sudden intrusion—to find another rider approaching on his right.

He’s a young man, a little younger than Charles from appearances, and clothed in unusual attire. A flat sort of cap, fashioned from a vibrant dark red material, adorns his head. His tunic, where it peeks through his furs, is woven of rich fabric: not over-ornamented, but of a quality far surpassing the coarse weaves and eclectic dress of the surrounding men. He carries himself with a cool confidence, perched lightly on his saddle, relaxed and much more poised than any other of Lehnsherr’s men.

Charles pulls gently at the reins, slowing his horse’s pace to allow the other man to draw even with him.

Even as he takes him in, the clothing stirs a memory at the back of his mind of a childhood long ago; Muslim traders at the Norman court. The memory is an old one; Sebastian’s kingdom was an insular one and didn’t get on with outsiders, let alone cultured guests from the learned centres of the world.

“Forgive me for startling you, Your Highness,” the man says. Despite Charles’ deliberate choice to leave his circlet behind at the tent, it seems that Lehnsherr’s scene in the banquet hall the other night has left him no chance of anonymity.

“That’s quite alright. Though, you seem to have me at a disadvantage.”

“The name’s Armando, sir.”

“Armando.” He says, rolling the name around in his mouth. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” It's the second time today he’s offered these words, but he finds he can be more sincere with them when not faced with a spy. “And what is your role here?” He’s a figure somewhat misplaced among the rough-and-tumble Danes.

“I’m a physician. Born in Cordoba, and trained in Alexandria.”

A frisson of excitement runs through Charles at this announcement. “You speak Saxon very well for an Andalusian. Better than myself, and I’ve been speaking it almost since birth.”

“Thank you. Once I had the first few, the next languages came easily enough.” He switches into Norman for the second part of explanation to demonstrate.

“How many others do you speak?”

“Fluently? I’d say seven--maybe eight.” He cracks a broad, warm smile at Charles’ astonishment. “What can I say? I’m adaptive.”

Mindful of his spy close at hand, Charles yet can’t hide his delight to be in the company of a fellow seeker in the pursuit of knowledge, one with personal experience of the madrasas of the learned world at that. Despite this, he tries to rein himself in before his enthusiasm overwhelms his caution. After all, no matter how much he may seem a kindred spirit, he doesn’t know Armando nor his agenda. And, after seeing firsthand the danger that lurks in the camp, he’d be a fool to count himself safe.

They settle into a comfortable rhythm. It’s in the next walking break that Charles, between probing questions about the scientific and medical developments out of Baghdad, catches sight of a head above the crowd. His heart stutters, and he almost jerks on the reins impulsively. Riding up at the front, near Lehnsherr, but a bit off to the side. He’s easy to spot, rising nearly head-and-shoulders above the men surrounding him, stature and bearskin robe unmistakable.

“Armando, what can you tell me about that man?”

Armando follows his gaze to the front of the party, and when he sees the man to whom Charles refers seems to hesitate.

“He goes by the name of Sabretooth. He leads one of the strongest factions among the Danish warriors.” He pauses so long that Charles thinks he might have to prompt again, before continuing. “He and his supporters are known for their unyielding savagery in battle. I’ve only ever seen the aftermath.” Armando looks towards the riders at the front, squinting into the midday sun at the outline of the man in question. His words seem improbably incongruous in the brightness of the day. “Going into battle they consume a potion to free them of inhibitions and drive away all traces of remorse. Many of his followers file their teeth, supposedly to more easily rend the flesh of their enemies. Except Sabretooth himself who they say likes the challenge of a duller edge.”

Charles masks his disquiet with a wry remark. “No doubt a firm favourite of his Grace.” He had heard tell of such stories, whispers of viking cannibals, but had always assumed them to be over-inflations of reality.

“You’re wrong about that, actually.”

He looks back over, surprised.

“I have the sense—mind you, this is just my perception—that His Grace dislikes him very much.”

Charles thinks on this. Armando’s explanation would seem to square with the disagreement he witnessed back at the camp. Furthermore, the man—Sabretooth—seems prone to unpredictable violence, of a sort that might irk someone as careful and controlled as Lehnsherr. And yet—

“If that's the case, why invite him on such a party?

Armando takes a moment to respond, looking between the two riders up ahead. “There’s a common saying in Alexandria. It translates roughly to: a wise man holds his enemies close to his breast but far from his heart.”

Charles nods in agreement as he notes the appropriateness of it, thinking of the justification he had used to convince Lehnsherr to take him along even as he once again reconfigures his knowledge of the man. He, too, is an enemy Lehnsherr has held close. But before he can take the train of thought much further, the low blast of a horn signals the return to a canter, and it’s lost in the clatter of advancing hooves.

…

In the late afternoon, the first sign of smoke on the horizon alerts them. It curls above the treetops a little ways off the road. Too dense and heavy to be from a cooking fire.

The nearby homestead is set back from the road, but after the party halts at another horn blast a few riders break away from the pack in its direction. Charles pulls his horse past the crowd of remaining men and follows after them.

It’s a desolate scene. What was formerly a cottage now smouldering ashes but for the charred edges of a door frame still standing. The field of crops outside is churned up and scattered. Crushed stalks of barley that were trodden under horses’ hooves are beaten into the mud. A handful of slaughtered animals lie along the path. But what is most evident is the woman crouched in front of the remains of the house, keening in grief. Her ragged dress is torn, at her side a small child with a soot in their hair and clothes.

Lehnsherr has already dismounted, handed off his reins to another rider in order to survey the scene. Charles follows suit without a thought, and once he gets closer, it unfolds before him tragic inevitability.

He sees the dead man lying a few feet away from the woman and child, his grotesquely splayed body telling the story of his violent end. Then, clutched in the woman’s arms, a boy. A mere child, perhaps thirteen summers. His small eyes are closed almost peacefully, his forehead smeared with clotted blood.

Armando, who has followed Charles from the road, is quick to be rallied to aid.

Insensible in grief, the woman seems to barely register their presence as they cautiously approach. The young child, likely too small to comprehend the events that have taken place, tugs on her dress to get her attention, until she at last looks up at them. Her gaze is empty as one beyond reach, already crossed over to the next world.

It strikes Charles deeply, who freezes, feeling her disconnection mirrored in his own. Dissociation is a strategy he’s used to make himself hard, hiding his emotions in a fortress to protect them from a scene that has and will continue to play out countless times across the countryside. Recognizing it now in this woman, he’s struck by its haunting unnaturalness, the hollowness it invokes.

Armando, who had gently nudged the woman aside to conduct an examination, looks up and shakes his head.

The young child shrieks suddenly, drawing back and cowering behind their mother, who, past caring, doesn’t noticeably react. The cause is soon clear: having finished attentively examining the scene and damage, Lehnsherr is making his way over. To his credit, in response to the child’s dismay he slows his approach and spreads his hands wide in the universal symbol of non-aggression. It’s the only reason that Charles makes no move to stop him as he nears the woman and child, and crouches down.

Charles watches as he starts a conversation in Saxon, gently asking a question or two. He thinks he hears Lehnsherr quietly mutter a few words following the woman’s stilted responses. Then the man pulls an aged leather drawstring pouch from somewhere on his person, and produces several small, glinting coins which he hands to the woman.

A weregild.

Blood price for so much death and evil, paid for with some mere pieces of metal. He rails internally at his own impotence, safe behind a palace wall while people are suffering; dying. And at the authors of the violence, as Lehnsherr’s actions here have surely confirmed, the very men he rides with.

He’s overwhelmed by a helpless rage that washes over him like a tide.

“A few coins” the words come out flat, subdued. “Do you think they can repair the loss of a husband, bring back her child?” It’s an accusation but empty, anger deserting him as quickly as it arrived for a dull hopelessness.

Lehnsherr turns to him, delayed. His gaze is a bit distant, as though he’d forgotten Charles was there.

“It will bring them food,” he says levelly, “buy them shelter for the winter. Nothing can bring back the dead.”

Charles stands there for an indeterminable span of time, consumed by the endless cruelties of men. By this tangible reminder of the pain caused and lives lost to men—no, not men, beasts, seeking only personal glory, an enrichment of power.

“You generals and your wars,” he says coldly and turns away, the smoke still stinging in his eyes.

#cherik #viking au #Charles Xavier #Erik Lehnsherr #x-men #subtle a/b/o #cherik fic #brawlingdiscontent #twtbog #encomium carolis regis

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fishyfod · 3 years

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(Slightly) more organized thoughts on the V8 finale.

tl;dr I think the finale had some issues.

I’ll start this off by emphasizing again that this is my opinion, so read something else if you can’t handle negative criticism of RWBY. I say this because too often people in this FNDM can’t handle a difference in opinion without insulting or patronizing others, and I want none of that.

Now, RWBY’s general structural issue is a lack of time to fulfill all their ambitions, and they usually tend to neglect one aspect a bit more than others. In volumes 7 and 8 this proved to be quite a problem, because they wanted to tell quite a complicated story while introducing a fairly large amount of new and returning characters. I very much like the story they told in these volumes, but it must be said that the development and focus on the regular cast, and team RWBY in particular, has suffered for it. It’s not a deal breaker for me personally, but I do think it’s an issue.

So when I saw the finale episode only had about 20 minutes, I figured the best course of choice for RWBY would be to focus on the Atlas-only plots, and leave RWBY & co’s stories for the next volume, which by all accounts seems to be focused only on their character. And credit where credit is due, this is what RWBY decided to do with this finale. This doesn’t really solve the underlying issue that the main cast has yet again been relegated to such a minor role in their own show, but I can live with it.

I still do have a problem with how RWBY’s role in this finale was handled, and forgive me because this might be the least well-explained part of this review. The best way to describe it would be that, though I know I’m watching team RWBY, they don’t feel present in the finale? I struggle to put my finger on it, if it’s more an issue of direction or execution, but something about RWBY’s fight felt off for me.

By comparison, when I think of the episode before, I don’t have this issue. While the way Yang fell isn’t RWBY’s best execution, the reactions of RWBY to that fall worked quite well. There was individual focus on Yang falling, Blake screaming and raging at it, Weiss’s heart breaking into two, Ruby falling into more despair - the tragedy works because of it. I don’t feel the same about the finale, RWB fall almost as if they’re passerby rather than the main characters.

Again, maybe this is just me, maybe I’ll change my mind later. Whatever.

I think Cinder is the one I’m most satisfied with. She seems in character, she acts a lot like she did in her confident state during Beacon, and I did get the impression Salem knows Cinder is lying to her. I admit that I did not expect this direction for Cinder, it seemed like the right spot to have her break free from Salem, but it’s too early for me to call where her arc is going to.

The only nitpick I have with Cinder is how she offed Arthur. I felt like it could have a little more focus? I get that his death is supposed to feel completely inconsequential, but I wish there was just a little bit more there. Again, only a nitpick.

Vine - I think my opinion on Vine’s death is quite unpopular. It felt too last minute, without enough setup. See, while killing Harriet here would have its own set of issues, she was well developed enough where you could actively feel for her, while also expecting a possible death. I can’t say the same about Vine; Vine is only a teensy bit more developed than Elm, which isn’t a lot. He’s making a huge sacrifice, but the lack of character makes him seem expendable by design. It feels like the writers put all their efforts into threatening Harriet’s life, realized last minute that actually they could a lot more with her character (good call), so they shoved in Vine in her place because they still needed a bomb sacrifice.

On the flip side, three of the Ace Ops surviving and proving once and for all they broke away from Ironwood too, with Harriet and Marrow still alive - that is good. I’m not sure what more they’re planning to do with their characters, but it’s preferable to far worse alternatives I can imagine. We’ll see.

Then there’s Penny. sigh

I’m not sure what I can add that P5, bell or cosmokyrin, and probably a few others haven’t already said, but I don’t think it was well written. The whole body-thing in “Creation”, sure, I can accept that was a difference of interpretation. This? This whole, let’s resurrect Penny, develop her immensely as a character, reaffirm her autonomy multiple times over, avoid multiple deaths, only to die like this?

I know the common comparison people make here is with V3, and I can see where people are coming from. After all, Pyrrha and Penny’s deaths were impactful and tragic there, and most people agree that was well written. What’s the difference here? Some differences in circumstance are worth visiting here.

Penny of the Beacon era, lovable character that she was already, was not the most developed character. At the end of the day, most of what we knew of Penny then was in relation to Ruby - we knew Ruby cared for her a lot, we knew why they bonded, so we had setup as to why her death would impact the Fall so much. It works, because it gave enough focus on her for us to care about, but not overly so where the shocking factor of the Fall wouldn’t work.

With Pyrrha, I think we all knew the signs were there at the end of the day. I’d argue that Pyrrha’s very conception as a character lead to her death, she was just slightly too perfect for us not to expect a tragedy to occur. Importantly, her major arc in V3 sets us up to her death - through her conversation with Ozpin’s gang and Jaune, the introduction of Ember and the soul transfer device, killing Penny - by the time Pyrrha dies you’re prepared for it, and it still hurts. Even if the tragic scenario presented (losing Pyrrha because of the soul transfer) wasn’t the one used, dying because she tried defending the use of those powers from Cinder made sense. It was enough of a switch you weren’t bored because you expected everything to go to plan, but it wasn’t too drastic where you felt completely unprepared for what would happen.

