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langernameohnebedeutung · 4 years

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Okay since I remember one of the asks that disappeared, it was about what the situation is like between East Germany and West Germany today and if there are linguistic or cultural differences. (For one, if you’re interested in this, I really recommend the film Goodbye, Lenin, it’s a classic and it’s exactly about this subject and really funny and sad)

As for the linguistic side, because it’s simpler-

There are a lot of regional differences between German to begin with and I think compared to them, the differences between 'East German' German and 'West German' German are rather small. Being West German myself, I have an easier time understanding someone from Mecklenburg-Vorpommern or Brandenburg or Saxony-Anhalt than I do with someone who has a strong Bavarian, Swabian or Franconian accent, although the former were East German and the former are West German. Also they’re not necessarily more similar because they were one a specific side of the border.

There are some things that vaguely align with either region and were more common on one side - for example there are different ways to same the time, but those also predate the separation and not all 'Wessis' say it this way and all 'Ossis' say it that way.

There are some specific words and abbreviations and idioms that originated in West Germany or in East Germany, but they are mostly rooted in Hochdeutsch (Standard German) so you can conclude their meaning.

For example, in West Germany people called a supermarket a Supermarkt (generally, there are more loanwords from Western languages in 'West German') while East Germans said 'Kaufhalle'. But 'Super' and 'Markt' are both German words and even if you don't know what it means, you can conclude that it's a really great place to run your daily errands. And 'Kauf' and 'Halle' translates to 'buying hall' so you get the same idea.

In regional dialects such as Frisian or Swiss German, this would impossible, because these dialects are much older and very often have words and rules that don't exist in Standard German - not to mention they are pronounced very differently. You couldn’t deconstruct a word like that into Standard German unless they sound similar. Some researchers also said that some words were used differently and that East Germans had a stronger distinction between public and private language and make different jokes - which is pretty much a transition into the other differences. Basically, the actual use of language that came into existence because of the separation was too short-lived and too artificial to truly part of the language. Plus there was never actually an attempt by either side to create a ‘new’ German language.

I actually watched some videos about North Koreans living in South Korea and struggling with the language and I noticed that for one, that Koreans said there was a rather consistent North Korean way of speaking - but while there are certain dialects like Saxonian that are ‘typical’ East German dialects (my parents can tell you if someone comes from East or West Berlin and often which part of either just based on the way they speak), there is not ONE East German dialect. Plus, the duration and intensity of the separation cannot be compared to that of Korea. Many East Germans still listened to West German radio and watched Western television. People could talk on the phone and write letters. And before the ‘death strip’ was finished, people could even talk across the wall. So there was some interaction.

As for other differences -

The obvious ones are the economical differences. West Germany still has a stronger economy than East Germany - a map, as an example (although it’s a bit small I know) - you can easily make out which part used to be GDR and which used to be West Germany.

The result is that many young East Germans, especially young women, move into the West to work, especially from rural regions. There are a lot of towns actually shrinking because they're only populated by old people and those who stay behind and try to make it work. At the same time, a lot of West Germans have started studying in the East because things are cheaper there. Many of them are students - so, again, young people - but they are moving into the cities like Leipzig, Potsdam or Dresden.

I definitely think there is a generational divide in the attitude East Germans and West Germans have for each other. I was born after the reunification and I've always considered all of Germany my home-country and so do pretty much all my peers and everyone up to a certain age. But my mother, for example, was born three years after the wall was first built and her entire youth, she watched it become bigger and higher and stronger - back then, she could barely imagine ever seeing a reunification and living in West Berlin, she experienced East Germany as a hostile country surrounding her and restricting her and being the cause of all the military presence - so she also didn't really see them as the other half to a whole and more of an enemy.

This was one of my favourite caricatures in my history books in school, it’s about the changing attitude East and West had to each other, the text says:

1945: “Brother!” 1955: “My dear cousin!” 1965: “Oh, right - we still have some distant relative living in a foreign country.”

The generation who was actually born pre-separation was born under the NS-regime and for most of them, watching the country as it was fall apart and rebuilding their lives after the war was a formative experience. This generation was all about looking forward, not back (because...looking back was very ugly, too). People who had family in the other half tried to stay in contact, make it work - but people who didn't usually had a more ambiguous relationship to all of this.

After the war, West Germany under Chancellor Adenauer's leadership was at least as eager to build relationships with the West as to reunify. And considering that occupied Germany could do very little to actually solve the whole Cold War problem all by itselves, the focus for the West was really on reconciling with France, forming a stronger European community (what would eventually turn into the European Union), rebuilding the country (Miracle on the Rhine) as well as rebuilding its international reputation. The fight to reconnect with the East (like attempts to form a 'pan'-German Olympics team) was mostly carried by individuals and organisations.

West Germany never considered itself saturated - for example, the reason that our Constitution is not called a Verfassung but a Grundgesetz a 'basic law' is that having a constitution would imply that this is a fully-formed state, when really, it was only expected to exist until the reunification. But de facto, in the 1960s and 1970s, reunification had begun to seem so unlikely that West Germany begun to ‘solidify’. I live near Bonn (the capital of West Germany) and it's interesting that the buildings the government moved into during the 1970 are much more permanent and secure (also partly because of RAF terror attacks).

You also have to keep in mind, even when the wall came down, only very few countries actually supported a reunification - many wanted the two Germanys to continue to exist as separate countries or to find a different solution. People were really worried about German reunification meaning that Germany would suddenly revert back to Nazi-Germany or, less paranoid, that a united Germany would be such an economic super-power that it would dominate the EU (...well) with only France and Britain (...well) being able to opposite it. So being too vocal about reunification for no reason was a delicate diplomatic endeavour in the decades prior to reunification. But long story short, there was always the dream of reuniting and becoming a whole new country together one day.

Which is...kinda the problem today.

Culturally, East Germany had an entirely different attitude towards itself, West Germany, its Allies and the world. It was a lot more militaristic, it was socialist and also had a very different relationship to the legacy of the NS-history and had very different international allies. For example, in SED-lingo, the “Berlin Wall” was called the “Anti-Fascist Protection Wall” (The West being the fascists.) They considered themselves a new country. West Germany considered itself the Nachfolgestaat (successor state) to Nazi Germany with all responsibilities like building a good relationship with Israel etc. while East Germany held up the communist resistance and saw themselves more as the successors of the people who fought against the Nazis. A lot of members of the SED government had actually fled Germany during the NS-regime and gone to Russia and aided the resistance from there.

I already mentioned West Germany's great plans about reuniting and becoming a whole new country together. But when the wall fell, that never happened. West Germany absorbed East Germany and moved on with no new constitution or actual negotiation. Compared to West Germany, East Germany didn't have a strong economy and it was socialist, which means that the companies were owned by the state. A state that had ceased to exist, basically. So West Germany decided on a plan to bring East Germany up to (capitalist) standard. Chancellor Kohl promised that he would turn it into 'Blühende Landschaften', 'thriving lands' (which is something West Germans often mockingly say when they're angry about something happening in East Germany, so you do the maths).

Problem with all of this was that this meant basically re-modelling the entire economy. A lot of people lost their jobs, the weaker East German currency was replaced with the West German currency and Western companies moved into East Germany.

There is this old joke about reunification: East Germany: "West Germany, West Germany, you broke your promises." West Germany: "Don't worry about it, I'll buy you a new one."

Basically, through the Solidaritätszuschlag a lot of money was invested into the East - something that to this day, many people in the West resent, especially people who come from poorer regions themselves and accuse East Germans of mismanaging money or say that cities like Leipzig or Dresden were built up to be representative for the success of the reunification while certain regions in the West like the Ruhr-region are suffering at least as much as rural regions in East Germany. These groups demand that the Solidaritätszuschlag isn’t just invested into the East but all regions that have a poor infrastructure or similar problems.

You have to understand what a big deal reunification was when it happened. To this day, it is considered the 'only peaceful revolution on German soil' and East Germans take great pride in beating that regime while West Germans consider it the fulfillment to all diplomatic ambitions the country had since it was formed. And obviously, families were reunited after decades, people could move freely - you have to keep in mind, travel was extremely restricted and now everyone could go wherever they pleased. It was the biggest, best and happiest moment in living history. And then it took a giant nose-dive in the 90s and the stereotypes of the 'whining East German' and the 'arrogant West German' were born.

For example, the poverty caused a rise in right-wing radicalism in East Germany. The country was very isolated and suddenly a lot of families lost their income and people started blaming it on immigrants. West Germans, in response, decided East Germans are all Nazis and racists and are ruining our elections.

These days, parties like the right-wing AfD are actually trying to use the 'Western is the default' culture of Germany to appeal to East Germans and presenting themselves as the only ones who will represent East Germany. That's why they're rather successful in East Germany - they actually address East Germans as a group while the other parties look out for their supporters in specific regions in the West. At the same time, many East Germans who aren't racist, aren't Nazis and aren't voting the AfD or NPD accuse West Germans (rightfully imo) of blaming all problems there are with racism in the country on the East to avoid addressing their own issues.

East German: “As if there was no racism in the West.” West German: “There is...but it’s only latent.”

I think it’s important to understand that there are cultural differences and they can’t be broken down into: “East Germany has more Nazis”. And there are different experiences people made on either side.

For example, in 2009, during her election campaign, Angela Merkel had an interview and spoke about how she preferred buying her own groceries. (Yeah, German elections are full of riveting revelations about exciting stuff. Nothing compared to her compaign where she revealed her recipe for potato soup). She said: "I go to the supermarket - or, as we used to say, Kaufhalle."

The German version of the Daily Show takes this clip and shows it and makes a whole joke about it with the host commenting rather drily: "No, she got something wrong here - we never said Kaufhalle in the Federal Republic of Germany". Obviously, Merkel never said that anyone said that in West Germany. She was speaking of her personal experience - and she's East German. But I find it very telling that a national tv program actually branded this as a 'mistake' on her part, because the way she talked about her experiences wasn’t altered for West Germans to identify with them. At the same time, if you watch tv shows that are in a generic German setting - for example the tv-show Dark - you will notice that they’re never in East Germany. They’re almost always in a generic West German place - because that is not considered a statement.

As for other cultural differences, East Germany became very un-religious while West Germany had many CDU (Christian Democratic Union) governments. The result today is that West Germans are more likely to be (at least on the paper) either Protestant or Catholic while (I think) 3 out of 4 East Germans are neither. There are different attitudes towards family, equality, community, ---- nudity, entertainment, food, cooking. how much ice-cream should cost and so on.

So this also means there are...differences regarding the way people think about the past. West Germans tend to think of their living memory as universal, while Ostalgie (East-algia) is something peculiar to the East - because West Germans (with the exception maybe of West Berliners) didn’t experience comparable changes. But East Germans remembering their old cars and old food and stuff is something that many West Germans are suspicious of, because for West Germans, their last experience with a dictatorship was the NS-regime, so there is a much smaller acceptance of the West of separating the lived every-day culture under an authoritarian regime than in the East, where entire generations grew up in this system and built a private life for themselves outside the political aspects of that society.

This also leads to the bigger conversation about the GDR as an ‘Unrechtsstaat’ (Rechtsstaat: A country where everyone is equally protected by the law, Unrecht: Injustice). Basically, when East Germans say “Not everything was bad”, they are usually speaking about the community, helping each other and specific traditions, child care, things being more affordable. When West Germans hear them say ‘not everything was bad’ they think about that one uncle who might or might not have been in the SS and alarm bells begin to ring. I think this conversation is full of misunderstandings on either side. Because the East Germans actually suffered a cultural shock in the 90s when basically their entire culture changed and many people lost their jobs and their entire social environment begun to crack - while West Germans grew up watching military parades and giant socialist celebrations being held on tv for years in their neighbouring country and feared that they would be the first to die if a nuclear war broke out and now they see people celebrate that time.

That said, I think the tone of these disagreements has changed somewhat and statistics show that people are becoming increasingly more ‘German’ and less ‘East’ or ‘West’ German.. As I said, there is a strong generational divide, imo. No one in my generation or ...below 35 would ever seriously argue that 'East' and 'West' don't belong together, while I know some people in their 40s and 50s who sometimes say it was a mistake. These days, in my opinion, its less a sentiment of 'this is a different country and we have to live with them' (another joke: What's the difference between Russians and West Germans? - we got rid of the Russians) and more an internal disagreement that has some very serious aspects and some less serious aspects.

There is this (unofficial, whimsical) thing that journalists do every year when we (officially) celebrate (by doing literally nothing and sitting at home) reunification and they go around asking random people if the 'wall in our heads' still exists and I don't think it's really a wall that exists - it's not about the wall, anymore, or the Cold War or propaganda or anything, it's about the differences that exist today.

And in your original ask you wanted to know if there are still ramifications and there definitely are - the economical ones and the cultural ones. But I think when it comes to the cultural ones, I think part of the problem is the West German expectation that in order to truly tear down the 'wall in our heads', East Germans have to become and act and think exactly like West Germans - but I don't think that should be the goal and I think that the actual tensions between East and West are becoming smaller rather than bigger. I mean, I really focused on the negative in this answer, but I think most people today, especially the young generation, considers themselves German first and Ossi or Wessi second (or fourth or fifth) and the economical situation in the East has improved tremendously since the 1990s and I think that also helps easing things.

I also dug up some numbers of varying usefulness for you:

43% of East Germans say they eat meat and sausage every day, only 24% of West Germans do

The Gender Pay Gap is 7% in East Germany and 22% in West Germany

Of the 201 most successful CEOs in Germany, only 2% are East German

27% of East Germans say they trust the media, 43% of West Germans do

The 20 biggest German newspaper are all from former West Germany

2017 about 38% of East Germany were open to trying chocolate pizza, 43% of West Germans were

#nonfandom #I hope this answers some questions

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itmighthavebeenintentional · 3 years

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Shadows And Pills - 1

Summary: Some people come away from the Battle of New York with scars and broken bones. Some come away with nightmares and years of therapy ahead of them. Some don’t come away at all. Alexa comes away with a shadow.

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Warnings: RAPE, Torture, Abuse, Self Harm, Negative Images of Psychological Services/Mental Health Professionals, Hallucinations, Stalking, Supernatural Horror, Prescription Drug Use and Eventual Abuse, Mental Illness, PTSD, Flashbacks of Violence, Flashbacks of Tragedy, Starving Oneself, Isolation, Physical and Mental Exhaustion, Denial, Self Neglect, Gaslighting, Mental Spiraling, Mental and Emotional Abuse

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Author’s Note: This is not a happy story in any sense, at any point. I could only write this at my lowest places, emotionally and mentally speaking, and I had a hard time coming back from it. This is dark, and it does not at any point get lighter. I relied heavily on my own experiences with mental struggles and took a few pieces here and there from my own experiences with mental health professionals. MY EXPERIENCES ARE MY OWN AND ARE NOT TYPICAL, NOT EVEN FOR ME. If you need mental help of any kind, please DO NOT HESITATE TO REACH OUT TO GET IT. This story was an exercise in mental exorcism, in a sense.

For all the Loki lovers out there, I do not shine him anything like a good or redeeming light here. He is evil incarnate, more or less. I love Loki, I love good Loki and redeemed Loki and misunderstood Loki and just about every incarnation thereof. I needed a villain, and he fit the story.

Above all, please be kind. This was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever written, and it took me years to work up the courage to post it. If you have any questions, please feel free to message me or send me an ask.

Thank you to @thoughtslikeaminefield and @glassjacket . I would not have made it through this story and would honestly not be here today with the two of you. I will never be able to tell you how much you mean to me.

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Word Count: 1 - 3785; 2 - 3513; 3 - 1068

In Case You Missed It: ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

...

Shadows and Pills

Some people come away from the Battle of New York with scars and broken bones. Some come away with nightmares and years of therapy ahead of them. Some don’t come away at all.

Alexa comes away with a shadow.

In the weeks following the disaster, the public equally lauds and decries the Avengers, but while their opinions are divided over the heroes, the villain is universally denounced as nothing short of Satan himself, and the city throws an actual celebration the day Thor takes Loki back to Asgard to face the justice of their people.

Alexa, having not turned on her television since the day she got home from the hospital, ignores the boisterous celebrants and goes about her shopping, earbuds firmly in place, frown lines now permanently etched between her eyes and around her pinched lips.

“Routine will help you through some of the worst days,” her therapist tells her during one session. “Something familiar and safe to retreat to when the flashbacks are the worst. Just give it a try,” he adds at her disbelieving grimace.

And so she sets a routine.

Morning Routine: wake up. Ignore alarm, lie in bed an extra thirty minutes or so. Shower. Pretend to eat breakfast. Take meds (this one she never skips or shirks). Find something to wear. Stare at it for another ten minutes. Eventually get dressed. Contemplate keys for another fifteen minutes. Leave the goddamned apartment already.

Her routine has varying results, although she does admit to her therapist that life is marginally more bearable with the routine than without.

“It’s nice to have something to look forward to for the next day.”

Her therapist can’t quite hide his grimace at her flat, deadened tone, but she’s not being sarcastic or rude. She finds that going to bed at night is a trifle easier when she knows what’s going to happen the next day.

“So, who are we up to today?” the doctor asks, switching the subject with awkward abruptness. It’s been six weeks since Hell came to New York, and during their twice-weekly meetings, her therapist suggests going through each of the people she saw die in front of her that day, to get closure...or say goodbye...or something.

Sometimes Alexa wonders whether he just wants to hear the details for his own perverse pleasure.

“Brenda.”

Alexa robotically begins to list the personal details she knows...knew...about her floor manager. Unlike the mail room intern she discussed at their last meeting, the list for Brenda goes on for a while. She’s worked with Brenda since she started at the company, learning most of what she knows about her current job from the woman.

Brenda was kind, sharply intelligent, and mothering to everyone under her supervision, and yet she did it in a way that didn’t make anyone uncomfortable. She balanced work and a family long and well enough to both receive regular promotions within the company and also, very recently, become a new grandmother.

The backs of Alexa’s eyes sting as she remembers the photo Brenda showed her not twenty minutes before part of the building collapsed on top of half the department. Her jaw locks as the scene plays before her eyes again, the explosions and shrieks of metal drowning out the shrieks of the people only five feet away.

She closes her eyes, but there’s no pause button to freeze the scene, no power button to shut the images off as she turns in her memory and runs, making it to the stairwell and slamming the door open, turning back and screaming for Brenda, straining her eyes through the smoke and dust and mountains of falling debris. Brenda is running, reaching for Alexa even though she seems miles away, and then one of the file cabinets is thrown over, propelled faster and harder than should be possible, and...and…

And then Brenda isn’t running anymore. Her outstretched hand, the only part of her that wasn't crushed by office furniture, spasms against the ruined carpet, as if it thinks it’s reached its destination and is grasping at its savior.