The trouble with how Penny’s death was handled here, is in part because they just kept pushing us to the edge, making us worry about one tragic scenario, another way for Penny to die, only to alleviate our fears - only to kill her off anyway in a completely separate way. It happened so often in these two volumes, when we were already fresh off recognizing Penny wasn’t dead in V3, that rather than feeling like an expected death that is tragic, is feels like they toyed with out perception constantly only because they could. When you raise and lower death flags over and over in such a small amount of time, the tragedy you aimed to convey is lost. Perhaps unintentionally, the point no longer seems to be telling a tragic story, it’s only playing this cruel game of perception with the audience. What’s the joke about Jean Grey in x-men, that she keeps being killed off and resurrected so often it’s hard to care about it all? Is this how I’m supposed to look at Penny, RWBY’s Jean Grey?

Granted, I’m not sure that if they committed to one consistent death threat with Penny and followed through, that necessarily would’ve been better. I’m not sure how I’d think of RWBY if she died from the virus, for example. At least, however, I’d be more confident in saying that was a difference of direction, rather than a difficult writing choice to comprehend.

It’s only fitting I’d talk about Winter now, huh? I think you all know my stance about her as a character, I’d argue that she, Ironwood and Cinder were the best handled characters in these two volumes by a fair margin, but the finale leaves me very conflicted about her.

On the one hand, it’s everything I want. Winter’s confrontation with Ironwood is like a mix of Blake facing off against Adam and Yang confronting Raven, and while not as impactful in terms of storytelling, they do deliver on the same fronts. Winter calls out Ironwood for his lies, establishing once and for all it was by her volition she broke off, her conscience that was always better, and there is something poetic about her gaining the Winter Maiden powers to fulfill her goal of protecting others.

...but I can’t separate this from Penny’s fate. And it frustrates me to no end, because I love her connection to Penny, I made comparisons of how it reminds of Bumbleby’s relationship, it drives their characters forward so much, heck, I like that Penny took a part in taking down Ironwood with Winter, in a sense. But because Penny’s death feels so contrived, its connection to Winter almost cheapens the importance of their relationship with each other. And it doesn’t seem quite needed either, since they individually as characters already broke free from Ironwood.

I can sort of see that I am supposed to interpret it as a tragedy, and I do indeed think Winter getting the Maiden powers is tragic for her character (not unlike Spring Maiden!Yang theories), and I am excited to see where this is going. I thought this was the end for Winter’s major impact on the story, but there’s a whole other arc waiting, and Penny’s a major part of it too.

To say I’m conflicted about Winter would be an understatement.

The actual silver lining, for me, is the post credit scene. Volume 9 is an opportunity for RWBY to try and change some of the problem I presented initially. My hope is that by focusing almost exclusively on team RWBY, with Jaune and Neo, and putting less emphasis on developing the settings of giant-tree-land and not over-complicating the plot. Hopefully, this would allow them to focus on developing the main cast again, in in particular addressing some of the main issues presented; notably, the Bees confessing, Ruby maybe reaching her breaking point, Yang’s issues being addressed, and hopefully something more individual for Blake and Weiss as well. Neo is an interesting curveball to throw into this equation, and I have a decent amount of hope with Jaune (although then I remember it’s probably going to be about Penny, and, ugh...).

Yeah, that’s all I have at the moment. If you want to talk about it, my inbox and DM’s are always open. If you disagree with me that’s fair, just give me the minimal amount of respect rather than being an ass about it.

#RWBY/#RWBY Spoilers/#RWBY Crit #RWDE #my posts

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themilky-way · 4 years

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in the night

gif credit: pedropcl

pairing: javier peña x fem! reader

summary: when you’re asked to partake in a dangerous task, you form a sudden and unexpected bond.

warnings: mentions of the mob and alcohol, a very vague implication of a gun

author’s note: this man lives in my mind rent free good-fuckin-night

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life in columbia sure as hell wasn’t easy, but being a dea agent working against the downfall of the world’s most powerful criminal took the proverbial cake. your mission had seemed fairly easy: travel to bogotá and help the columbian authorities catch escobar. except, the ambassador didn’t mention any sort of infiltration, one that had to be done by none other than you.

there was no fighting it. the job carried many (dangerous) responsibilities, and someone had to fulfill them. to help, steve had reached out to carillo and asked him to substitute one of his own men, which, in a way, wasn’t any better because someone’s life was still at risk, but it was denied. connie made the wait for you as easy as she could by sending you dinner with peña a few nights a week, and although you loved that woman like your own blood, she couldn’t make a bowl of rice even if her life depended on it.

by being a helpful friend though, connie had unintentionally brought her husband’s partner closer with you. you knew of him and how he worked, an unavoidable aspect if you operated where he did, but your role slightly differed from his. the week you had been assigned for undercover was spent in the privacy of your apartment, ensuring important documents were locked up, sorting a couple of suitcases as if this was a leisurely trip instead of a guaranteed death sentence. the following week wasn’t any less hectic, but it was the first time connie sent out a personal order to you. her chosen delivery man? yeah, you guessed it.

it became a regular occurrence after that. the days leading up to your departure began consisting of javier residing in your home for hours at a time. there were moments where he showed up at your door without a small bag of food, claiming steve was in charge of dinner that night and how he’d never forgive himself if he let you take a bite of it. you noticed how on some nights, he’d linger for just a few more minutes than he should’ve by washing spare dishes or going over routes crucial to the cartels. he didn’t need to do any of that, but the difference here was that he wanted to.

“so,” steve started off one morning, “you and peña- you guys a thing?” he ended it with a small smirk perfectly hidden by the bottom of his coffee mug. indeed, an unprofessional topic for an unprofessional man.

“to my knowledge, he’s just being a friend and a very bad delivery person,” had been your answer at the time, never once looking up from the jumble of words constituting your report. nothing else mattered as much as your security on that mission; you truly didn’t have the time to delve into emotional matters and invest any thought into silly questions like this. “he keeps me company, that’s all.”

perhaps you were lying to yourself about this whole thing, afraid of what might happen if you allowed emotion to regulate the demanding life you led. a vase of lively flowers would replace the holster on your coffee table. scattered papers and pens and pictures would find a home in neat sections of a drawer rather than the floor. a few photographs might even color the opaque walls. these were trivial aspects of your life, and the aspirations to contrive them hardly appeared in your mind, but now? well, now they were everywhere.

during the third week, javier didn’t even need steve’s wife to deliver anything. excuses to knock on the hard wooden door of the complex were compiled up in his brain, and they were eloquently spilled in order to pass its threshold. “you see these papers? yeah, we need to go over them,” he’d say all rushed and hurried, holding up a stack of articles with sloppy handwriting. the thoughts-hopes-from before would start then, and they’d take up every ounce of your reasoning as if nothing else mattered. from that point forward, javier’s attention was yours, and your’s his. watches’ were discarded and left on a random end of a couch, the sounds of the clock drowned out by the now casual chatter instead of a business delegation. nights of the exact nature transcurred one after another, with the agent leaving closer to dawn no matter his imploration to keep you company. “call me if you need anything, alright?”

ultimately, everything had led you to the couch your legs were crossed upon, javier sitting in the space between it and the small, rectangular coffee table. one leg lay calmly folded on the pearl-tinted carpet while the other was bent, an elbow resting sturdily on top of his knee. a blanket covered the bottom half of your sitting form with a few of its edges tickling the man’s arms, but it seemed he didn’t mind the feeling. you’d offered him one, and upon his negation, you’d offered him to share yours, which earned you a cocky remark. tonight, he didn’t bring any documents or transcripts to revise, only what he insisted to be the best take-out meal in town. additionally, being the friend he was, he gifted you a bottle of whiskey that was to be celebrated with, except he was on his third refill, and you weren’t even finished with the first.

“unless you wanna sleep here tonight, i suggest you slow it down,” a small joke as you leaned over to place the glass down. you assumed he’d laugh as he did with all your past banters, but was met with nothing but the sound of his ice rocking against his cup. naturally, you turned to face him as you reached back, catching a delicate smile below the curve of his stache.

“yeah, i’m sure you’d like that, huh?” he took a sip as coolly as ever. the glass came down next to yours, his newly free hand propping up on your knee closest to him. granted, the close intimacy wasn’t new-none of it was, at this point-but your very own mind was spinning and wasn’t due to the alcohol, or potential food poisoning, or even goddamn nerves wracking your system about the ordeal you’d be facing. “no, seriously. would you like me to stay?”

“i mean i wouldn’t technically mind it if i had company. i’d prefer connie but you’ll do, i guess,” to this, javi did release a hearty laugh, followed with a expression of feined insult.

a few hours trascurred beyond that moment before exhaustion creeped up on the both of you. it was arranged that he’d sleep on the sofa while your bed awaited you in the adjacent dorm, and it appeared quite modest. “i’ll, uh, i’ll be right back, hold on,” you assured him, discarding your day clothes for something more comfortable in private. you brushed your teeth next, and then fixed your disheveled hair into a style suited for sleep.

“oh shit, javi-” you found him sitting at the edge of your bed tucking in a sheet that almost threatened to come off. he’d taken the liberty of adjusting the variety of pillows and blankets how he deemed fit you best. “did you just un-make my own bed?”

he got up to lift one cover to motion you under it, replying with, “yes, ma’am, i sure did.” javier ensured that every single limb was secure under the safety of the sheet, standing up straight to peer down at his work and, regarding it “perfect,” said his good night, but cold fingers unsheathed themselves to encircle around his wrist to prevent him from leaving. “oh, come on, i did such a good job-”

“please stay with me. just for a little while,” you plead. it took him more than few seconds to properly register your words, but eventually he twisted his hand to take a hold of yours and bring it into his lap as he sat back down on the cushion. he didn’t mind-he never would. you spoke to him about random things, conspiracies and books and movies and in turn, he offered his own insight. amidst slurred words, the entanglement of your fingers to his occurred. javi’s thumb drew softly on the edge of your own; throughout the silence that suddenly filled the space, he cautiously lifted the top of your hand, as if to wait for a withdrawal, and when he saw none, he kissed it softly.

“murphy asked if you and i were a thing,” he mumbled.

“what’d you tell him?” you asked.

“that we are.” he kissed your hand again before letting it go, rising up to stand over you. with the same gentleness as he’d done to your skin, he inched down to press another to your forehead. “get some rest, i think you’ve seen enough of me for today.”

“i don’t really think that’s possible.”

#javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #javier peña #javier peña fanfiction #pedro pascal #narcos #javier peña x y/n #pedro pascal fanfiction #my writing!#javier pena x reader

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evangelinedanvers · 3 years

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A Happier Season Part 2/?

part 1

Having forgotten to pick up her keys when she stormed out, Abby found herself ringing the doorbell to her own home. It was a little embarrassing, really. She had a hard time pressing her finger against the button and hesitated several times before doing so. Abby knew she hadn’t acted in the most mature manner. Tearing her ring off, going straight to see Riley. It was stupid and crazy and she found herself struggling to think why it had ever seemed like a sensible idea.

The door opened, far too slowly. Abby held her breath, unsure how Harper would react to her return.

Harper said nothing, which somehow felt worse than if she had yelled. Her arms were folded. Her eyebrows were raised. Abby knew she didn’t deserve such a calm welcome.

Abby pushed a few strands of her hair behind her ear before bowing her head and shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket. The silence was awkward, as Harper’s eyes bored into her. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“It’s okay,” Harper admitted with a shrug of her shoulders. “I have no right to tell you who to spend time with. I just wish you hadn’t stormed off as you did. I also wish we’d admitted to ourselves earlier that things just aren’t working out.”

Abby’s brow furrowed. She wasn’t sure exactly when they had admitted things weren’t working out, but it hardly mattered. She licked her lips. Anxiety had caused her mouth to suddenly become very dry. She didn’t know whether to be honest or hide the truth in order to smooth things over. Of course, lies had never helped their relationship. “Can I come in?” She asked stupidly, as if she didn’t live there.

Harper nodded then moved to one side to allow Abby access.

Abby walked in and headed for the lounge. “Come sit with me?”

Again, Harper nodded. Still, she was silent. She seemed distant, her face was very pale. Abby knew that nothing good was about to happen, but she made the decision then that whatever did happen, it would be as good as it possibly could be.

Sitting on their small, leather sofa felt rather too intimate for the inevitable conversation. Pushed close together, it almost felt as though things could be okay again. It almost felt as though they should talk about how their relationship could move forward. No. It would only delay the inevitable and cause further pain in the long run. Still, despite this she still took a hold of Harper’s hand, although she perhaps gripped it much more tightly than she ever had before. Harper didn’t object or try to stop her.