Alexa’s hand tingles, and her fingers lock into her palm, nails fitting easily into the little grooves she dug there weeks ago. No blood, she only dug that deep once, but the furrows remain as permanently etched there as the frown lines on her face.

Alexa struggles to take in a labored breath as her therapist watches her with the appropriate amount of professional, clinical sympathy and detachment.

“Do your counting,” he reminds her.

How could she forget? She counts to three once, letting a breath out at the end. She repeats the process twice more, ignoring her therapist’s brief flash of annoyance at her departure from his “system.” But, for once, he doesn’t ask her why she has to deviate from the standard one-to-ten method and just lets her do the goddamned counting in peace.

Small blessings.

“Have you had any flashbacks since our last session?”

She stares at him, letting her gaze rest heavy and disbelieving as she turns his question over. She’s been averaging about five flashbacks a day, triggered by everything from accidentally brushing a stranger on the sidewalk (Jim knocking past her to get down the stairs just as the door on the stairwell behind her explodes inward; more shrieking, then falling, then dark) to lifting a carton of cold milk from the shelf at the grocery (that impossibly cold hand grasping hers, pulling her up from the rubble, bringing her face to face with...something...something in the...shadows, it was so dark there, and…).

“Yeah. I’ve had some flashbacks since our last session.”

“What sort of coping strategies did you use?”

He’s not even meeting her eyes now, just getting notes down on that damned pad. The scratching of his pen grates into her bones, and Alexa grits her teeth as she glares.

One, two, three.

Breathe.

One, two, three.

Breathe.

One, two, three.

Breathe.

She slowly recites the list of strategies he suggested during a previous session, none of which have proven particularly effective at lessening the frequency of the episodes, but most of which she grudgingly admits provide some slight relief afterwards and allow her to refocus her mind on the present rather than dwelling in the memory.

“And the shadows?”

How can he get this wrong every time when he’s taking all those fucking notes?

“Still just the one.”

“Has it manifested in any other way? Asked you to do anything? Do you feel different in any way when you notice it?”

There’s a distasteful eagerness to his words that always turns Alexa’s stomach, and she has to physically bite into her tongue to keep from asking what kind of bonus he gets for each symptom she shows of different mental illnesses.

“It’s just there sometimes. I..” She hesitates, feeling vaguely nauseated from his questions, but she has to be honest, right? Because, ultimately, it’s his job to help her, and she’s never going to get through this by hiding symptoms. He can’t help fix her if he doesn’t know what’s broken, and he did suggest the routine, so, okay, he gets a pass for this one.

“I still mostly only see it before I’m falling asleep. I’ve started seeing it in the late afternoon, as well, not often, but sometimes. Always in shadows that are already there. It doesn’t talk or anything, doesn’t really have any face or form except for vaguely person-shaped, but it...it watches me. And it’s...denser than it was last week. More...it’s thicker than it was, like when you see wispy clouds kind of...gather and turn into storm clouds?”

He nods, his pen whizzing over the legal pad he records their session notes on. “So, you feel threatened by the shadow? Like it’s storm clouds gathering to...what? It feels menacing?”

But, like most of the questions Alexa fences in this office, this one isn’t easily answered.

“It feels like it’s watching me, waiting for something. I don’t know what. I don’t...I don’t know if it’s menacing, exactly. Like, it feels potentially dangerous, but I can’t tell if it’s for me. I don’t know. It’s just...darker and more there this week, but it doesn’t do anything, and I don’t feel different, and it doesn’t speak to me. I. Don’t. Hear. Voices.”

She clips off each word at the end of her rant separately and precisely, repeating her counting in her head, and she forces her breathing to even out. The doctor is just doing his job, he’s just trying to help, he’s supposed to ask these questions, it’s how he helps-

“Hmm. I’ll have to consider that between now and our next meeting. In the meantime, go ahead and move up to the next dosage step with your meds, keep it on the escalating schedule we set.”

You set, she thinks mutinously for a moment before internally shaking her head. She nods, biting her tongue once more. She’s going to have a permanent indentation there as well, at this rate.

“Any side effects? Itching, swelling, difficulty breathing? Any unreasonable lethargy or detachment?”

“I mean...I don’t really have anything to attach to at this point, so…”

He frowns at her again, and she wonders if he’s going to crank up her dosage two notches instead of one.

“Are you having what you feel are typical emotional responses to everyday stimuli? Have you laughed or smiled at anything yet? How long has it been since you emotionally felt anything besides the frustration and panic?”

And, somehow, this question is difficult, too. She struggles through, trying to find a balance between honesty and not making herself look like a complete failure who can't function in life. She doesn’t help her case when she admits she hasn’t followed many of his suggestions beyond establishing a routine.

“Not even exercising?” he asks, his disappointment palpable.

When she silently shakes her head, her lips pinched tight against his disapproval, he shakes his head with a sigh that sings of ultimate betrayal. Instead of berating her as usual, the doctor frowns and looks down at his notes, considering them silently. He clicks his tongue against his teeth for a moment before switching over to end-session mode, robotically delivering his closing remarks, his typical reminders to keep her meds on a strict schedule at the exact time every day, to avoid all alcohol and unprescribed drugs, to keep her diet as clean and unprocessed as possible, and to get plenty of exercise. Even this last bit is delivered with a sharply clinical detachment, as if she has driven him to the brink of her own psychoses by stubbornly refusing to accept his help.

There is a short, silent moment between them where they refuse to look at each other, the doctor perusing his notes once more while Alexa examines the wrinkles creased into her jeans from lack of folding. The doctor flips pages over in his legal pad and slaps the cover shut sharply, breaking the standoff with one last, dismissive comment.

“Routine, Alexa. Stick to the routine. If it’s what brings you comfort, if that's the one thing you’re taking away from these sessions that actually helps, then stick with it. I’ll see you Thursday afternoon.”

….

Her afternoons vary, according to her therapy schedule. Her sessions take roughly an hour and a half, so that’s one block of time she doesn’t have to try and fill. On the days she isn’t having her skull cracked open, she can sometimes force herself to work on the files her company sends her way. Grunt work, brainless stuff that any first-year intern could do, but it keeps her on the payroll and covered by health insurance until the doctor clears her to return to the office.

Not that there’s an office to return to yet.

Grocery shopping for food she’ll pretend to eat later, making excuses to stay out of the apartment a little longer each day, watching the shadows of the buildings grow darker and longer until the sunlight disappears from the streets.

And the other shadow, the darkest of all, thick and solid against the brick and stone, pacing her, keeping track as she wanders through the broken city blocks. Sometimes she walks a little faster, pretends to not notice the black spot. Sometimes she pretends it’s keeping her company. With the most conversation she’s had in weeks taking place in her therapy sessions, she occasionally finds the imaginary company of her shadow stalker to be more pleasant than menacing.

Occasionally.

Eventually, though, she and her chimerical companion head back to the silent, encroaching walls of her apartment to begin the night routine.

…

Night Routine: laundry. Pretend to eat dinner. Shower. Finish laundry. Clean already clean kitchen. Another shower (on the bad days, the ash and debris won’t wash off). Rearrange already arranged closet. Braid hair. Take meds, do not skip, no matter how much they screw up her sleep, because they help. They do. Settle into bed. Stare at the wall. Adjust pillows. Re-settle. Stare at the shadow. Start to drift off, slide into a flashback, scream back to full consciousness. Watch the shadow. Doze. Awaken from a fucked up nightmare she can only partially remember. Repeat ad nauseum.

Really, if Alexa could just skip the nights and go straight into morning, that’d be great. Mornings are tedious but tolerable. Afternoons are blurry and tense, especially therapy days, but nights…

Nights just won't shut down.

The drugs are partially responsible, the doctor has told her multiple times. The medicine can either make sleeping more difficult, or it can act like a sedative, dragging and holding her down. Honestly, she’s getting kind of mixed results. It’s difficult to stay awake, easy to slip under, but then she can’t stay asleep for very long, jerking back to consciousness in something close to full panic, unable to figure out if it’s the drugs or the dreams that’s pushing her to the edge.

Because the fucked up dreams...well, that’s all on her and her broken brain. She stopped bringing up the dreams in therapy after the first couple of weeks of sessions. The doctor seemed hell bent on steering Alexa towards the possibility that she was experiencing waking hallucinations, but there’s no way she could possibly be awake for all this shit. Maybe some of the flashbacks, but not…

Not…

Her brain isn’t that broken.

No. No, she can tell from the way she jerks to consciousness afterwards, she knows she’s asleep. Yeah, she’s unstable and has flashbacks, but she’s not delusional. They’re dreams.

Every night.

About…

Something.

Okay, sometimes she can remember. Sometimes the meds dull her down so much she forgets what day it is, but sometimes she can hold on to a detail or two. Cold, slender fingers, impossibly strong. A flash of bright blue that sends nausea racing through her entire body (who knew your toes could feel nauseated?) or a glimpse of bottle green that, conversely, thrills her to her soul. A smooth, velvet voice that penetrates every layer of her being, down to the deepest recesses. Darkness descending...a sense of dreadful awe…

And sometimes she can remember every unhinged detail with a terrifying clarity that she will never even consider mentioning to the therapist. Not if she likes her jacket sleeves to fit properly.

There’s honesty, and then there’s idiocy.

The shadow is larger tonight. Taller, a little broader, definitely denser. She would say looming, even, but it’s not quite that large.

Not quite.

She stares at it openly, no longer trying to avoid acknowledging its presence. What's the point? The doctor knows about it, and it’s not like she’s talking to it. She’s not that far gone yet. And she hasn't lied to the doctor, either. The shadow does watch her, like it’s waiting, gathering. Convalescing. But it hasn't ever talked to her.