“I have to be honest. I just met with Riley and uh, it was kinda stupid, considering what we just fought about,” she chuckled, it suddenly occurring to her how ridiculous the situation was. “You weren’t wrong.”

Harper looked surprised, her eyes widening. “I didn’t realise that’s who you’d gone to, but I should have known,” she sighed. “It’s fine,” Harper said, although her quiet, melancholic voice suggested that nothing was really fine. “We both know that this isn’t just about Riley. This is about us just not working any more. I’ve always been really good at being who the people I’m around needed me to be. Since I came out to my parents I’ve been trying to just be more me. I’m not saying you should just go straight to Riley and start something with her. But um. God, this is so embarrassing,” she rolled her eyes, looking up at the ceiling for a moment. “When we met I could tell you needed someone with an edge. Someone who wasn’t afraid to just take the bull by the horns, you know? That’s not really me. So I used to ask myself what would Riley do? Riley is literally perfect for you. In some ways she’s who you fell in love with, and that’s why I got so freaked out to have her suddenly around again.”

“No. I fell in love with a version of you, not Riley. I don’t love Riley. I haven’t even known her long enough to say that. I’m really sorry that you didn’t get to come out in the best way. But, like. We can work through that together. I’m willing to go to therapy with you. Anything” She couldn’t help it. Despite having told herself no, she ended up trying anyway. Agreeing to therapy was a big thing for Abby. She’d been when her parents had died and found the whole process so contrived. She’d been unable to be open in such an environment and after hours of stilted conversation with a clearly frustrated therapist, she had sworn never to attempt such a thing again.

“Oh, Abby.” For a moment Harpers gentle tone made it seem as though she was going to say yes, but then the other seemed to come to her senses. “We have to let each other go,” she said as she glanced towards their hands, hers still clasped within Abby’s. “It’s really stupid of us to try to cling to something that’s never gonna be what either of us wants it to be. I love you, but it’s like we’re running perpendicular. So, so close. But we’re never quite gonna be in exactly the same place at the same time.”

“I love you too,” Abby’s voice wavered.

“Do you? Or do you love a version of me who doesn’t exist any more? A version who you hope to see every day. Do you love me, or are you just waiting, hoping things are gonna go back to how they were? They’re not.”

“I don’t know.” Abby shook her head, suddenly feeling very lost and confused.

“Well, I do,” Harper said as she pulled her hand out of Abby’s. “I also know that we’re ending this now, before we hate each other.” Now it was time for Harper’s voice to break. “Cos I don’t think I can handle you hating me,” she said in a whisper before wiping away her tears.

“I would never hate you,” Abby declared passionately, sounding almost angry that Harper thought such a thing could ever be possible.

“You would. Eventually. Give me your hand.”

“I don’t...no.” Even with her mind made up, she still fought against it. Of course she did. She was terrified of being left all alone again. Alone in the world with no clue how to be alone. Of course, this time would be different. This time she would know what to do. Not that it made the pain and fear any less.

“Yes.” Harper slipped her engagement ring from her finger and pressed it into Abby’s palm, along with Abby’s own ring which she had been carrying in her pocket. “Take them. I want you to have them. We had some good times. Remember those. You don't have to give up this place or anything, either. I’m gonna move in with mom and dad for a bit.”

Abby sighed, before standing. “I need a minute,” She said as she felt her chest tighten and suddenly the simple act of breathing felt almost impossible.

Alone in the bathroom, Abby clung to the sink as she stared into the mirror, wondering how on earth she had gotten to where she was. She was far too old to be looking for the right person. Too much longer and she really was going to wind up alone. And then she realised, she wasn’t upset at losing Harper, simply terrified of the prospect of being alone. That’s when she knew that the decision was correct. Any doubts left. She had her moment. She shed a few tears before splashing some cold water into her face, taking a deep breath and going back out to face something that would be so very difficult whilst also being exactly what both of them needed.

“You need any help packing?” Abby asked brightly as she unclasped the necklace she wore and slid the two rings Harper had given her onto it. The brightness was slightly forced, but it showed how she intended to continue. She wouldn’t dwell. She refused to act sad, even though her heart was just a little broken. She had loved Harper once, afterall. The least she could do was be amicable, even if they wound up not being friends. “Not that I’m trying to rush you.”

“Oh, God, yes please. If you don’t mind. You don’t have to.”

“No, but I want to. Like you said, I don’t hate you. Yet,” she added with a wink.

Harper smiled, then her eyes narrowed slightly as she hesitated. “Are we sure this is the right thing?”

“Were you happy?”

Harper shook her head.

“We both deserve to be happy. So yeah,” Abby chewed on her lip, her vow to not be sad wavering for a moment. “This kinda sucks. But it’s the right thing to do.”

#happiest season #happiest season fanfic #happiest season fic #writing

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everymovie2020 · 4 years

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Final Destination (2000)

Date watched: 17 November 2019

I watched all five of these movies in one day, and let me tell you something – I was fucking PARANOID about my household appliances/general safety in my house afterwards. When I was cooking dinner, I was genuinely concerned about accidentally killing myself.

Fuck you, Final Destination movies.

I had only ever seen the first two and not the last three, but as I've now seen all five, I'm going to do my ultimate ranking of all the movies in this post for your ease of convenience. From best to worst:

Final Destination

Final Destination 2

Final Destination 5

Final Destination 3

Final Destination 4

I would actually say that I enjoyed Final Destination 5 more than FD2, but I think FD2 is the better movie. FD5 introduces a weird plot twist that I'll get into in my review of that film. FD2 is certainly the most memorable one of the franchise, I think, if only for the horrifying car crash sequence at the start. But I'll get into that later.

This isn't going to be very coherent because having watched all five movies in one day, I am having trouble recalling what happened in which movie, though I did write out a list of wtf moments and all of the deaths. Perhaps I could do a death ranking per film as well? Why not? Let's do that. Let's go all in on this thing. I wrote copious notes. May as well put them to use.

And another thing, pre-FD1 discussion – I used to think Devon Sawa was super hot but I don't think that anymore. My tastes have changed. Although, Kerr Smith in this movie? 10/10 would bang. What a babe – he's a total silver fox now as well. Aged like fine wine, that one.

ALSO – Ali Larter's name, in this movie, is CLEAR RIVERS. AMAZING. AND NO ONE THINKS IT'S WEIRD.

Alright, FD1, here we go, and I'm going to keep this abridged because every single one of these movies – bar the 5th – have exactly the same plot:

Devon Sawa is going on a high school trip to France with 40 of his high school friends. He has a vision of the plane exploding and everyone dying, so he freaks out and gets kicked off the plane with like, six other people, and then the plane explodes.

The authorities are baffled. Devon Sawa is baffled. Everyone is baffled.

So then they all start dying one by one – one dude is strangled by the clothesline in his bathtub (question – he lives in a house, do they not have an outside clothesline/dryer, why are they relying on hanging their knickers in the bathroom, it's weird to me), then the hot blonde is smushed by a speeding bus in front of everyone (there's so much smushing in these movies, my god) and the nice teacher lady is just completely fucked over by her whole entire house. I often think about this sequence and how horrifying I find her death. Poor nice teacher lady. Seann William Scott is decapitated when a speeding train dislodges a piece of metal, and Kerr Smith finally cops it in the end when he takes the full force of a billboard to the face.

It's funny how death always waits until they know something is coming before striking. I mean, six months pass between Devon Sawa and Ali Larter thwarting death and nothing happens to any of them, but as soon as they're in Paris, death is like "now it's time to fuck shit up".

And now for the plot of every single Final Destination movie (except for the last, which is ever so slightly different):

Vision of major disaster in which every character dies one by one

Survival of major disaster ensured by main character

Every survivor starts dying one by one in horrible ways

Main character and girlfriend/boyfriend/friend try to figure out wtf is going on

They finally figure out they're on death's list and they need to save people in order to survive

They narrowly avoid death in the end

But it turns out they haven't avoided death and in movies 3, 4 and 5 they die regardless

In 1 and 2 the main characters survive

The first one is boosted by its cast, which is a solid late 90s/early 2000s teen movies cast – Devon Sawa, Ali Larter, Kerr Smith, Seann William Scott (as the nerd of all things). Both Ali Larter and Devon Sawa survive but both later die (I'm sure she refers to him dying in FD2, and then she herself dies). The only movie in which the two main characters definitely don't die (onscreen) is FD2.

Here are some other random thoughts:

There's a recurring them in these movies to make the bedrooms of the main characters as creepy as possible but then they gave up on that in FD3.

There's another recurring theme of people in these movies being absolutely obliterated by buses speeding through residential/business areas at 100 miles an hour.

THAT BUS IS GOING SO FAST. What is it, the bus from Speed?!

Ali Larter's parents in this movie are just randomly MIA and nobody says anything about it.

Not only are there speeding buses in America, but when they're on the narrow streets of Paris, there's yet another speeding bus.

Things always seem sped up between the initial vision of the disaster and the actual disaster happening – I mean they were on the plane for a good five minutes before the explosion in the vision, and yet it's like a minute when it happens "in real life".

Disaster ranking:

As disasters go, the plane crash was pretty horrifying. In terms of the other disasters in the movies, honestly, they're much more spectacular. I will give this a 9 for realism, but overall a 5 because I wasn't dazzled.

Death ranking, from worst death to best:

Death by speeding bus – so contrived. We've seen it before guys, let's get more creative with this bitch;

Decapitated by piece of metal that flew up from under a train – I mean, yeah, but like, let's go bigger;

Strangled by inexplicable clothesline in a bathtub from which you are unable to get up because the tub is slippery and you cannot get any traction so you just hang there with a cord around your neck like a damn fool;

Smashed by a sign that came out of fuckin' nowhere on a quiet street in Paris – it was certainly unexpected, RIP Kerr Smith; and

Stabbed in the chest, after the following sequence of events occur – pouring boiling water into a mug then getting spooked and throwing the boiling water at the thing that spooked you (nothing, it was nothing), then pouring freezing cold vodka into said hot mug causing it to crack, dripping vodka on the wooden floor as you walk across the room, then dripping vodka down into the back of your computer, which, even though it's turned off, begins to spark and smoke and causes a fire, then the computer monitor explodes sending a chunk of glass into your throat, and then you slip on the vodka on the floor and crash into the kitchen island, and reaching up to get a tea towel to stem the flow of blood you knock over your knife rack and a butcher knife embeds in your chest, and then when someone is trying to help you they accidentally push it all the way in. And then the entire house explodes. That's a convoluted death and it earns best death of the movie for this movie.

Famous last words, Kerr Smith!

#final destination #2000 #movies #movie review #devon sawa #kerr smith #ali larter #seann william scott #kristen cloke #chad donella #amanda detmer #brendan fehr #I THOUGHT THAT WAS BRENDAN FEHR AT THE START

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panlight · 7 years

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So this popped up in my head, and I'm honestly puzzled. I dunno if anyone has ever brought this up on here, but how does it make sense that Edward was able to get Bella pregnant? There's no blood running in him to give him an erection, and he's not living so he's technically shooting blanks.

Yeah, I mean … yeah. SM has the following explanation on her BD FAQ:

Now, on to the “how is this possible?” question. First of all, of course it’s not possible. None of this story is possible. It’s a fantasy story about creatures that don’t actually exist. Within the context of the fantasy, however, this is how it works:

Vampires are physically similar enough to their human origins to pass as humans under some circumstances (like cloudy days). There are many basic differences. They appear to have skin like ours, albeit very fair skin. The skin serves the same general purpose of protecting the body. However, the cells that make up their skin are not pliant like our cells, they are hard and reflective like crystal. A fluid similar to the venom in their mouths works as a lubricant between the cells, which makes movement possible (note: this fluid is very flammable). A fluid similar to the same venom lubricates their eyes so that their eyes can move easily in their sockets. (However, they don’t produce tears because tears exist to protect the eye from damage, and nothing is going to be able to scratch a vampire’s eye.) The lubricant-venom in the eyes and skin is not able to infect a human the way saliva-venom can. Similarly, throughout the vampire’s body are many versions of venom-based fluids that retain a marked resemblance to the fluid that was replaced, and function in much the same way and toward the same purpose. Though there is no venom replacement that works precisely like blood, many of the functions of blood are carried on in some form. Also, the nervous system runs in a slightly different but heightened way. Some involuntary reactions, like breathing, continue (in that specific example because vampires use the scents in the air much more than we do, rather than out of a need for oxygen). Other involuntary reactions, like blinking, don’t exist because there is no purpose for them. The normal reactions of arousal are still present in vampires, made possible by venom-related fluids that cause tissues to react similarly as they do to an influx of blood. Like with vampire skin—which looks similar to human skin and has the same basic function—fluids closely related to seminal fluids still exist in male vampires, which carry genetic information and are capable of bonding with a human ovum. This was not a known fact in the vampire world (outside of Joham’s personal experimenting) before Nessie, because it’s nearly impossible for a vampire to be that near a human and not kill her.

So it’s hard to argue against this because a) she’s the author and b) ‘venom’ as she conceives it is a fictional substance so you can’t really be like, “it doesn’t work like that.” But it still just … doesn’t make sense to me personally. She says that things like blinking don’t exist in vampires because there is no purpose to it, but then male vampires still have a means of passing on their genes to future generations despite the fact that female vampires can’t procreate with them and it’s “almost impossible” for them to be with a human and not kill them. Why should one half of the species still retain that ability when the other doesn’t? And why should the half be able to procreate with their food source? It’s like it all just exists so E/B in their very specific circumstances can have a kid rather than it being a sort of naturally occurring thing. Honestly I sort of wish she had just explained it as ~magic~ or something because it all just seems so contrived. And the whole “no one but Joham knew” thing, please, if HE thought of it, Aro and Carlisle and probably dozens of other vampires would have at least theorized about it, too. There’s just no way that super curious, keeper-of-the-histories Aro didn’t wonder about it, and there’s no way Carlisle the super curious doctor with a wife and ‘daughter’ who longed for children didn’t research every single rumor about vampire reproduction.

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whatdoyouexpectthistime · 7 years

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Out of Office... actually a surprising lack of drama: Miho and Jazz

Conversation written with Jazz = @hifftn

Of course Miho had a perfectly serviceable office, but after the last couple of days and what had occurred before that… it wasn’t that she didn’t WANT to go into the office, and she certainly wasn’t avoiding Selina, not even Jazz – despite her text message – it was more maybe that Miho hadn’t really intended on having to change the business plan.

She was thrown, not that she would say it aloud, nor did the studious expression on her face betray it. Her planner was open at her right hand, her laptop open before her, mobile phone to the left and two empty cups of what might once have been skinny cappuccinos behind the screen – there were two test drives in her schedule at the end of the week.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath.

Selina was still out of commission, and it wasn’t like Miho could ask Jazz to cover the date scenarios because she was in love with Kuni, even if she couldn’t admit it to herself.

When her mobile phone beeped a text message, somewhat grumpily Miho picked it up, and in that moment her expression changed. Whatever it said made her smile and tap out a quick response before putting the phone back down, noting Jazz’s message there in her history.

“Yeah, this is going to hurt,” she exhaled – a sigh but not one of frustration this time.

Though her lips were pursed, and her eyes wandered to her left hand – she would have to tell both Jazz and Selina, and she fully expected to cop a serve.

“You’re nuts,” she told herself, shaking her head, but her expression was wry. “But… worth it.”

Nuts maybe, but in love just the same, and for a change, she’d been the weak one – which she didn’t really like.

“Need to get back to being a bitch,” she smirked, then looked over her shoulder for a waitress – she needed MORE coffee.

Another busy day was lying before Jazz when she hurried into the café to get a quick whatever with lots of caffeine and sugar to go on her way into the office. After that date with Yu she was thrown off the track, struggling to find her footing again. It shouldn’t be too hard, right? She had managed before. There were also good things happening, Riki Yanase had called her, told her that one of the profiles she had sent him had piqued his interest. Good. She had to get some matchmaking done, that kept her busy and seeing the happy couples almost didn’t hurt at all.

“A triple espresso to go, please,” she said to the barista with a smile before she glanced around the café, just to spot Miho sitting on a desk. Why wasn’t she in her office? Why hadn’t she been there at all for – Jazz wasn’t even sure. A day? Two? Well, now was the chance to find out. She took her cup and paid with a smile, thanked the barista and made her way over to Miho’s table.

Which is entirely – so coincidentally – when Miho had turned her head, just in time to see Jazz approaching.

“Ooo-kay,” she murmured, and may even have looked uncharacteristically nervous?

Anything is possible.

She tried, however, to pretend like the last proper conversation they’d had, had been an argument – though yanno, Miho was totally in the right – and smiled a blithe smile the moment she made eye contact.

“Morning,” she greeted.

Yep, that passed for casual.

Miho even shoved some of her crap aside on the table so Jazz had somewhere to put her coffee down – so thoughtful.

After having worked together for so long, and having known even longer, Jazz could tell that Miho wasn’t exactly thrilled to see her. It wasn’t that Jazz was completely over the moon either, but they were both adults and should be able to act as such. Especially since Jazz had been thinking a lot in the last few days.

“Morning. Are you coming to the office today? There’s mail for you,” she said and sat down, although there was a lot she wanted to ask that had nothing to do with mail or even work.

Well, maybe it was a bit work related, after all she had seen Miho with a client in a situation that wasn’t exactly professional. And Miho knew, at least if she had checked her phone ever since.

“There is a rumour circulating that I might manage to make it to my office before lunch,” Miho smirked – typical Miho bravado. “I need a secretary. Do you think Selina would go for that? I mean, for what we end up charging clients to cover your missing panties, surely that’d pay a secretarial wage.”

The waitress arrived, hearing the words ‘panties’ and ‘wage’, but she managed not to look too puzzled.

“Another skinny cap for me please,” Miho smiled at her, and the woman departed.

Distraction gone.

Jazz huffed in feigned indignation.

“Just so you know, last time I actually managed to get back WITH my panties on. But I think Selina will give you hell. Remember how she reacted when we joked and said we needed an intern?”

Selina had a lot to prove and running a successful business seemed her way of coping with some things. Not that Jazz was keen on failing, but in the end she could always go back home if everything went downhill.

Miho was certain there was no downhill, and shit, maybe… MAYBE… Selina would have to seriously consider that intern now, since there’d soon be two less people to complete test drives.

Yes.

Two.

Because regardless of what was going on in Miho’s own life, she hadn’t stopped plotting Jazz’s happiness, whether Jazz was/would be happy about it or not. That really isn’t a contradiction.

The issue at that moment, however, the one they were busily dancing around most indelicately with obviously contrived idle banter, was not really about Jazz at all.

“Sorry I didn’t answer your text,” Miho apologised, and actually looked down at her planner, away from Jazz’s face.

Apologising was difficult for Miho, it REALLY was.

“FYI, I WAS on my way out - the elevator wasn’t my idea, and for a change of pace, all that happened in there was… an uncomfortable ride to the roof bar.”

But damn, Miho couldn’t hide the tweaking of her mouth. It wasn’t a tell that she was lying, just that the memory was, perhaps, not ALL uncomfortable.

Jazz tilted her head slightly.

“It’s fine. I guess you were – busy.”

She had to fight her own grin because she had a very good idea what had kept Miho busy. Or rather, who. The only thing she didn’t know was if Miho had simply broken a rule, or if she had scorched the land and salted it to make sure there would never again grow something on it – figuratively speaking.

“I have lost a client that day, by the way. He paid his bill up to now, but… well, it looks as if he had to sleep with someone else before he realized how much in love he was already. That was awkward.”

She chuckled dryly.

At this Miho seemed genuinely surprised.

“You? Lose a client? That’s rare,” she agreed with a slow nod. “He must really be in love with whoever she or he is to walk after all that money spent.”

Well that didn’t ring a friggin’ bell at all.

When the waitress returned, there was a brief reprieve, and Miho smiled and thanked her, before lifting the cup to her lips to lick up some of the chocolate dusted foam.

“And well… it’s funny you mention losing clients really…”

That sentence kind of trailed off a bit as she hazarded a sip of the hot liquid.

“Yeah, but as long as he’s happy now,” Jazz shrugged and a small smile played on her lips. It was all about making people happy after all.

And then she froze.

She stared at Miho, back at her hand that held the cup.

Back at Miho’s face.

“Holy shit…” she muttered and put her own cup down.

“Miho, that’s – what is that?” Jazz pointed at the glittery ring on Miho’s hand.

Miho’s cup lowered slowly to the table, and she too stared at her left hand.

She remembered the exact moment she’d stopped wearing her wedding and engagement ring after her husband’s death; it hurt, even now, sharp and tearing, and she grimaced. There was no regret in placing this new ring there of course, but it did remind her, constantly in fact, of something she had sort of wanted to forget.

The pain that is, not the lover she’d lost.

“Right, I DID lose a client, but I gained a ahh… fiancé,” she declared, pinching her lower lip between her teeth before looking at Jazz again. “Didn’t think I could just, text you back with a, ‘having a great time, getting married lol’,” she added.

For a second Jazz was speechless, a very rare occasion. She could only stare at Miho. But then a huge grin appeared on her face, the excitement bubbled over and Jazz squealed, actually squealed, loud enough to attract attention from other guests in the café.

“Oh my god! Miho, that is – I’m so happy for you!” She hugged Miho tightly, ignoring the struggle.

“Lemme see.” Without waiting for Miho to actually react Jazz grabbed her hand and studied the ring.

“God, it’s huge. And beautiful.” After a quick glance at Miho’s face she added: “And I don’t even want to hear that his other accessory is also huge and beautiful. But I want to hear everything else. It’s this cop, right? Are you-“

Jazz’s expression grew serious now. “Are you sure about this? I mean… you know. Are you okay?”

Clearly Jazz’s momentary speechlessness gave way to this verbal torrent, and it first squished the breath out of Miho, then tried to sweep her away with questions and all this bubbling excitement Miho herself hadn’t yet really come to feel.

Too much to sort out. Shit, parents to meet.

Still, she smiled, because suddenly there seemed to be no more tension between them.

“Jeez, you’d think I’d asked you to be bridesmaid or something,” she muttered, “which I’m not going to, since that implies you have a choice, which you don’t – nor does Selina not that she knows yet either… ahh… am I okay?”

She thought on this for a second, letting Jazz scrutinise the ring up close.

“Apparently it was his grandmother’s.”

Then glanced at her phone. Goto’s text had been one word.

‘Dinner?’ And that had been enough to make her feel all warm and fuzzy and ‘omg so Notebook in love’, it almost made her sick, or maybe just the narrator.

“Yes to the big and beautiful other accessory whether you want to hear it or not, and yes to the cop part.”

There her smile turned wry.

“As for am I sure, am I okay…? I wouldn’t have said yes if I was unsure, that would just be cruel – truth is…”

… truth is, unlike yourself deluding ass I actually managed to admit to myself I loved him…cough… not that Miho would say that and ruin the moment.

“… the truth is we were already falling in love, every, appointment and the only thing really holding me back wasn’t office protocol but fear, fear of going through what I already know is hell. But you know, maybe I figured denying myself happiness is also hell.”

Yeah, that was a WAY more subtle message – good job Miho!

“It’s really beautiful… and his grandmother’s? Damn, that guy knows how to go for the kill, huh?” Reluctantly Jazz let go of Miho’s hand.

“Selina doesn’t know yet? Hm… better tell her soon. You know she doesn’t like to be left out. More importantly, haven’t you still some clients? You can’t do the reports anymore , that much is certain. We might have to reschedule some appointments but I will take care of that, no problem.”

She still grinned, completely happy for her friend.

“Ha! You know that Sel and I have been event planner, so no need for you to get a wedding planner. We will plan the perfect wedding for you, just you wait! And we have to go out and celebrate this! Oh, and we have to meet your fiancé. Sorry, he won’t get you before he has convinced us that he’s worth it. So much to do…”

For a second she remembered that there wasn’t much time for all this. In a week Jazz would leave – and she hadn’t told Miho yet.

“Jeez girl, slow down,” Miho laughed. “This isn’t a shotgun wedding, it’s not happening tomorrow, so there’ll be heaps of time for you to go nuts, not that I’m much for a big deal to be honest.”

The whole rescheduling of appointments bothered her of course.

“As for rescheduling, I can manage. In fact, I’ve already gotten a hold of Kyobashi to let him know we’ll probably be looking for a couple of extra test drivers; they’ll need to be skilled up, but that’s no biggy – he can do most of the ‘grunt work’ so to speak. The clients I have who have indicated they wished to participate in the date scenario, well, I’ll tell them myself it’s off the cards, and that I don’t need it to find them their happy match – if they want to argue then really, I think that says they were just looking to bend me over some furniture or something.”

She snorted.

“Everyone wants that of course, but not really the right mindset for a guy looking for a wife, right?”

Jazz frowned. “You know that wasn’t why we came up with the idea in the beginning. It was to make sure that our FEMALE clients get the best possible consulting and won’t have to go through meaningless dates and horrible sex like we did back then. And until Kyobashi can recommend us someone who can take your place in these test drives – not that I think ANYONE could take your place – I still can fill in. Although my schedule is a bit tight the next week…”

She bit her bottom lip. Should she tell Miho now?

“How about this? I take over your clients if they insist on the date scenario and you try to find a match for that café owner on my list. You know, the young guy that kept me up all night. He has rejected every single offer I have made him so far.”

That was a good deal, at least in Jazz’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, love, but if you think I’m going to let you sleep with any of my clients when you haven’t sorted your own shit out, you’ve another thing coming,” Miho snorted. “I don’t want you being that client you just lost, then really regretting it. I’ll deal with my clients, this is my doing, and if need be, I’ll refund them from my own pocket. If you want me to take over the final stage for café guy though, I can totally do that.”