She does not hear voices.

She yawns and rolls her shoulders, left then right, sliding a little lower in bed, searching for a cooler place between the sheets. Movement catches her eye, and she looks up as the shadow shifts, leaning left then right, and seems to…

Grow?

No, it’s never moved before. She’s pretty sure she’s never seen it move, but now it pulses and raises up, stretching-

No. No. Sourceless shadows don’t move. They don’t grow, they don’t shift, they don’t-

The shadow stretches upwards abruptly, definitely looming now, and Alexa hits the wall behind the bed, scrambling backwards in a blind panic as she realizes the shadow isn’t growing.

It’s coming closer.

Her breathing speeds up, but her limbs are heavy and dull with narcotic stupor. The foot of her bed darkens as the shadow creeps even closer, and she opens her mouth to protest, to scream, to say something, but her tongue is numb and stupid with the acrid, coppery tang of fear and pharmaceuticals, and she hates, hates this kind of dream where she can’t speak, can't move and she can barely breathe, and...and…

The shadow reaches out, stretches over her foot and slides up her calf in a clammy, viscous caress that tightens on her knee and pulls her several inches down the bed as her throat closes.

Do not shrink from Me. It is not your fear I crave, but your adoration. Come to Me, allow yourself to move past the fear and embrace what I wish to grant you.

Horror, deep and instinctual, floods her veins. Alexa feels the voice more than hears it, and it awakens an ancient fear that finally, though futilely, awakens her drugged limbs. She claws at her sheets uselessly as the shadow moves over her, a freezing oil slick that oozes against her skin as if her blankets and clothes weren’t even there, sending shivers to the very marrow of her bones as her gorge rises, and she chokes on the bile that singes the back of her throat. She can’t fight, can’t move against this intangible force, but neither will her terror let her sink past the fear to blissful unawareness.

Give over. Let go of your stubborn fear that tethers you to this useless reality. Allow Me entrance, and I will grant you the relief you seek. Release your grip on the world that cares nothing for you, and I shall bestow upon you the peace you so desperately crave.

Her skin raises in gooseflesh everywhere the shadow crosses, and her stomach turns as it squeezes its way up her torso, her chest, her throat, slipping over her lips in a sick parody of a lover’s caress. She opens her mouth - to scream, to breathe, to do something - and the shadow plunges inwards, invading her mouth, her throat, coating her inside and out with a thick, glutinous sensation that leaves her mouth hanging obscenely open, tongue thrashing, while her mind screams useless denials.

Submit to Me what you see I can easily take, give Me My due. Give over, drown in Me, and I will save you from this miserable existence.

And she is drowning, the air pressed from her lungs as a dark heaviness settles solidly over her. Her arms are forced over her head, and she is strung out on her twisted sheets, writhing under the weight of the shadow as it presses over every surface, against every entrance. No matter how she strains, her legs are gradually forced apart. The darkness’s lack of speed is affected, some barely functioning bit of her brain whispers to her; it could take her as swiftly as it cares to and is only moving slowly because it wants her to suffer, wants to taste her anguish. She has no chance against the shadow, she can’t even touch it, really she could just save herself the anxiety and fear and just-

NO.

She twists as hard as she can, but the shadow simply moves with her, flows over her, waits until she takes another breath, and then surges between her thighs, driving her torso off the bed with the force of its thrust. Every cell in her body locks, not in pain, but in complete revulsion. And then again, and again, cruel in the thoroughness of its violation, covering and saturating every crevice of her being, coating and tainting everything it touches.

Wrong, can't...stop, stop, stop, wrong, can’t...God, please…

You cannot rely on yourself, on your own mind for proper guidance. Let Me protect you. Let Me save you from yourself.

How long...minutes...hours...years...just stop, please…please-

The alarm clock shrieks right in her goddamned ear, and she can breathe and move and scream and goddammit, she fucking hates those dreams that send her careening onto the floor, scrambling for cover when she can’t even remember what she's running from.

Her morning routine is already in shambles. There’s no ignoring the alarm clock today. A morning shower maybe, to wash off the sticky aftermath of night sweats, definitely, but no lying about, staring at the walls in a sleep-daze. Definitely washing the sheets tonight, too.

She surveys what she can see of her bed from her crumpled position on the floor in front of the closet and sighs. Must’ve been a hell of a nightmare to tear up the covers that badly. She thinks for a moment of trying a little harder to remember, to recall some piece of the dream, but then her stomach flips over, and she summarily rejects that idea in favor of caffeination and medication.

She allows herself another few minutes on the floor, waiting until her respiratory and heart rates return to a less alarming pace before climbing to her quivering knees. The shadow darkens the far corner of the room, as innocuous as always. Though she doesn’t know why, she can’t help an involuntary flinch when she first sees it. It’s not normally present in the morning, at least, she doesn’t think so...well, she can't remember the shadow being so dark in the mornings, at least. But...

She clears her throat against the thickness that seems to coat it suddenly, and readjusts her plan to include a glass of water before she starts in on the coffee. She realizes after another long moment of staring that her hands are trembling along with her legs. Her jaw clenches, and she knows she’s being ridiculous. It’s a damned shadow. It just sits there. It’s a minor manifestation of a mild psychosis secondary to major psychological trauma. It’s just a damned dark spot; it doesn’t change, doesn't want her to do anything, and it definitely doesn’t fucking talk to her.

She. Does. Not. Hear. Voices.

…

Up Now: 2

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bob-events · 3 years

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Friendship Bonanza Prompt List!

International Friendship Day is right around the corner, and our AO3 collection is going out to our authors any minute! That means we are excited to announce the prompt list for the friendship bonanza - which we have hidden under the “keep reading” because it’s ridiculously long. If you’d like to make a “gift” for any of the prompters, you are welcome to, and we just ask that you either post it to the AO3 collection and tag them (but please mark it as a “gift fill”) or post it on Tumblr and tag them AND us so we can share it! Happy Friending

@nowinnablewar AO3: unseelieCollapsar Will Accept: Fanfic, Other types of media Prompt 1: Skip bounces ideas off Easy Company for the letter he wants to send to Faye. Prompt 2: Easy Company craft a plan to get back at Sobel without getting caught. Prompt 3: A Yank staff correspondent (Reader or OC) interviews the officers at the Eagle's Nest. Prompt 4: Three Musketeers AU with Toye, Luz, Guarnere, and Buck

@softspeirs AO3: sunlightdances Will Accept: Fanfic, Fanart, Other types of media Prompt 1: Speirs being soft (either gif moments from the show, art of your choice, or platonically with a canon character, or paired with an OC!) Prompt 2: Nixon + "I wish I didn't care about it" - gifs showing him caring about other characters canonically or fic with platonic friendship or background romance with an OC Prompt 3: Lipton being Easy's Mom and Dad. Fanart, a fic of a missing scene, or gifs from the show! (Post-war AU feat. a background romance is also ok too) Prompt 4: Any happy, smiley moments between Easy boys. Gifs of happy moments, fanart, or a fic of a moment we didn't see on the show! DNW: Character/character slash fic, modern AU

@serasvictoria AO3: Caren80 Will Accept: Fanfic, Other types of media Prompt 1: Chuck and Babe are supposed be doing guard duty at Membury airfield. Chuck takes Babe to a pub instead (this genuinely happened by the way). Prompt 2: It’s Christmas and since Easy is still stuck in Bois Jacques in Belgium, Joe Liebgott decides to share a Hershey bar with Chuck and Tab as a present. Prompt 3: We all know that Luz and Perconte ended up in a barn to steal eggs, but what happened before that scene? Who even came up with the idea to begin with? Prompt 4: It’s 1946 and word reaches Bill that Joe Toye is really struggling with the loss of his leg. He decides to show up at Joe’s place unannounced with Babe and together they will do their utmost to make sure that Joe cracks a smile. Prompt 5: After hearing Joe say that he could use some brass knuckles right before D-Day, Bill finds some for him.

@josephtoye AO3: corawrites Will Accept: Fanfic Prompt 1: Joe Liebgott & Floyd Talbert, one is trying to set the other up, or some other banter-y kind of situation Prompt 2: Johnny Martin & Bull Randleman, any historical AU Prompt 3: Buck Compton & Joe Toye, do with that what you will Prompt 4: Shifty Powers & Carwood Lipton, anything wholesome DNW: Any other characters, angst is okay provided it has a happy ending, no romantic pairings please

@churchkey AO3: churchkey Will Accept: Fanfic, Fanart Prompt 1: Don Malarkey & Skip Muck. Canon-era. Don's not in love with Skip , he just wants to spend the rest of his life with him. Maybe the two of them talking about their plan for being "together" (as besties) after the war. Maybe some cute "I've never told anyone else this before" intimate self-revelations. Maybe Don's reaction to Winters splitting them into different platoons. Basically I just want any chapter in the epic love story of their friendship. Prompt 2: Don Malarkey & Skip Muck Post-War Fix-It. Don's the best man at Skip and Faye's wedding, wondering how this is going to change things and if anyone will over love him the way Skip loves Faye (bonus points for background Don/Joe [Toye that is]; pining, long-distance flirting, whatever) Prompt 3: Dick Winters & Harry Welsh. Post-VE Day. Dick is crestfallen after Nix leaves. Harry feels bad for him. He really does. He's also kind of like "now you know how it feels, don't ya?" Still, he hates to see his friend suffer. Just a couple of sad, lovelorn bastards being miserable together. Prompt 4: Dick Winters & Kitty Grogan/Welsh. Post-war or Modern AU (hence you decide if she takes Harry's name). Would super love these two just doing some GBF things together, shopping, getting coffee, complaining about their husbands and trading gardening tips. Maybe the convo gets a little spicy after dark. Maybe they've each got some private dilemma the other helps to solve. Or maybe they just wander around a flea market looking for good deals on Fiestaware. Prompt 5: Lewis Nixon & Harry Welsh. Post-War. ROADTRIP! (Bonus for background Winnix but it's not necessary). DNW: anything sci-fi/fantasy; OCs; xReader; Tab

@how-are-those-nuts-sarge AO3: whoahersheybars_3up3down Will Accept: Fanfic, Fanart, Other types of media Prompt 1: Historian AU - one character worked at a museum/was a historian before the war and geeks out over a few things while deployed to their friends = any character/s. Prompt 2: Penmanship - one character has lovely handwriting, but something/s hit them HARD during the war and they write much less pretty; with one of their friends' support, however, their hand steadies and they heal (lotsa metaphors there I know 😅) = any character/s. Prompt 3: Chess - one character teaches the other to play chess = any character/s. Prompt 4: Bicycle - one character finds a tandem bicycle in Austria and convinces the other to go on a ride with them = any character/s. Prompt 5: Anything with Bill & Babe, Malarkey & Skip & Penkala, or Dick & Nix, I love their friendship dynamics so much.

@speirstookmysoul AO3: speirstookmysoul Will Accept: Fanfic, Fanart, Other types of media Prompt 1: mentor/mentee bonding Prompt 2: shoulder clasps Prompt 3: overdramatic arguments about non-important subjects Prompt 4: "getting mistaken as family and not correcting whoever’s mistaken”

@kmorecoffee AO3: vintagelavenderskies Will Accept: Fanfic, Fanart Prompt 1: gene and renee: diasastrous, chaotic cookie decorating! the rest of the gang can be involved too for extra chaos because who doesn't love chaos. anyways: gene and renee try to make holiday cookies but something goes awry. too much salt and not enough sugar? distracted and accidentally burn the cookies? luz plays a practical joke and switches out sugar for salt? go crazy! Prompt 2: gene and renee: stargazing!!! all the stargazing :) just two friends, vibing, talking about life and whatever comes to mind Prompt 3: can be modern au: chaos in the coffee shop! just the gang's shenanigans at the local coffee shop. mayhaps there's an ongoing bet of how long it takes luz to get banned? DNW: speirs. i mean, i guess he can be like mentioned or featured. but not too much speirs.

AO3: Muccamukk Will Accept: Fanfic, Fanart Prompt 1: Renee & Augusta/Anna: Any backstory about how/if they knew each other before, their different points of view on things. AU where Renee doesn't die and what they do after the war. Would prefer racism not be the focus of the story, though it can be an element. I like it when there's queer characters and romance isn't the focus. Prompt 2: Winters & Guarnere: Something with them getting to know/respect each other better set early in their relationship, especially between Day of Days and Bastogne. They have such different outlooks, but in the end very similar values, and I'd love to see that explored. Maybe they get stuck together and have to survive? Prompt 3: Randleman & Garcia: I'd love to see more of Bull mentoring the replacements, especially Garcia, and how their relationship changes as the replacements get combat experience and integrate with the company. Would love to see growing respect for each other. I like it when there's queer characters and romance isn't the focus. Prompt 4: Guarnere & Martin: They have matching tattoos! They got in so much trouble with each other and were so ride or die even post war! Bill went to Martin's wedding! Pat and Frannie wrote too each other during the war. I would love them getting to know each other, or small moments of affection. Or just write about Pat and Frannie. That's fun too. Or Bill & Bull & Johnny. Or Bill & Joe Toye. Basically any configuration of this is great! Prompt 5: Powers & McClung: Basically them chilling in the woods silently understanding each other? Healing through chilling in the woods? Comparing their experiences as country boys on opposite sides of the country? Post war stuff where Shifty's so badly hurt and Earl's PTSD? I like it when there's queer characters and romance isn't the focus. DNW: Focus on character death (mention of canon stuff is fine), graphic sexual violence, hopeless endings of utter sadness, character bashing, zombies, AUs that change the setting (turn left AUs fine, AUs that add magic etc fine). PoV characters having strong racist or homophoic views.

@papersergeant-pencilsoldier AO3: papersky_pencilstars Will Accept: Fanfic, Fanart, Other types of media Prompt 1: Airborne OT5 (Liebgott, Grant, Mcclung, Ramirez, Babe) missing scenes - can be fluffy or angsty (fallout from Chuck getting shot?), dealer's choice! Prompt 2: Mortar Trio - Early days at Camp Taccoa Prompt 3: Dukeman & Perconte & Tab (bonus Trigger?) teasing the replacements Prompt 4: Renée LeMaire & Gene Roe- (everybody lives AU) connect postwar (I would die if this was a letter fic, but it absolutely does not have to be!) DNW: webgott (platonic or romantic background)

Prompter # 11 Will Accept: Fanfic Prompt 1: Dick, Nix, and Harry being involved in some shenanigans during their downtime in Mourmelon. Prompt 2: Bill and Babe reminiscing and sharing Philly stories. Prompt 3: The friendship between Smokey and Lip because I think it deserves more hype :) DNW: Nothing NSFW

@dansssks AO3: danesaber Prompt 1: Dick & Nix: The time they offered to protect Kitty for ice cream and Vat 69. Prompt 2: Spina/Babe/Gene: College AU? Prompt 3: Spina & anyone: They show Spina all their booboos Prompt 4: Mortar Squad: Any au, cannon or modern Prompt 5: Harry and Moose: Go sheep shopping as a present for Winnix on their new farm.

@anthrobrat AO3: anthrobrat Will Accept: Fanfic, Fanart Prompt 1: Any of the Last Patrol OT5 (Chuck, Babe, Lieb, McClung, Ramirez) owning a business together - coffeshop, bar, accounting firm? Don't care. Can either be a post-war or modern AU setting. Prompt 2: Skinny Sisk and anyone being bros during the war. Maybe him and Frank deleted scenes in Bastogne fox holes Prompt 3: Shifty & McClung shenanigans during leave. The cat story is hilarious, and I'm sure there are more, and I just love these two because they are so calm and collected but McClung is a total wild card. I would also take a modern AU of them being besties. Prompt 4: Shifty and Popeye being best friends after the war maybe? I just imagine them at each other's weddings being disasters. I would also take the two of them as friends in a modern AU Prompt 5: Any friendship prompt that gives life to the lesser known characters would be awesome imo. DNW: Speirs or Lipton as main protagonists.

Prompter # 13 Will Accept: Fanfic, Fanart Prompt 1: shifty powers and floyd talbert - mermaid/fisher au Prompt 2: babe heffron x reader - ice hockey/team manager Prompt 3: dick winters x reader - college au! tutor au Prompt 4: easy company boarding school au DNW: pwp/smut

@mercurygray AO3: mercurygray Will Accept: Fanfic, Fanart, Other types of media Prompt 1: Harry + Nixon - marriage, divorce, and everything in between. Prompt 2: Shifty + Smokey - Guess we're not in Kansas anymore - or Mississippi, or Virginia. Prompt 3: Tab + Grant - Chuck's really just here to keep Tab out of trouble. Prompt 4: Bill + Babe - First jump's the hardest - and while the jump into Holland is easy, what comes after it is not. Prompt 5: Tipper + Luz - Tipper's pretty good at impressions, too. DNW: Liebgott and Webster (as a unit; individually they're fine.)

@lyselkatz AO3: Lysel Will Accept: Fanfic Prompt 1: Any group shenanigans/friendship fluff including Skip, Smokey, Nix, Bull. Prompt 2: "The guys are stranded on base without pass (or requisitioned to work overtime to meet an important deadline/exams, if modern AU) Prompt 3: Smokey does his best to cheer his brothers up with his peculiar brand of silly (Valentine) gifts. Extra ❤ if Skip and George offer their help. Chaos and ensemble fluff ensue. (+ playing Cupid/background ships if you like)" Prompt 4: "Lieb and Hoobs are bored so they decide to troll Web. Since it's valentine's day soon they'll play crack!cupid for fun. Prompt 5: Web is a shark nerd and Pat has a great shark smile. Infallible logic, right? (Input from the other guys /ensemble shenanigans are welcome)" DNW: Nothing I can think of, since it's a friendship fest

Prompter #16 Will Accept: Fanfic, Fanart, Other types of media Prompt 1: found family taking care of each other (feat. liebgott being happy and content <3) domestic fluff Prompt 2: anything fluffy coffee shop AU or flower shop or tattoo parlour or bakery or anything along those lines Prompt 3: university AU but they are the professors! DNW: webgott, fantasy AUS, omegaverse, mpreg, anything mafia related, not too much angst

Prompter #17 Will Accept: Fanfic, Fanart Prompt 1: Era switch: take the boys and put them in the Vietnam War. WWI? The Korean War? The American Revolution? Any conflict that you're comfortable with. Prompt 2: The Pacific AU? Put the BoB men in the Pacific. How they get there or why they are there is all up to you. Maybe their parachute infantry regiment was simply assigned to the PTO instead of the ETO after training. Maybe Japan didn't surrender as quickly as they did. Anything. Prompt 3: Supernatural AUs are my favorite. Preferably I'd love to keep them based in the WWII era, but you can switch it up if you'd like to -- I'd be fine with that! Any type of supernatural is cool with me. I'm aware this might be super vague but I really don't mind whatever you go with :) Prompt 4: Role-switching scenarios: putting men from within the series in each others' positions. DNW: Romantic shipping, characters (Cobb, Sobel, any higher ranking officers above Winters like Sink), modern-day AUs, aged-down AUs (high school/middle school/college with the purpose of aging down = no); a/b/o trope; nsfw (no sexual material; show-level gore okay).