She then narrowed her eyes on Jazz.

Lip biting, uh huh.

“So what gives?”

“Awww… you have this hot guy in your portfolio… oh well, let’s not argue about that now. We should go out for drinks to celebrate. Tell Selina already so we can have a small party tonight. Or tomorrow, I don’t care. As long as I get some cocktails soon I’m fine.”

Jazz simply ignored Miho’s last question.

“I have another appointment soon, I better go to the office now. Will you accompany me or rather come later?” She grabbed her cup and looked at Miho expectantly.

Stubborn versus stubborn.

“All my clients are hot, but really? Misdirection? Come on Jazz, think you’re the only one who can tell when her friends are saying everything?”

Miho closed her laptop over and placed her planner on top.

“You know I learned some interesting sadist techniques from this one client, and I’ll torture you to get answers if I have to,” she added with a wicked grin.

“You would torture me for fun, so don’t you think you can scare me.” Jazz shrugged and waited for Miho to gather her things together.

“But you are right, I have to get my stuff sorted out. That’s what I’m doing now actually. Get the apartment renovated. Get the divorce done. Ai wants me to come and tell his parents but I think he can manage that on his own.” Jazz huffed a dry laughter. As if he would really manage anything like that.

“I – I think I need some time off. Without clients and work and – you know. So next week I start some extended holidays but I will be there for any wedding talk you need.”

“You want time off but you also want to take on my clients?” Miho laughed. “You know all three of us are pretty messed up.”

Shaking her head, she slid all the things into her bag and pulled the strap to her shoulder.

“Have YOU told Selina?” she then asked, pausing to chug half her cappuccino before beginning to walk. “Me off date scenario duty and you out for, how long?”

Jazz laughed.

“Can’t help being greedy. A girl can get everything she wants after all, can’t she?” Well, maybe not everything.

“Sel knows. She doesn’t know how long exactly, but to be honest I don’t know either. She wasn’t really happy about it as you can imagine. And I think when she learns that you are out of business she will really need some alcohol. Or sex. Maybe both.”

After a short moment Jazz gathered all her courage.

“Can you do something for me? If – if he’s still your client, can you find someone nice for him? I know I messed that up and I know it’s not fair to drag you into this, but I can’t do that on my own. Or at all. I – I might be away for some time. Enough time to make good on your promise. Or your threat, whatever you want to call it.”

Hadn’t Miho said she would find someone for him within 3 months? Jazz only wanted him to be happy in the end. She couldn’t be any more selfish right now.

“It was a promise of course,” Miho replied, stopping on the pavement just outside the café. “Are you running? Is that hat this vacation is?”

Ya – Miho shifted back into tough love mode. Still, that promise-threat about finding Kuni a wife? She meant to do it, and in fact was already working on it.

Jazz shook her head.

“No, not running. More like – letting go. Making a clean cut and try to start again. You know how that works. I can’t drag around some of the stuff any longer. Might even sell the apartment, I don’t know yet.”

They reached the office building and Jazz was grateful, she didn’t know what else to tell Miho now.

“Go and tell Selina. She might be angry at first but she will be really happy for you. We both are.”

With a wave she went off into her office.

After telling Selina about her shiny new commitment, Miho flopped down into her comfy office chair and took out her phone. She didn’t call Goto, after all, he had his own work during the day which really didn’t allow him to take calls as freely as Miho’s job did. Instead she shot him another text, apologising for having to cancel the dinner date she’d agreed to less than an hour ago.

When her phone rang in her hand she was surprised, but smiled and answered.

“Maybe I should have called you after all,” she said in greeting, leaning back.

“You just caught me at a good time,” Goto told her, a smile in his voice. “Miss Mann took our news well then?”

“Better than I thought she would,” Miho admitted. “No drama at all except perhaps for her super level of excitement and the declaration that she and Selina will be planning an extravaganza of a ceremony.”

Goto chuckled, and it put warmth in Miho’s cheeks.

Jesus Miho, you’re not seventeen anymore.

But the sound of his laugh was so pleasant and genuine, she just couldn’t help it.

Got it bad.

“Is that what you want?” he asked – a genuine question not fearful of the answer.

“A huge fuss?” she sought in clarification, but didn’t wait for it. “Nah – though you know, this is your first marriage so, if you want to go all out I’m fine with that too. Just, no white for me.”

“You in white is hard to imagine,” he mused, and immediately Miho guffawed.

“Are you trying to suggest, Mr. Goto, that I’m somehow not pure enough to wear white?”

“Ah no, no of course not,” Goto rushed, in full and flustered retreat. “I just meant, you know that… you…”

“That I couldn’t possibly be pure, because what woman who makes a man moan like I’ve made you moan, could be?” she offered lightly, knowing full well where ever he was taking the call, he was blushing furiously.

On the other end Miho heard some shuffling, like he was switching the phone to his other ear.

“If I start thinking about that right now, I’ll be in trouble,” he admitted, and now Miho laughed.

“You have your own office right? I could always swing by and help get you out of trouble,” she offered – in no way innocently.

“You are trouble,” he asserted, and she could tell he was shaking his head. “And you can wear whatever colour you like.”

“I feel like we’re jumping the gun just a little with ceremony preparations, when I haven’t even met your folks,” she chuckled.

“We should do that, soon,” he stated, and now he just sounded happy. “But your text made it sound like work’s a bit up in the air for you right now?”

“Yeah, Jazz is going on ‘extended vacation’, but you know when she suggested she might sell her apartment, that makes it sound a whole lot more permanent,” Miho replied. “Which makes it difficult for me to get her and Mr. Aikawa together. I’m going to really have to get my plot on.”

“You sure that’s what she wants? What he wants?” he asked, and Miho was already nodding before he’d finished.

“Yes and yes, without a single doubt,” she affirmed. “She’s having trouble seeing beyond her baggage – familiar story I know, but if I can see the light, then I’m going to shine it the hell into her eyes until she opens them and sees it too.”

“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” he joked.

“It’s bound to happen at some time or other,” she acknowledged. “But you’re cute, so that’ll work in your favour.”

“Do you think, maybe, you could come up with a more masculine descriptor?” he sighed.

“Why? Are you insecure about your manhood?” she questioned, then grinned like an idiot. “Because you shouldn’t be – your manhood is…”

“Miho!” he interrupted, and she let it go.

“Okay okay. Anyway, I’m sorry for redacting my yes to dinner. I want to see you but by the time Jazz and Selina are done with me, it won’t be pretty.”

“Now that is something I can’t imagine,” he said affectionately. “But, if you need someone to hold back your hair, I’m your man.”

“Yeah, I guess you are,” she smiled, exhaling. “We should definitely catch up tomorrow.”

“Dinner at my place?” he offered. “I’ll even tidy up.”

“Ha ha, you know I know you’re shocking at that.”

“The effort should mean something, surely,” he responded.

“Yeah okay, we’ll see,” she snickered. “Seven-thirty?”

“Perfect,” he agreed.

“I’m going to wear white lingerie, just so you can see how well you think it works,” she added cheekily.

@nitelotus @smutmylifeup @smile-smile-ichthys @mirandaflamel @blexsar

#MJS #MJS marriage matchmaking agency #Jazz Mann #Miho Fujiwara #Seiji Goto #voltage inc #voltage otome #voltage fanfiction

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horriblegif · 7 years

Text

LEVEL DRAMA 50

It’s not usually our style to respond to artworld dramas in any medium longer than a few tweets. They’re never particular exciting beyond the unholy fascination akin to watching some rats fight over a headless cockroach on the floor of a Subway. Moreover, they’re usually confined to a pattern - think of a writer publishing some text on something which upsets people by association and then using his/her social media to promote that text, thusly charging the gravitational pull of indignation and buying space for a pop-up arena of combative discourse below. An example of this would be Art in America’s 2014 piece ‘The Perils of Post-Internet Art’ by Brian Droitcour, itself a wavering diet-summation of a genre that seemed to evolve out of increasing access to technological means of image making and also began to historicise itself simultaneously. Weird right!!? Predictably, arguments followed on social media with responses from implicated parties and sideliners, running the gamut of indignant whiny rebuttal to carefully oriented endorsement. There’s a lot of wiggle room for staking out narratives, personalising them, claiming them or discrediting others, in other words a divine gift to every editorial intern for glossy art magazines that are half full of adverts for luxurious things and half full of tiny texts about arts beginning and ending with the authors name. Qualitative judgement and criticism in the Greenbergian sense is even more obsolete, obsolete accelerated, block-chained and stacked. The modern critique exercise garners no adhesion to the contemporary artscape even as an arse-aching literary nostalgia throwback. Old platforms haven’t all died and new platforms are not always replacing them, but reflective mediations serve commonplace delight regardless of the impossibility to predict.

Brexit and Trump, among many other unkind reminders given up to cultural onlookers, prove that despite our illusions of a slogging but mobile transition towards rectifying centuries of inherent vices within civilisation, there are still a lot of racists around. Not all supporters of Trump might have been racist, but nevertheless they did support one. Not all supporters of Brexit might have been racist, but the rise of hate crime against foreigners post-referendum says enough. Life goes on, whatever post-rationalised narrative you believe is the causation of this crisis in the west and until we’re in a full-blown totalitarian regime we have choices to resist without putting our lives at stake. These resistances can be boycotts, mild political integration or volunteering, adding to body count at protests, whatever.

The slightly shit TV adaptation of The Man In High Castle, which roughly follows a similar format to the Phillip K. Dick source material, does one thing quite well. It shows how many people can adapt or exist quite easily to life under fascism. Obviously the people that do are within regime-defined parameters of acceptable, something that Trump/May and the ukip scum keep trying to define with immigrants (first them, then us all). Most of the denizens of the art scene will not cease to exist, despite the general idea that fascist government wasn’t great for most art/artists. Over half of us fit into those parameters already! Futurism had a pretty big old boner for violence! But we think, given the tragedies within industrialised memory and after the late 60s that art is predominantly a progressive, liberal thing. Okay it has structural problems with insane gender and race bias, but that’s work in progress. As a concept, art galleries or institutions are not seen as part of a mechanism of state-sanctioned harm. Something like that, right? It’s the artists we turn to in dark times to offer cultural reflection and symbology for resistance. Yeah m9, not really so much. Post-vetements overstyled white art males of the curatoriat continue to offer smug “everything is shit” commentary in which they can never be proved wrong. Declining to offer any meaningful critique of tories/republicans but always ready with a hatchet for liberals when they fail. Staying aloof, hand wringing and never forced to contemplate more than jokes about self-employed artist tax returns or some hot take post-potato. Other artists who proclaim radical actions and aesthetics go on to exhibit at art fairs, work with commercial galleries and operate easily within a cultural exchange network built on un-unionised work and cheap labour. An independent project space goes commercial, takes money for anyone, talks about feminism but hangs out with Anita Zabludowicz on her Venice Biennale yacht. Curator does interview and talks about the nature of rigorous critique, but freaks out when it is suggested that putting only their mates in an arts council funded exhibition might be something that is twatty. Pointing out hypocrisy and bad art practices become anti-art, hatin’, jealousy or some kind of trolling without good faith (what trolling with good faith is, please tell us on a postcard addressed to BBC FOUR, PO BOX 80085, Arsequake Kingdom). Artists are not only often creepily “libertarian” but, in the case of LD50 Gallery, sometimes outright mini-fascists.

At this juncture we finally arrive at the point of this longform rant. LD50, a small project space in dalston junction, had some exhibitions of questionable taste and arrangement in recent months. The alt-right exhibit it staged using scavenged parts of the aesthetic and philosophical matter online wasn’t immediately partisan on the surface. It could have been bad satire, it could have been one of those things many adult-child digital artists do where they incorporate the very thing they critique. Obviously the depraved chasm which 4chan and allotments of reddit are located in is morbidly fascinating, to someone who feels they’re on an important media archaeology tip even moreso. Despite the Hitler quotes coupled with anime motifs and other bizarre conflations of alt-right imagery, the show itself didn’t offer a concrete position. This is a commonplace exhibition model that allows “racy” subject matter to be presented with critical immunity, because the art moves to within a viewers praxis. More often this is used with cultural appropriation, where a white artist will extract reference points and framing devices from culture they do not belong to and situate the art itself on the intersection of their gaze, etc etc. So the art is about the white gaze on other culture, that way it removes itself from, at best, being accused of ignoring postcolonial theory or, at worst, just being mildly racist. Very meta though, and you can extract 2000 words from meta quite easily. With the benefit of hindsight plus a screenshot of a private fb conversation, it became obvious the curiosity with the alt-right wasn’t coolly detached in the LD50 show. Given the social media output of LD50 runs along moaning lines about the apolitical nature of net artists and glib rejoinders to political/social occurances, strangely they might have found the blazing political net art they were looking for… just the bad kind of politics. HEY, bad is a construct in art that is irrelevant after postmodernism and pop art, so who is to say it is bad? It’s just neo-reactionary. Sounds like the working title of a group of Final Fantasy rebels. These dodgy politics weren’t always so clear, even in that classic uncertain/ironic way, so it’s possible it was a slippery slope slodden down.

As said in the beginning of this longform rant, the social media microdramas of the art cottage industry aren’t very interesting in themselves beyond the sorry online appearances of calculated hostility and contrived artjoke acumen. But with artist Sophie Jung posting in a public way a ‘call-out’ to a curator of a gallery holding quite dodgy fascist views, the fallout is more interesting than the usual bruised/inflated egos or comment flame wars. The gallery itself has responded by “archiving” the post and all the comments on the main page, as doxing (a strategy of online shaming perfected by the alt-right) bait to sentient pepe memes and twitter eggs. It’s an obfuscatory and aloof reaction, one that shows particular acumen to online psychological skirmishing. Take away the veneer of irony and you see only a few slimy individuals toying with repugnant ideas that most good artists would give no merit, even as illusory discourse.

Is it right to call out someone by posting private convos? Well, check the gallery events and talks - they were pretty public (albeit small and within purposely obfuscating platforms) call outs to those neon genesis authoritarians. A lighter discourse than “is it ok to punch a nazi?” but no less annoying. Of course the answer is yes. Do you argue the inverse that the alt-right should be given platforms? Do you agree with the BBC giving airtime to UKIP but not the Green Party, who have existed for longer/have more members/more elected MPs/have actually run a fucking area of the country? Logic has associations, and while you can spin them away, we fucking see you. The alt-right would legislate for the structural, hidden bureaucratic violence against non-white/foreign people but it is not OK to punch them? They’d happily punch you. It can be so easy if it doesn’t affect you, or to think it wouldn’t, to think that exposing their bullshit is better. Hindenburg thought Hitler wouldn’t be as evil when he finally was given power, the tories seemed to think appeasing the UKIP types was the best way to keep themselves in power. Fuck m9, punch tories AND nazis if you can get away with it. Yeah, if you can back it up, calling people out on something as basic as nazi sympathies is OK. Why did it take so long to be called out on? The alt-right are super zeitgeisty right now and net art dorks are into that because it can be processed into smug “political” diatribe and gestural academica. Things within the art gallery mechanica are afforded un-anchored critical protection at least until the management are revealed to think the muslim ban is fine.

It’s creepy that artist who have exhibited there previously, such as the fantastic Joey Holder and John Russell, weren’t aware of the dodgy politics. Some probably were, such as the Brad Troemel replica dubiously created by AMC network Deanna Havas. Some, like confused net art bro who makes net art that is a bit fash Daniel Keller coyly sits on the fence, crashing a nice-guy routine who isn’t allowed to be sexist. Sad! Other obsessive high grade opinion-merchants like Daniel Rourke attempt to turn everything into irony, glib spectator drama etc. In our limited capacity of visiting LD50 a couple of times for exhibitions and being involved in an event unrelated to the programming, it never was apparent to us there was batshit mental “eugenics isn’t such a bad idea” mind thematic brewing. We have to get used to being surprised in 2016 and 17, though complicit white men wriggling to force jokes out of “paleoconservatism” or something has stopped being surprising since 2007.

So all in all, it’s weird that Lucia Diego and by extension her gallery LD50 are so hot on nazi sympathisers or validating bigots. It’s less weird that a number of friends and collaborators gained before this right turn are just enjoying the spectacle as another performative event. Writer and curator Morgan Quaintance has written about the apolitical nature of the post-internet artist flotilla, the retreat into speculative reality depletes the apparatus to draw ethical lines and instead propels the artist/writer/whatever to pursue “gaming” the system instead. The autumn programming should be a public shame in itself, but the convo screenshot blew away clouds of doubt by direct admittance. But many white women still voted for Trump despite the “grab ‘em by the pussy” recording. Such is the dark art of spin. However, beyond LD50, this isn’t the first art gallery or curator with extreme ring wing views, no fucking shit. You’re aware the Zabludowicz Collection was built with arms dealing money, donates money to the tories and donates money to pro-israel lobby groups, right? To quote artist Patrick Goddard:

“Its been happening for some time and unfortunately artists and their work continue to be instrumentalized by ‘philanthropists’ with darker purposes and dirtier-than-usual money.

The Zabludowicz Collection is an artwashing operation designed to legitimate Israel’s systematic refusal of rights to Palestinians. (along with the BICOM lobbying group – also set up and funded by Zabludowicz money)

Zabludowicz’s strategy is part of a global shift to the right, and very much anticipates the US and UK state assault on arts funding, forcing culture increasingly to function as a vehicle of the right. Furthermore Poju Zabludowicz gives significant donations to the conservative party and a select few pro-Israeli Labour candidates. (Ruth Smeeth being a notable recipient of BICOM money – who kicked off the anti-Corbyn claims of anti-Semitism last year)”

The director of ZC doesn’t espouse any political opinion though, just a disturbingly banal desire to be press-shotted with artists and to fly around the world looking at arts. Their programming does not reflect the mechanism that the foundation operates, which apparently complicates the issue for artists enough that any mea culpa is fine. It looks like until some outright admission of fascist tendencies is made from the primary source, everything is up in the air conceptually. Another question is a worrying route into a sort of McCarthyism, where everyone who works with a place of dodgy politics is “besmirched” by association and the trend of the left attacking their own allies is further proof to right-wing nutcases like LD50 that post-internet art is trash. We can assume some people had suspicions of this gallery at the beginning, but no confirmation appeared in the absolute until the alt-right lovefest. Fair enough, net art people are often very weird anyway (which is fine!). Do you think the ZC doesn’t do similar things with Zionist interests, but without a programme of talks and some art to accompany it? Heather Phillipson, in a Nov 2016 interview with Adrian Searle says, and we quote ‘My next work will be furious. Fascism is on my doorstep’. Heather Phillipson has frequently worked with ZC beyond just exhibiting some work there. We really are at a loss to understand this kind of blindspot, how endemic it is among white artists in western cities. But without any provocation of fascist rhetoric it is unfair to start singling out artists and mudslinging - though we welcome all explanations as to how Heather Phillipson can be angry about fascism but be uncritical of an organisation that… ugh, just re-read what Patrick Goddard wrote. Research it, it’s not fucking secret. The mucus membrane between act and operation, is it that hard to see through? Is it really a massive, Trumpian stone wall? Would artists be ready to form a picket line outside LD50 if Richard Spencer was invited to speak? Even more neoliberal art apologists might refute that method of protest. Imagine the local community of Dalston Junction will hate artists in general even more if they notice white supremacist conferencing being held in a gallery. As if gentrification wasn’t enough! Do we all want to be associated with this kind of thing? Jake and Dinos Chapman are big fans of Nick Land and have shown work at LD50. The Chapmans are standard conservative reactionary britart hangover troll fossils. It’s embarrasing.The Guardian Newspaper employs a similar coterie of journalists that soften the dangerous ideologies of May/Trump et al. by zoning in and selectively extrapolating miniature nuggets of “leftism” (such as Trump’s opposition to TTIP) all the while crowing “he’s a monster he’s a monster but….” and looking at their political games with the detachment of an old cunt with a southwest london mansion who enjoys playing chess on their Gateway 2000 PC, their only brush with anything “liberal” being time spent in a minor theatre company during youth.

If you’re an artist doing some part-time teaching at art schools, tell your students about this! Make sure they don’t enter into the post BA/MA world as apolitical vessels thirsty for a myth-made-real version of ideologically dubious expression, based on a default assumption that artists are sympathetic to labour. If you don’t teach, perhaps consider it a good way to pay for those easyJet flights to European museums or Rat Basel Miami, unless you are too busy arguing about how Adam Curtis is the anti-christ while Theresa May closes our borders to the refugees of wars our state was implicit in funding or operating in. Understand that complications arise when the main financial sponsor of Frieze Art Fair is also the bank of choice for the Trump family. Maybe you avoid the Deutschebank events if you’re exhibiting there, because wouldn’t that compromise your ideology? If you’re in a union, make sure you vote for a union director who isn’t pro-trident. Write to your MP, don’t just screenshot your ‘delete my uber’ account dissertation. It’s OK to criticise your peers, hold them to account for some kind of progressive standard of ethics but piling hate onto an old lefty is not productive when you’re both just trying to unpick capitalist lineage to better understand power and it’s movements. JJ Charlesworth, a writer of ArtReview is a essentially a lobbyist for Tory interests, negging on cultural boycotts or protests against hate-speech! Evidence is in his dodgy slightly-closed-closet-door bigot attitudes, I’m sure lots of people have screenshots of a trans bashing comment or something that betrays a concience. But he might review your shows, has a family, so let him have his tory views in peace, right and don’t forget the afterparty invite. Manick Govinda, an Ayn Rand lovin’ brexiter working in an artists development studio?? What the fuck do you think will happen down the line? Because when they face criticism they complain that their comments receive criticism as a result of the “left” being the “real” threat to “free speech” it should worry you, despite the trenchant desire within your loins to be knighted by their credible notice, or whatever pressure boost your economy-of-prestige fueled trajectory needs for the sake of yr neuroses.

Now LD50 is out of the bag as too right-wing for the art world to swallow without criticism, but people still will fight over how it is bad to post private convos and publicly ‘out’ people even if a few months before they had a fucking anti-semite skyping in. And that will still be spun with tailored words.

Because a lot of us in the London art scene are white and generally not on the breadline of poverty we’re kind of unaffected by LD50s fascism, there is a reluctance to stake out a vocal position because we’re taught to court ambiguity as successful methodology, or something like that. The non-position position, the entrepreneurial cloak, logic mazes eating themselves as the apex form to attitude. The gallery have since changed their trading name to TIVERSE LTD but their prognosis can’t be long-term survival, unless their instagram weirdness really galvanises the turncoats and creeps or finds some very rich David Ike fanboy to invest. Ignoring bad smells is never a great idea, our whole biological purpose of smell to detect invisible malaise and thus act upon removing the harm it can do to our bodies. Not the most high-brow parallel, can we get a point across without retweeting our twitter bot making garbled Bifo and Deleuze references?

What is the fear that forces us to hold back on committing to our views… views that SHOULD by default be progressive, inclusive and reformative? It’s not fucking Serpico, it’s art, but the stakes aren’t wildly different. Beyond art, a place in Dalston has offered those with academic fascist sympathies a place to organise. How is that anything but awful?

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onestagetospace · 6 years

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If you are into colonizing Mars, you have heard that we can launch only every 26 months during a small window of time. That is because only certain trajectories to Mars work.

This throws a spanner into planning for your colony resupply missions and manned missions alike. As we saw in the movie ‘The Martian’ with Matt Damon playing astronaut-botanist Mark Watney, missing your flight home and waiting for rescue could become a slightly tedious affair filled with self-doubt, potatoes and disco.

The ability to send missions every year and not need exotic propulsion nor suffer other penalties would be a real breakthrough. It appears we possibly could.

William Tell on steroids…

The current approach essentially consists of aiming very, very precisely and shooting an arrow into a speeding apple 400 million kilometers away. Marksmanship has indeed seen progress.

But because the apple has an atmosphere, moves at an angle and has gravity, you also have to slow your craft down, with the right force, at the right angle to be captured by its gravity.

Miss the angle or the burn, and your vehicle either sees a fiery death (too steep), or skips off the atmosphere like a pebble (too shallow) flying out beyond Mars without any chance to ever reach it. Tricky, but it has been successfully used for decades. Most of the time.

Hohmann Transfer Orbit Hohmann transfer orbit, labelled 2, from Earth orbit (1) to a higher orbit (3) e.g MARS (Credit: Leafnode – Own work based on image by Hubert Bartkowiak – (CC BY-SA 2.5))

This trajectory, the best we knew, is called a Hohmann transfer orbit. Because the two planets have to be relatively close to each other, the launch window opens only every 26 months. It closes only a handful weeks later, when the orbits of Mars and Earth move out of alignment. Once launched, a standard rocket needs 9 months to reach Mars. Faster transfers are possible if you use either a bigger rocket or a smaller payload. This is because you trade a higher change in velocity (or Delta-V) against payload.

This brief launch window, is why NASA, ESA, ISRO, all scramble to get their MARS missions launched with a precise cadence of about every other year. When a science experiment has a last-minute malfunction before launch, this could mean your launch window closes and you have to wait another two full years. This head ache happened to the INSIGHT mission which was originally planned to launch in March 2016. Unfortunately, because a mission critical Seismometer destined to hunt for Mars-quakes (SEIS, originally delivered by the French CNES), sprung a small leak (it lost its vacuum), INSIGHT will now launch May 5 2018.

A More Flexible Option

But are we tied to this 2 year interval? For decades the conventional wisdom said yes. Recently however, a new approach has been found allowing for more planning flexibility.

LOW ENERGY TRAJECTORY ORBITS

Edward Belbruno, a mathematician, artist, Princeton University scientist specialized in celestial mechanics had the intuition, already in the ’80-ies when he worked at NASA JPL, that one might do better. He looked at the problem and thought there might be a different way to get from one gravity bowl, into another one, which is what essentially happens when you go from planet to planet.