@mariamegale AO3: mariamegale Will Accept: Fanfic, Fanart Prompt 1: Babe and Julian being best friends. They are snarky, excited, happy and having a good time together. Bonus if their boyfriends are Eugene and Spina, accordingly! Prompt 2: Baberoe. They're dating, but they're dating their own best friends. With romantic feelings taking the back seats, I'd love to see a healthy relationship of two people in love but doing normal platonic things because they're also each others' best friends in the whole world! Prompt 3: Roe and Spina being tired doctor friends, meeting up in between shifts or calls, being tired and exasperated and just having their sandwiches and a moment of god damn peace. Prompt 4: George Luz and Babe Heffron being best friends. They'd be a disaster, but that disaster that also knows how to step the fuck up if shit gets serious. But mostly they're a disaster. Prompt 5: Joe Liebgott and Eugene Roe. They're roommates, they're pals, Joe likes smoking weed, playing mario kart and complaining about whatever dipshit he's gone out with now, Eugene is trying to make it through med school and enjoys the soothing background chatter of Joe blabbering on about this guy's shirt, or whatever. DNW: Canon era (Ambiguous era is fine if you don't like writing/drawing modern!), Carwood Lipton, OCs, xReader stuff

@mizunoir AO3: mizunoir (but I use 49thpersona for reblogging stuff) Will Accept: Fanfic, Other types of media Prompt 1: Hogwarts AU! Would be lovely if it would include Babe. I leave it up to the artist if they would like to portray one specific house endeavours or all 4 houses befriending. Prompt 2: Stargazing, can be set in modern times or in the original timeline. For angsty interpretation it would be nice to read/see some Eugene and Spina bonding. Prompt 3: Stargazing (original timeline or modern times). For more crack-ish one it could include for example: Luz, Toye, Guarnere, Babe etc. But I leave it absolutely open - include whoever you want! Boys share their music taste. Bickering and reminiscing of the good times free of war ensues. Can be platonic, can be slightly shippy, AU or modern - up to the artist. Preferably including Babe with Eugene.

@thrillingdetectivetales AO3: ThrillingDetectiveTales Will Accept: Fanfic, Fanart, Other types of media Prompt 1: Bill & Babe: Bill talks Babe through gay panic about his extremely obvious crush on one John T. Julian, convinces him to ask Julian out, and demands to officiate their wedding (not necessarily in that order) Prompt 2: Harry & Nix (with bonus Buck?): commiserating about trying to keep Dick out of trouble Prompt 3: Blanche Nixon & Ann Winters: they know each other because their idiot brothers are """"friends"""" but they both know what's up and cover for Dick and Nix at various times throughout their lives Prompt 4: Kitty Grogan & Franny Guarnere & Pat Martin: they meet because their fellas are on the line together and keep each other sane throughout the war Prompt 5: Floyd Talbert is everyone's best buddy DNW: No mpreg/pregnancy in general, no rape/non-con (dub-con like drunk!sex or sex pollen or hatesex is fine), no modern AUs, no ABO/dynamics, no kidfic.

Prompter #21 Will Accept: Fanfic, Fanart Prompt 1: Speirs & Shames: These stern, "unlikable" men are just not very social or nice, but they get each other. Outcast gay solidarity. Prompt 2: Kitty & Nixon/Winters: Nixon and/or Winters gets to meet Harry's special girl at last. Harry's made her sound like the romantic lead of a novel and really cool, and they are completely unprepared for the tall, awkward chess club captain. Prompt 3: Babe & Guarnere: Post-war readjusting of a friendship. Disability, marriage, kids on the way, Babe is gay. You know, the usual. DNW: xReader, OCs, hopeless angst, AUs, heavy focus on heterosexuality

@aloraundomiel AO3: ElfLadyArwen Will Accept: Fanfic, Fanart Prompt 1: Dick admires Eugene’s medical skill and always shows interest in learning from him while he’s on the job. Eugene uses it to his advantage, making sure Dick takes care of himself (because shaving doesn’t count) under the guise of ‘teachable moments.’ Any battlefield setting would work. Prompt 2: Nix and Harry are joined at the hip, two class clowns who wind each other up. When one gets them into deep trouble, the other one is always there to get them out again. Prompt 3: Dick Winters is jealous of Ronald Spiers ruthlessness/ability to detach and athletic prowess. Ronald Spiers is jealous of Dick’s empathy and ability to earn loyalty through compassion. Each man agrees to give the other lessons in order to be more well rounded leaders. DNW: Please no Blithe. Never Blithe. You can leave out Compton too.

@bandofmorons AO3: bandofmorons (pseud for sonsofmahal) Will Accept: Fanfic Prompt 1: Babe & Lieb friendship!! I don't have a ton of specifics for this, I just want them being friends and getting into shenanigans but also being supportive of each other... like they're just guys bein' dudes but they're also pretty close ya know! They take care of each other when they need to! Ideally this would be a modern AU, maybe they're college roommates or something? Prompt 2: But mostly I just want to see them goofing off but also being helpful when shit goes down or something, because that's what friends are for. Prompt 3: Some kind of traveling AU with the 5 officers (Winters, Nix, Harry, Lip and Speirs) all as friends and how going on a big trip like that can strain a friendship when something goes wrong or just from people being tired from traveling so much... maybe it's a cross-county roadtrip, maybe it's spring break in Europe, maybe they're going backpacking in New Zealand or something.. I just wanna see how all those 5 boys' different personalities interact on a big logistical venture! Prompt 4: I'm not picky about who necessarily but I want to see Webster getting close to & forming a close friendship with someone in Easy! I feel like in the show/fandom he gets a bad rap for being pretentious (which, fair) but I think it would be awesome to see him becoming good friends with someone and feeling more accepted among the company bc of it. This could be a canon-compliant thing or it could be a modern AU where the boys are all friends. Background Webgott would also be cool as long as Lieb is supportive of Web befriending more people. DNW: explicit sex

#band of brothers #hbowar #events #event #fb21 #bobevents

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turtle-paced · 4 years

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Revisiting Chapters: Brienne VIII, AFFC

This post is also available on my wordpress.

The story so far…

Having done what a true knight does and saved the children at the Inn, a wounded Brienne is taken to receive her just reward. The catch being it’s Lady Stoneheart’s idea of just.

Fever Dreams

The chapter starts with Brienne incapacitated. Aside from the fact that someone’s tied her up (so tightly that it cuts into her wrists, we find out later) and slung her across a horse, she’s very much not well. She’s in a lot of pain and she doesn’t understand what’s going on. Pod’s somewhere in the background.

Cue successions of horrible dreams, swapping back and forth with reality. Brienne revisits the bear pit, calling out for Jaime, and then for a maester. She dreams of Renly’s murder and Vargo Hoat with an infected ear. She replays the fight at the Whispers and loses, because she cannot fight without the magic sword Jaime gave her.

The reader understands as Brienne does not at this point that what’s going on around Brienne is very, very bad for her. When Brienne mistakes a girl who speaks to her for Sansa, a man nearby laughs. Some time afterwards, she’s moved and given medicine. The girl administering said medicine gives us a rundown of Brienne’s injuries. Aside from the nasty wound on her face from Biter’s bites, she’s got a broken arm and some cracked ribs.

Brienne’s with it long enough to hear the confirmation that yes, Gendry killed Biter at the end of the previous chapter. The girl treating her is definitely not Sansa Stark, though. Instead, she appears to be the innkeeper, now revealed to be Jeyne Heddle (and her sister, back at the inn, is Willow Heddle). Her status as a prisoner is confirmed by a dark-haired man Brienne keeps mistaking for Renly (it’s Gendry). She’s being taken to Lady Stoneheart.

“M’lady means to make you answer for your crimes.”

Ominous! Brienne is quite sensibly afraid. She asks after Pod and Ser Hyle, though she also thinks that Septon Meribald and his dog are there. That’s about the end of that bout with lucidity. Next up, she’s taken across a river. No Gendry, he’s gone back to the Inn to protect the children. A man in a yellow cloak and wearing the Hound’s helm threatens to kill Brienne.

Finally, Brienne dreams of her encounter with Ronnet Connington. Her father promises to bring her a rose, but Brienne needs a sword. She bites her own tongue off in her nervousness, spits it out to lie next to the useless rose, and as her dream suitor expresses his digust with her, Ronnet turns to Jaime.

The overarching themes of Brienne’s dreams here are sex and romance, violence, and failure. Each of Brienne’s dreams ends with her failing in some way - to win a fight, to protect Renly, to even speak. In several of her dreams, she’s missing her sword and wants it back. This particular bit I find particularly telling:

“He will bring a rose for you,” her father promised her, but a rose was no good, a rose could not keep her safe. It was a sword she wanted. Oathkeeper. I have to find the girl. I have to find his honour.

While it’s a sweet notion, it also makes me sad. The only person who can find Jaime’s honour is Jaime. It also shows us how Brienne has come to see her quest - not just for Catelyn, but for Jaime as well.It’s not hard to see how the recent events of Brienne’s life have resulted in this traumatic mishmash of images. I don’t think they’re prophetic in any way, just reflecting her own rather poor state of mind. She feels like she’s failed, and she feels helpless.

The Broken Brotherhood

The first sign that this is, for sure, the Brotherhood Without Banners again is the presence of this man:

One of the shadow men shoved the girl aside. He was clad in rusted rings and a studded belt. At his hip hung longsword and dirk. A yellow greatcoat was plastered to his shoulders, sodden and filthy. From his shoulders rose a steel dog’s head, its teeth bared in a snarl.

Lem Lemoncloak. Compare to his first good description in Arya II, ASoS, where his armour is steel but not rusty and his cloak is only worn and stained instead of absolutely filthy.

The fact that the Brotherhood Without Banners has been taken over by undead Catelyn Stark was the subject of the epilogue of ASoS. As GRRM does with the epilogues, though, that was a one-off PoV character who doesn’t survive his experience with perspective voice. It’s a reveal for the readers. This is the internal reveal to our surviving and continuing PoV characters. Not the big reveal yet. But part of it.

Lem says that they’ll be hanging Brienne, to which she protests that she should have been covered by guest right, back at the inn.

“Guest right don’t mean so much as it used to,” said the girl. “Not since m’lady came back from the wedding. Some o’ them swinging down by the river figured they was guests too.”

This is not the same band that was doing their best to protect the peasants of the Riverlands. This tells us that nothing is sacred in how this new Brotherhood pursues their revenge against the Freys and Lannisters. Brienne, being ill, conks out again and doesn’t wake up for a while.

She wakes up again in what’s basically a grave.

The air was cold and heavy, and smelled of earth and worms and mold. She was lying on a pallet beneath a mound of sheepskins, with rock above her head and roots poking through the walls. The only light came from a tallow candle, smoking in a pool of melted wax.

And if that wasn’t making the point enough:

The flickering light cast queer shadows. Shadows of the slain, she thought, dancing all about me, hiding when I turn to look at them. Everywhere she saw holes and cracks and crevices, but there was no way to know which passages led out, which would take her deeper into the cave, and which went nowhere. All were black as pitch.

Brienne’s not alone down here; there’s an “old grey man” in rags as well. He helpfully flags for Brienne that their current location is representative of the Brotherhood’s moral slide. The man checks Brienne’s fever (broken) and tells her the status of her face (badly scarred, once it heals). He was not the one who treated Brienne, though. That was the girl from earlier, Jeyne.

Brienne asks why she received treatment if they’re just planning to hang her. He tells her that it was Lem’s screw-up that made the fight at the inn necessary - Lem was baited into charging off after the Bloody Mummers, but the man considers that Lem should have known better. Then we get to the key question: who are these people?

“We were king’s men when we began,” the man told her, “but king’s men must have a king, and we have none. We were brothers too, but now our brotherhood is broken. I do not know who we are, if truth be told, nor where we might be going. I only know the road is dark. The fires have not shown me what lies at its end.”

I know where it ends. I have seen the corpses in the trees.

Then it clicks for Brienne. This is the Brotherhood Without Banners, and she’s speaking to Thoros of Myr. Who clearly has his doubts again. Beric Dondarrion is dead. The Brotherhood has a new leader, who Thoros describes as “grimmer”. He goes to get her some food.As in her dreams before, Brienne finds herself looking for a weapon. She finds none.

When Thoros returns, he does so with some pretty lousy food. No milk, no honey, which is absolutely representative of the stores of human kindness on offer. Thoros says so himself, when Brienne asks for Pod to receive pity. If kindness is not available, what about justice?

“Justice.” Thoros smiled wanly. “I remember justice. It had a pleasant taste. […] We were king’s men, knights, and heroes…but some knights are dark and full of terror, my lady. War makes monsters of us all.”

Ah, wordplay! Thoros sees how the cause of the Brotherhood has turned from justice to revenge, and frankly he preferred the justice. This moment here with Thoros is for the reader to reconcile the somewhat morally ambiguous band of Merry Men who tried to look after Arya, tried to give to the poor, and try to conduct trials with the people who’ve been hanging and hanging and hanging people throughout the Riverlands.

That’s when Thoros hears company arriving. Brienne half remembers them from her interludes of lucidity. Once again Lem Lemoncloak is the most noticeable figure. He took the Hound’s helm from Rorge’s corpse. Lem does not deny it when Brienne identifies him as “the Hound”. By taking up the helm, Lem becomes the man. With consequences:

“There is nothing good about that helm, nor the men who wore it,” said the red priest. “Sandor Clegane was a man in torment, and Rorge a beast in human skin.”

“I’m not them.”

“Then why show the world their face?”

Fear, basically. But literally, though, there are those in the Brotherhood who are becoming the evil they fought. Who’s going to be able to tell Lem Lemoncloak apart from the previous men who wore the Hound’s helm? Who’s going to be able to tell the Brotherhood Without Banners from the other groups terrorising the Riverlands, now that they’re not a brotherhood and they’re all out of kindness and justice?

Heart of Stone

Once Brienne is brought to the main cavern (to answer for what she’s done, leaving her rather confused as to what it is she’s supposed to have done), she gets her first look at Lady Stoneheart, recently returned from Fairmarket.

A trestle table had been set up across the cave, in a clef in the rock. Behind it sat a woman all in grey, cloaked and hooded. In her hands was a crown, a bronze circlet ringed by iron swords. She was studying it, her fingers stroking the blades as if to test their sharpness. Her eyes glimmered under her hood.

The readers know several things that Brienne does not, in this moment. The obvious one, that this is undead Catelyn. Then there’s the less obvious. This crown was last mentioned back in Jaime VI, in the possession of Ryman Frey (in point of fact, Jaime told Ryman that Ryman shouldn’t take the crown when he left the camp). Sure enough, in Jaime VII, we’ll learn that Stoneheart’s men ambushed Ryman Frey and company two leagues out of Fairmarket. This is Robb’s crown that Lady Stoneheart now has.

The accusations against Brienne are quickly made clear. Association with and loyalty to the Lannisters. The evidence for this? She was calling out for Jaime in her fevered state. Not great evidence. But then they bring out Oathkeeper. Valyrian steel. Though it’s noted that Lady Stoneheart is focusing only on the lion pommel. Plus the letter Jaime gave her, signed by Tommen, claiming that Brienne is about his business. Better evidence.

All Brienne has to counter that is the truth. Jaime Lannister, famously dishonourable, gave Brienne a Valyrian steel sword and sent her to find Sansa Stark to protect her. Actually protect her, not the ‘move her to Cersei’s dungeons pending trial’ protection. The problem is…

“Are we supposed to believe the Lannisters are handing out gold and ruby swords to foes? That the Kingslayer meant for you to hide [Sansa] from his own twin? I suppose the paper with the boy king’s seal was just in case you needed to wipe your arse.”

It’s frankly unbelieveable. Unbelieveable to anyone who wasn’t in Jaime’s PoV for the duration of ASoS. To make matters worse, Pod and Hyle are brought forth too, described as “the Imp’s own squire” and “one of Randyll Bloody Tarly’s bloody household knights” respectively. Brienne can see the way this is going and pleads for them to be left out of it.

At last Lady Stoneheart speaks. Not well. She needs a young northman (Harwin, not that Brienne knows his name) to translate her words. She asks the name of Brienne’s sword.

“Oathkeeper,” Brienne answered.

The woman in grey hissed through her fingers. Her eyes were two red pits burning in the shadows. She spoke again.

“No, she says. Call it Oathbreaker, she says. It was made for treachery and murder. She names it False Friend. Like you.”

Again, the reader knows something that Brienne does not. Some of the last words Catelyn Stark heard in life were Jaime Lannister sends his regards. What this looks like to Lady Stoneheart is that Jaime had a hand in arranging the Red Wedding, then bribed Brienne to go after Sansa as well.

In the meantime, Brienne is confused about why Lady Stoneheart is making such a personal accusation, and this at last prompts the reveal.

“Lady Catelyn?” Tears filled her eyes. “They said…they said that you were dead.”

“She is,” said Thoros of Myr. “The Freys slashed her throat from ear to ear. When we found her by the river she was three days dead. Harwin begged me to give her the kiss of life, but it had been too long. I would not do it, so Lord Beric put his lips to hers, and the flame of life passed from him to her. And…she rose. May the Lord of Light protect us. She rose.”

So the classic zombie look, really, but a zombie retaining Catelyn’s last traumatic memories and plenty of will. Brienne’s narration refers to her as “the thing that had been Catelyn Stark.” As Brienne is absolutely adamant that she never broke faith with Catelyn, Lady Stoneheart demands she prove it.

“What does she want of me?”

“She wants her son alive, or the men who killed him dead,” said the big man. “She wants to feed the crows, like they did at the Red Wedding. Freys and Boltons, aye. We’ll give her those, as many as she likes. What she asks from you is Jaime Lannister.”

Note the simplicity of this agenda. Lady Stoneheart wants the one impossible thing - her murdered son, not to have been murdered. Failing that, the next best thing is lots and lots of dead people. She wants to do the same thing to the Freys as the Freys did to her. There’s no suggestion of retaking land, or dealing with administration and supply. She just wants everyone even tangentially involved with her son’s murder dead.

This is all very well and good if we’re talking about your Walder Freys (any one of several options) or your Roose Boltons, but now we see Lady Stoneheart lashing out at Brienne, and Pod, and Hyle. Brienne’s situation looks bad, but the reader knows that she’s right when she says Jaime’s not the man he was. Pod’s backstory as revealed in Brienne’s own chapters show his lack of options. Even Hyle, who’s undoubtedly an asshole, is clearly not responsible for Catelyn’s suffering. This is why Thoros was bemoaning the general lack of justice he was seeing around the place.