Brute Force

The Hohmann transfer can be most likened to a brute force approach. You shoot out in almost a straight line and once at Mars, you violently push the brakes not to overshoot your destination. You must do so, because you essentially have two intersecting trajectories. The probe, on its voyage, is flying so fast that the gravity of MARS simply is not strong enough to capture it in its gravity bowl. The probe will indeed deflect from its course, but without a burn you will leave Martian orbit (your trajectory remains hyperbolic).

Ballet

Compared to this, the Ballistic approach, also called low energy trajectory, is more akin to a delicate ballet. Imagine those two gravity bowls as being real bowls and put them side by side. In reality both are moving. Now imagine that you are trying to push a grape out of one bowl with as little energy as possible, balancing it on the (gravity) rim of both bowls, and then letting it slide effortlessly into the other bowl, ideally tipped over only by the force of gravity. Before the grape settles down in the middle, it will follow a slightly chaotic path. This is also the case in this Low energy trajectory.

What the pictures below cannot convey, is that the rims of the gravity bowls extend and touch each other ever so slightly. The trajectories are also more three-dimensional than shown. Still, they get the point across. The space that connects them can be thought of as a small river, or a balancing rope, where the gravity of the bodies cancel out. If one uses slow but efficient ion propulsion, the goal then is to spiral out from Earth to eventually follow them and spiral in at the destination, but if you use chemical propulsion, only the arrival part of the trajectory is different from a Hohmann transfer.

You essentially shoot out towards MARS, along this sweet spot, in the same manner as you would on a Hohmann transfer. But this time you aim for a space far in front of MARS, a couple of million kilometers, making sure the heliocentric orbit of the probe closely matches the eccentricity of the ellipse of MARS around the sun, and have MARS catch up with you. To make small adjustments on this last bit, and slide into the gravity bowl, you only need to sip propellant. The result can be a 25% reduction on the propellant use for the capture burn. Hence, the name low energy trajectory.

Translated back to the William Tell analogy: You shoot the arrow far in front of the apple, seemingly hover in place, and wait for the apple to catch the arrow.

“The fact that one is allowed to move to a place far from Mars has an implication on the launch period from the Earth to get to Mars. For the case of a Hohmann transfer, there is a small launch period of a few days that must be satisfied when the Mars and Earth line up. This is because a point, i.e. Mars, has to be directly targeted. If this is missed for any reason, a large penalty in cost may occur since launch may not be possible. This problem would be alleviated if the launch period could be extended. By targeting to this location out in front rather than to Mars, it is not necessary to wait every two years, but rather, depending on how far the arrival point is separated from Mars, the time of launch could be extended significantly. This is because an orbit is being targeted, rather than a single point in the space.” (2014 paper, p. 16)

To sum up, the trajectory comes with a couple of benefits

If you want, you can have a 25 % reduction on the capture burn but the route is quite slow. If you speed it up you lose the propellant advantage, but the duration matches that of a Hohmann transfer in most cases.

Hence, you can find trajectories that match the Hohmann transfer at different times of the orbital dance.

If you do use less fuel, you save USD 50.000 per kg of propellant. The difference could mean using a smaller, less expensive rocket, creating additional savings.

Conversely, you could opt to carry more payload on the same spacecraft.

To be captured you only need to end up in a region in the vicinity of Mars comparable to the rim of that bowl (this is called the weak stability boundary).

The trajectory works for slow efficient cargo missions and for manned missions.

But most importantly, you can launch to MARS at least once every year.

Concrete benefits for Martian settlements

Imagine being able, instead of launching once every 26 months, launch payloads every 6 months, or for a large slice of this 26 period. Supplying a colony with food, parcels would become possible on a predictable, regular schedule.

Just like in the old days, knowing exactly when mail arrives and having the anticipation grow to see it drop from the sky (seeing that Tesla finally land) will be a reason for even the most depressed Martian colonist to celebrate and break up the routine a bit.

Regular resupply also enable Mars colonies (or others) to be resupplied with smaller vehicles, as you do not need to plan for every contingency in the next 26 months. Because you can call for supplies of specific items and get them a year or more sooner than you would in a Hohmann cadence, not everything needs to be shipped with multiple redundancy on a big rocket. It is not perfect. But, as any pregnant woman will tell you, waiting 9 months is better than 26 months (the partner nods).

If trading propellant for payload is an option, you might get the time down to three to four months.

This cadence also falls in line with yearly reporting cycles for commercial businesses. The latter is quite important as it makes both expenditures and profits predictable. Seemingly small things like this are no longer trivial. CEO’s know they need to keep (institutional) investors with tightly managed risk port folio’s well-informed and happy.

MATH

Still here? You want to know more?

When one goes into detail, it turns out the math gets pretty complicated. Belbruno, et al., made it work for the Moon (Hiten 1991, JAXA), but at MARS, the math is more contrived. (He received the Humboldt Price in mathematics)

To use another metaphor, it really is comparable to trying to dance on a tight rope while being pulled from all sides. In this case planets are doing the pulling and the math is a many body problem, requiring fuzzy chaotic orbits.

Also, the visual metaphors in this article are not an accident. Belbruno strongly feels that his artistic paintings helped him to get a feel, intuition for the aesthetics and process of the math.

Luckily Belbruno is a very persistent mathematician and, cooperating with other universities, has already found some solutions to the complex math, iterating in backward time, needed to calculate a region called the weak stability boundary, the spacecraft needs to end up in.

Calculated shape of weak stability boundary around MARS – the ship needs to remain in the blue area to enable capture for little or no energy compared to Hohmann (Screenshot from Belbruno’s presentation below)

However, to extend the solutions to distances farther away from Mars, or arriving earlier in the orbit, more detailed simulations are required. In their 2014 papers they just desired to prove that what worked for the Moon in 1991, in principle also works for Mars.

Are you the one?

If you are math inclined, or would like to help tackle the challenge to calculate a good regular ferry schedule for the next century, you can get a nice introduction in both the Hohmann transfer and the low energy capture from the inventor himself (below). Or you can follow this link to his 2014 paper he coauthored with Francesco Topputo from the Milan Politecnic University (*)

If you do so, please inform our crew, Belbruno and all others of the results. There are prizes of many natures to be won.

Footnotes:

(*) Earth–Mars Transfers with Ballistic Capture, Francesco Topputo, Edward Belbruno, DOI: 10.1007/s10569-015-9605-8; as:arXiv:1410.8856, https://arxiv.org/pdf/1410.8856.pdf

For more information, Belbruno has a personal website: https://www.edbelbruno.com

We can go to Mars every year, doing a delicate ballet with gravity bowls If you are into colonizing Mars, you have heard that we can launch only every 26 months during a small window of time.

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peterabell · 7 years

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Iain Macwhirter: Scottish Labour can't blame Corbyn for its perennial leadership crisis

ANOTHER political year begins in Holyrood, and Scottish Labour begins it with another leadership crisis, following the abrupt departure of Kezia Dugdale, their third leader since the independence referendum. Labour should have been looking forward to taking on Ruth Davidson's upstart Scottish Tories in parliament. Instead, anther leadership snafu. Since the first First Minister, Donald Dewar, died suddenly in 2000, Labour has had an almost continuous crisis at the top.

Peter A Bell's insight:

Whatever his other qualities, Iain Macwhirter is a journalist in the British tradition. Hence his tendency to echo the cosy consensus of the London-based media. And his dutiful adherence to another facet of the British journalistic tradition, the prompt rehabilitation of failed politicians.

Unless their demise has been occasioned by a sin unconscionable even in the context of British politics - spit-roasting of minors for culinary or sexual purposes, perhaps - then the ending of a political career is the cue for hacks to say all the nice things about the individual in question that tradition dictates could not be said whilst said individual was in office.

Everybody’s a saint when they’re dead.

So it is that, before the ink was even dry on Kezia Dugdale’s resignation, work began on redefining her as the greatest leader British Labour in Scotland ever had. Not all in one go, of course. Journalistic professionalism these days mostly involves knowing how much you can get away with, legally and in terms of whatever reputation is felt worth preserving. So it starts with Dugdale being declared a “relatively successful leader”.

As well as avoiding an excessively precipitous change of heart, the qualified praise is felt to betoken a dispassionate assessment. It’s a nice flourish.

In order to accept this assessment, however, we are asked to discount or disregard several failings. The political naivety. The unfortunate media ‘presence’. The dire parliamentary performance. Some might opine that these are rather important accomplishments for somebody in a party political leadership role. But, apparently, they cease to be of any significance once the individual has stepped down.

I said, it’s a journalistic tradition. I didn’t say it made sense.

Having set aside the defects and deficiencies which might disqualify the subject from elevation to even the modest rank of relatively successful leader, it is necessary to find something to put in the pro column. In Dugdale’s case, that presents something of a challenge.

With what cannot help looking like desperation, the more determined turd-polishers turn to the British Labour gains in the the 2017 Westminster election. Crediting Dugdale with this ‘triumph’ does the trick for those intent on reinterpreting her incumbency, in keeping with the demands of the British journalistic tradition. But it’s a tad problematic for those of a more realistic bent.

In order to ascribe this ‘achievement’ to Dugdale, we have to do a bit more of that discounting and disregarding. We have to discount the possibility that more harm than good was done by spending the whole campaign looking like the dummy to Ruth Davidson’s ventriloquist. Woodenly repeating the line, ‘No gemogracy here! We’re Gritish!’ didn’t exactly convey the impression of bold, exciting leadership.

And we have to disregard the other factors which might rationally be assumed to have played a significant part in British Labour’s slightly improved performance. Things like the inevitable readjustment following the extraordinary SNP landslide in 2015. The SNP was going to lose some of those seats pretty much no matter what anybody did. The electoral arithmetic meant that British Labour was bound to benefit from this readjustment. It was going to happen anyway.

Then there was the tactical voting by Tory British nationalists determined to get a British party candidate elected regardless of what colour rosette they wore. It’s not possible to accurately gauge the impact of this tactical voting. But it was surely a factor. Does Dugdale really want credit for attracting hard-line British nationalists?

Finally, there’s the much vaunted ‘Corbyn effect’. Basically, former British Labour voters ‘coming home’ because they were convinced by the hype surrounding the real leader of the British Labour Party. Many have argued that this was the most significant factor in the BLiS recovery. Certainly nothing to do with the Scottish branch manager. Indeed, speculation is rife that it was Corbyn’s supporters within BLiS who, emboldened by waht they regarded as their ow triumph, stabbed Dugdale in the back.

But none of this matters. Custom and practice dictates that British journalists come to praise Dugdale, not to bury her.

Why does this matter? Surely it can do no harm to eschew speaking ill of the politically dead. Well... yes and no.

I have no reason to wish to see Kezia Dugdale denigrated. As far as I am concerned, she is just another British nationalist politician. She has made it clear that, in terms of the constitutional issue which lies at the centre of Scottish politics, she is absolutely no different from any other British nationalist politician. If people want to give her the benefit of whatever doubt they may be able to contrive, it really doesn’t matter much to me.

But I can’t help feeling that there is a problem here for British politics in general and, perhaps, British Labour in particular. It occurs to me that the serial leadership crises which beset British Labour can be explained, at least to some extent, by reluctance to properly assess the reasons for successive failures.

That British journalistic tradition of revisionism reflects a more general aversion to thoughtful assessment of failed politicians that pervades the British establishment. British Labour in Scotland presents as the worst case. Over the last decade, BLiS has changed its leader on average once a year. It really looks like nobody in the pretendy wee party has any interest in trying to analyse why they have just lost their umpteenth leader. And if they can’t explain why they are changing leaders more often than most of us change phones, how can they ever hope to find better leaders?

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3one3 · 7 years

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The Sequel - 843

Sunlight As Disinfectant

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

What a difference a week on the Côte d’Azur makes. Or a week with Juan.... Nah, it’s definitely the sun and the water. And Dirk finding his footing again. She’s like a different person. I didn’t even know she had so far to go before, André realized while he finished his lunch at the table, topside. Christina ate before he got there, and Lukas started eating a few minutes before he did so he was finished already, and the two of them were sitting on the back of the couch in front of him, playing some kind of game involving kisses and funny faces. They were having a blast. Mom was all the metals- bronzed skin, golden highlighted hair, blue eyes the color and luster of oxidized titanium, and Son was all the smiles- happy, surprised, giggly, cheeky, naughty, and delighted. André’s eyes weren’t sore at all but the two of them together were a sight that would have soothed any ailment he harbored. Their laughter wasn’t bad either. He didn’t know his wife could still look that beautiful, and youthful, and happy. It wasn’t like it was all down to her reunion with Lukas. They spent weeks apart all the time. He thought she was really starting to feel better about everything and thus look better before they split for their individual trips, but Christina looked so different to him when he arrived in Cannes that it was almost alarming. She couldn’t have been that close to happiness before. The gap in her vibe was too big.

She really did feel quite good in that moment, but it really was mostly down to the arrival of Lukas and André. She knew nothing of any special luster, or visible happiness. Having her boys back was just irresistibly delightful, and helped her get over the tearful goodbye to Juan right before they got there. That part of the morning was so dramatic that she wondered if members of Lilly XO’s crew thought she was acting with one player or the other. They watched her go from miserable, sad, slightly weepy girlfriend treating her last breakfast with her boyfriend like it was her last meal ever, to hyper-excited, bouncy, smiley wife and mother welcoming her husband and son aboard for hugs and kisses. Surely her behavior couldn’t have been genuine in both cases. But it was. Christina missed the blondes and they were enough to help her forget that she already missed the Spaniard.

“All right, silly child. Do you want to go for a walk to see the other boats? Lucky and Spence want to get off the boat. There’re big boats that way and lots of smaller ones over there,” she explained to the littlest blonde. They were heading out on the water to spend the night offshore, but had some time to kill before Espen’s plane landed. “Do you want to go see? You can hold the leashes.”

“Okay!” Lukas nodded before flinging himself off the wicker couch, falling down when he landed, and then scrambling to his feet so he could try to catch a dog or two. The terriers were already over the arrival of the rest of their family, and had moved on to waiting patiently under the big table for André to drop some of his fish and vegetables. The chef and the Fonz did a big shop for food and supplies that morning for the week, including all of André’s favorites and requests. He was excited to have access to a gourmet chef who would ask him what to make, rather than visiting the restaurants of gourmet chefs and having the choices dictated to him. He was ready for unlimited snack availability too.

“Wait, I need to put some sunscreen on you or you’ll be a lobster.”

“Just put a hat on him,” Dad suggested.

“Because that does so much for his arms and legs and feet.”

“How long is this walk?”

“We all have short legs. We’re not like you,” Christina pointed out.

“Then wait for me. I’ll go too,” André winked back. She got off the couch and sat next to him on the bench behind the table, and reached up tall to smooch his cheek while he chewed greens in tomato water.

“I guess we can.”

“I like your nails, pretty girl.” The player nodded at his girl’s banana yellow lacquered fingers. The matte topcoat made them stand out. Is that for vacation, he wondered. Because she doesn’t have to ride for like 10 days? “Did you DIY or get a manicure?” She’s wanted a manicure and pedicure since before she moved to Dortmund, he recalled, memories of her longingly pining for the time and opportunity for some minor luxury vivid in his mind. He tried to take her to a nail salon or otherwise get her to go a few times, mostly so that she’d stop talking about it but also as part of his efforts to make her feel at home in Germany. Christina rebuffed the offers because being a mom and a rider and a trainer made having nice nails redundant, and because she didn’t think she’d have much of a reason to wear nice sandals and thus need nice toenails. André was pretty sure she didn’t need ice cream either but that never seemed to stop her from devouring pints of Ben & Jerry’s in thirds whenever she was having a particularly tough day, so he didn’t see why she couldn’t just go get her nails done. He didn’t understand that watching a fresh manicure get ruined, chip by chip, immediately after the paint dries, could be more depressing than bare nails and out of control cuticles.

“I did them myself yesterday while Juan read his John Grisham book to me. It’s totally not a John Grisham book. There were no lawyers. There were stolen F. Scott Fitzgerald manuscripts in it though, and it was crazy because the place we went for dinner last night is in this hotel where F. Scott Fitzgerald stayed for a while. He wrote a book there.”

“You had a good time with him, huh?”

“Yeah. The place was great,” Christina smiled before ducking to look under the table. A child, at least one dog, and a giant squeaky banana had all come in contact with her leg in rapid succession. There was a giggly chase on.

“I meant the whole week,” her partner clarified about his assessment. They didn’t talk that much about her time with Juan beyond the tick-tock of activities, and even that was basic, surface-level stuff. André didn’t ask about their more private activities, or how Christina felt about anything regarding the other player.

“I had a very good time with him,” she offered up very honestly. Something she took away from her last morning with Juan, and specifically from a conversation with him over fruit and croissants, was the conviction to avoid hiding her feelings and her thoughts on the state of their collective arrangement. There was no plan to sit André down and spill everything she felt following her week with Juan, but she wasn’t going to keep it all inside to protect him either. The Chelsea man impressed upon her the importance of making sure his old friend understood her thinking, and that it would be unfair to make him guess or deduce what she was feeling, or dealing with. “I felt normal again- like...the way I want to feel. You know how I’ve been saying for months and months that I was afraid I’d never get to that again, and I couldn’t even really articulate what that is? I still can’t explain it but I know I’ve felt it, now.” Her words hurt.

“I see.” André kept his words short because he didn’t want to get upset. He stared at what was left of his fish on the plate, and kind of tilted his fork back and forth on one tine beside it. His face fell so dramatically that it could have ended up in the game under the table.

“It’s not just him,” his girl stressed, as hurt by his reaction as he was by her statements. “It’s everything coming together, I think. Dirk was so good, and so effortless. I didn’t have to contrive to get from him what I used to get at minimum, by default. And you and I have been so good lately too, and everything is beautiful here. It’s easy to feel right here,” she added thoughtfully, the sentiment just having occurred to her as she spoke of it. It’s possible that it wouldn’t last at home, or even in London or something. It’s possible that just getting out from under Wife and Mommy duty and into a bikini is a major factor in suddenly finding the me I’ve been searching for since Lulu Schü was born.

“You mean here away from me and our fighting, or here away from our home you don’t really like?”

“Babe.”

“I’m just teasing,” the player replied, his objection half-hearted. “I’m really happy that you’re feeling good, Prinzessin. It’s just a little bit difficult to hear that it takes being alone with another guy for you to get that. I can see it in your face that it’s different. I think I could hear it most days when we talked on the phone too.”

“Yeah but I just said it’s not like that,” Christina reiterated, half whining and half pleading, voice low. “It doesn’t take being alone with another guy. If that were the case, I would have felt right a long time ago. It’s everything coming together.” Being honest was hard. All the things she wanted to tell him were stuck behind a blockade of escalating panic and upset. In the morning she thought it possible to lay out all the specific ways she felt better, and the kinds of things she and Juan talked about in regards to their future, and what they wanted, and what they felt they needed, and all the factors she was holding up against those things for consideration. If her partner’s reaction to the major theme on the top of the page was so upsetting to her, she didn’t know how she’d ever get to the sub-headings and bulleted points. She needed that awful disappointment gone from his face. “I want to stay this way. I want to feel good, and feel like myself- my old self- and whole, and happy, and content, and calm, and all of that, with you. I want it to be the same. I think that’s all that matters.”

“Mommy! Mommy, mommy, mommy!” Lukas shouted from just out from under the table. Lucky was speeding away with the giant banana, followed closely by his brother.

“What, Munchkin?”

“How many?”

“How many what?”

“How many?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“He’s at a stage where he has all these pieces of sentences or questions but he doesn’t put them together very well or have enough of them to make a complete thing of it,” André laughed as his loved ones tried to communicate like two people unfamiliar with each other’s language.

“Daddy, how many?” the child pressed, growing frustrated with the lack of understanding. He was tugging on his shirt in the front and stretching out the big Ralph Lauren polo pony on the chest.

“Six.”

“Six?”

“Yes. Six. Come here.”

“Do you know what he’s talking about?” Mom inquired skeptically, reaching over to pick up the newly arrived little boy so she could pass him across her lap to his dad. He’s getting too big, she lamented when it was a struggle to lift him clear.

“No idea. But if you give him an answer then he shuts up or switches to another question. What’s up Mausi?” Dad grinned when he got his hands on his son.

“Banana.” Lukas stood on his father’s thigh and leaned over his plate to inspect what remained of his lunch.

“That’s yellow zucchini, not a banana,” Christina pointed out, assuming he was interested in the yellow vegetable.

“Do you want a banana?” André asked curiously.

“Banaaaana!” Their son stamped his foot and pointed across the sitting area at the dogs having a tug of war with their squeaky banana. It was for a much bigger dog than the little terriers, so it was perfect for them to both hang onto it with their mouths and play-fight over it.

“That’s Lucky and Spence’s toy,” the rider gently reminded Lukas. “They get to play with their stuff, right? You have your own toys.”

“Mommy is the best squeaky toy,” André interjected. He tilted his head to look the little boy in the face, and then looked at Christina too. “I know lots of ways to make her squeak.”

“Ew.”

“Some squeaks are only for me. There are ones for everybody though,” he continued, a growing vein of conspiracy in his tone and in his eyes that matched the water outside the marina. His girl’s blues joined the rest of her features in expressing warning. “Want to help me make her squeak? Want to tickle Mommy?”

“Don’t you-“ She was ready to issue a serious warning against the threat of double-team tickling, and both blondes were poised to disregard it and attack her with their fingers. Her phone began blaring Crockett’s Theme on the far side of the table though, and put everything on hold. It was on ‘loud’ because Christina didn’t want to miss Espen’s call when the nanny arrived at the marina entrance. There was security there to prevent just anyone from strolling onto the valuable boats. She sprang up from the edge of the bench to grab the phone and scurry away before either of the boys could resume their planned assault. It was Juan. “Heyyy, did you forget something?” she asked once she swiped across the screen to silence the noisy phone.

“I just emailed you something,” he told her.

“Okay?”

“Look at it by yourself.”

“What is it?”

“Something for you. Well, for me more than you, but also you.”

“Okay...”

“Don’t be worried,” Juan chuckled. “It’s a nice thing. I called just to say I’m about to turn the phone off on the plane and you won’t be able to call to complain or whatever you’re going to do about it. I’ll be available to hear it later.”

“You’re weird.”

“Have to go. Bye cariñaaaaa,” he said in a singsong voice before abruptly ending the call. Christina peered skeptically at the phone after withdrawing it from her ear. Should I be afraid? What on Earth could it be, she wondered during her pensive hold before giving in and tapping the email icon.

“Is Espen here?” André asked over Lukas’ giggles. The child received his mom’s tickle attack since she was unavailable. Mom mumbled back a “no” without looking up from the photos attached to Juan’s email. He’d been toting around a Leica that was vintage film camera on the outside and high quality digital camera inside. It was small and uncomplicated, and not at all like the entry-level professional camera André picked up in the Hamptons. It was a good size for tourists. He used it, at her urging, to take some pictures of her horses while they were back at the stabling, or on a walk. She saw him snap some photos of his first gourmet dinner aboard Lilly XO too, and of some details of the boat herself. His email included three pictures of the boat’s owner, one of which she posed for, and two of which were candid and new to her. That first one was her and Dirk and a clear plastic cup with what was left of her champagne after spraying it around on the podium. Christina held the cup up like she was giving a toast, and the horse reached all the way out of the grooming stall to try to sniff it. The photo was black and white, and it made her smile. She recognized the happiness in her face, and wonder even, at the animal invading from one side of the shot. He was all wet from his bath so he appeared extra shinny.

The second, more carefully composed and beautifully executed picture was of her leaning on the metal railing near the front of the boat on their second night in Cannes, at sunset. She still had that white bathing suit and the sarong on, and she was talking on the phone. I look soooooooooooooooooo hot, the rider commented to herself, delighted by her shape against the fading oranges and peaches in the distance. She was in focus and little else was. The blurring of everything but her included some lights on boats further down the quay, and even beyond the port, out in the sea. This is nicer than some of the professional photoshoots. Did he edit these? He must have. The ones he showed me every day weren’t this awesome. I don’t think I’m usually this shimmery, she decided after checking out the third image- a shot of her lying on her stomach on a white towel on the deck with her book, a cup with her green juice, and a bag of ice plastic wrapped to her ankle. Her other foot was up in the air, and she was oblivious to the photographer, or perhaps even talking to him over her shoulder. It was impossible to tell. From the baby blue bikini, she knew it was Friday morning but couldn’t remember much else. The whole picture was very bright, almost artificially so, as if I great big set of studio lights were trained on her. Her skin glittered from the sheen of freshly applied sunscreen. Yep, still hot. I love these. He has such an interesting eye for pictures! And it’s like...you can feel how much he likes what he’s seeing through the lens, kinda. Why did he think I’d complain? It’s not like that stupid spy photo, which somehow still hasn’t been posted anywhere that I know of. Wonder if he’d let me post these...

“Watcha doin’ pretty girl? We’re ready for the W-A-L-K.”

“Nothing.” I love them, Christina narrated as she tapped out a text for the Spaniard. “Get the SPF9000.”

“Where?”

“Coffee table.”

“Kiss first.” André stopped on his way to the sunscreen to get a little smooch, already over the discontent from their previous chat. Playing around with Lukas could do that, and his girl was right. It did matter that she wanted to be as happy with him as she appeared to have grown with Juan over the previous week. It was all he could really ask for, and he wanted to believe his long running hypothesis that getting her sorted with Dirk would reap rewards for her in everything, and especially in their marriage. It would be hypocritical to weight Juan’s presence more heavily than the horse’s performance, or the friendship more than the partnership.

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