Lady Stoneheart then offers Brienne a choice. Her own life for Jaime’s. The sword or the noose. Brienne refuses to pick. So Lady Stoneheart orders Brienne hanged. Hyle and Pod too. Brienne tries to bargain for Pod’s life, using the same ‘sapphires’ line Jaime tried, but Lem (now referred to in narration as ‘the Hound’) tells her he wants his wife and daughter back, and starts the hanging. Brienne is focused on Pod. Just Pod.

The chapter finishes with Brienne screaming a single word.

Chapter Function

This chapter is our first proper look at Lady Stoneheart, who’s as tragic as she is terrifying. GRRM’s used Brienne’s PoV well to get both these things across. While Jaime’s storyline necessarily deals with the effects of Lady Stoneheart’s actions, it’s Brienne’s that makes you feel for her victims. It’s also Brienne’s storyline that makes the reader feel for Catelyn herself, who was wronged and murdered and brought back to more pain.

This is the true emotional climax of Brienne’s AFFC arc. Not the fight. The choice. We’ve seen Brienne decide good and honourable things all throughout her storyline, but here she’s put in a situation where there is no good and honourable decision. Take the sword to kill Jaime, betray the trust of a man who saved her life. And, though Lady Stoneheart doesn’t believe it, betray the mission Catelyn gave her. Take the noose, and Pod hangs with her.

Sometimes there’s no way to keep every vow. Brienne has the best of intentions. We’ve seen her good character. But there’s just no good solution to this problem. It’s the point Jaime made, way back when. Brienne’s vows are less important than doing what’s right, and allowing Pod to hang when she could prevent it isn’t right.

Now to see how she handles Jaime. The climax of this AFFC arc lets us know how things will be progressing in TWoW, because now we need to know how Brienne’s going to handle the choice, while also knowing that Lady Stoneheart won’t be backing down from hers. More trouble for the Riverlands is ahead.

Miscellany

Thoros notes that Long Jeyne Heddle treated Brienne as well as a maester could. I doubt she’s had much formal training. Which means that what Jeyne learned, she learned from experience. There’s a nasty thought.

It’s worth thinking twice about Lady Stoneheart and the crown. While Catelyn believes that Arya, Bran, and Rickon are all dead, she has no idea where or whether they were buried. She knows for sure that Robb is dead, but again, it’s not clear where or whether he was buried - given the desecration of his corpse, and what happened to Catelyn’s own body, it doesn’t seem likely that he received a respectful funeral. The fact that Sansa’s vanished without a trace is rather important to Brienne’s storyline. This crown is all Catelyn has left of her children.

Clothing Porn

In her final dream sequence, Brienne wears a silk brocade gown with blue and red quarters and decorated with golden suns and silver moons. Out of dream flashback, she’s wearing a brown woolen shift. Thoros wears the remains of an old robe, red faded out to pink and white.

Food Porn

Onion broth. Cold, greasy stew. Hard bread and harder cheese.

Next Three Chapters

Jon VII, ACoK - Jon IX, ADWD - The Princess in the Tower, AFFC

#ASoIaF #valyrianscrolls #revisiting chapters #cw: violence #a feast for crows #brienne of tarth #catelyn stark

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drlauralwalsh · 3 years

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You and Your Grieving Parts

Do you ever think about your...parts? No, not those parts, you mischievous little spark plug! I mean inside your mind - the parts that get weird ideas, warn against danger, are mean to you, and tell you to engage in late-night food rituals. That last part might just be me. Seriously though, I’ve been doing some research into the parts of my mind. The idea that our minds have “parts” is not a new idea. Like right now, a part of me wants to keep writing to you and another part just wants to nap. Oh the drama inside! There is one theory that explains this and it has intrigued me since grad school: Internal Family Systems.

INTERNAL FAMILY SYSTEMS (IFS) THEORY

The IFS theory believes that the mind is made up of a number of sub-personalities or parts, each with their own set of beliefs, opinions, and responses, and that interact with each other. At the core is the Self, which has the ability to lead the parts but isn’t always up to the task. No single part is bad but like an orchestra, the parts can be in harmony or honk cacophonously like a flock of agitated geese.

Along with the core Self, IFS sorts the other parts into categories by function: Managers, Firefighters, and Exiles. Managers and Firefighters protect you from feeling the pain of the Exile parts. They have the same goals but use different strategies. Managers constrict and hold you back while Firefighters automatically react and let it rip.

MANAGERS

Manager parts proactively run the day to day operations of the system and are considered the most “acceptable” parts because they say very adult things and sound most like the core Self. They maintain balance within you through control. Managers parts are perfectionist, judgmental, self critical or people pleasing. They want to prevent humiliation and abandonment by keeping you busy, criticizing what you do, worrying, sabotaging connections, and generally being a control freak. They strongly believe in self sufficiency and are generally relentless, exacting, chastising and sometimes, anxious and depressed. They’re really good at giving you a false sense of security by telling you it’s doing it so you’ll look good to others. A typical Manager thought is, “You really should stop bothering people with your sob story.”

FIREFIGHTERS

Firefighters are your first responders. They automatically fly out the door to rescue you when something hits too close to home. They extinguish the fire of pain by smothering or creating a diversion. They attack “enemies” and get defensive in an effort to control or suffocate emotions. These are the parts that have anger issues, spending too much money, drink too much or use drugs, get obsessive or suicidal, self harm, or dissociate. They like to eat too much. binge watch TV and endlessly play video games for hours. They don’t give a crap about the goody-goody manager parts. Those weenies don’t know what it’s like to charge heroically into danger. Firefighters are really good at distracting you from upsetting, painful or overwhelming feelings. A typical Firefighter part thinks it’s better to rage than to show vulnerability - even in the privacy of your own head.

EXILES

As a psychologist, I get to see other people’s Exile parts more than the average person. I’ve developed such a knack for it that the Managers and Firefighters appear almost transparent. When I’m interacting with someone who’s leading with one of those parts, I can see through to the Exile it’s protecting. Just wish I could more reliably turn that super power on myself! Exiles are the younger parts that hold pain from the past. You compartmentalize and isolate them from the rest of the system for their safety and stability in the system. Because of their vulnerability, they also seem kind of dangerous. They’re the parts of you that are scared of being abandoned, get intimidated, experienced trauma, and feel a lot of shame. This is where the Big Four live - not good enough, too much, if you really knew me, and everyone leaves.

Exiles are desperate to tell their story but Managers pessimistically believe your pain is a burden to others. Firefighters flat out refuse to put you in danger of being hurt again. If a sad, little kid part of you revealed a disgusting longing for an authority figure’s approval during a job interview, a Firefighter part might change the subject while a Manager sabotages the rest of the meeting. Neo-exiles are the parts we hide within close relationships. Imagine a romantic partner or friend that gives you attention when you’re doing something nice but ignores your bids for reassurance. You’ll shut down the needy part of you to maintain the relationship. The message from that person you tell yourself is that only your good parts are acceptable.

THE CORE SELF

So far, we’ve been describing the orchestra - or if you’d prefer, the various departments of your business or the governmental branches of your personal nation. Let’s switch to the head of it all - the conductor, the CEO, the President, YOU. In the center of all of this is your core Self. It’s a beautiful place to be. It doesn’t need work because it’s already perfect. It spontaneously emerges when the air is clear and all is safe. It is the natural essence of who you are and is sheltered from damage or destruction by function of your parts.

You know you’re in your grounded center when you feel authentically chill. Some theories describe the Self by the 8 C’s:

Confident

Courageous

Creative

Clarity

Compassion

Calm

Curious

Connected

I know I’m in that place when nothing said or done can move me off my square. For instance, I am confident about my intelligence. If some bozo tried to lecture me about how I’m really a dummy, I might get a little irritated but he’s not going to shake my confidence. Now if the same bozo flicked some booger comment about something more vulnerable, that might temporarily knock me off-center. Note: my own managers and firefighters have censored me from revealing said vulnerability for my own protection.

WORST CASE SCENARIO

Your personal configuration and manifestation of parts was constructed to deal with your worst case scenario to date. Since we have different histories and experiences, each set of parts is like a fingerprint of the individual. While I’m currently working hard to lead with my core Self, recent events (i.e. the death of my wife) have thrown the system into a reorg process. All previous worst case scenarios were blown out of the water and my mind’s company is frantically looking for new hires in two main departments. I thought I’d give you a peek into the frenetic remodeling of my inner Self as the parts run around with their pants on fire.

Exile: [Can’t speak and just cries endlessly into the void.]

Firefighter: “Oh shit! Their wedding song started playing overhead at the grocery store!”

Manager: “It’s fine. Everything is fine. Close your ears, stop being a baby and don’t think about it.”

Exile: “But I can’t stop thinking!” [Stops responding as snot clogs up nose.]

Firefighter: “Leave the store! Leave your groceries where you are!”

Exile: [Blows nose, hides in deserted health food aisle.]

Manager: “Someone could have seen you out there. Now go check out and remember to smile at the clerk.”

Firefighter: “I think it’s a great time to call it a day and watch more episodes of Designing Women.”

These parts are obviously clueless as to what to do with this newly emerged and devastatingly sad grief Exile. She’s a little girl part of me that either pitifully weeps or gets hulk-smash rageful. She isn’t a new part; she’s come out of semi-retirement to hold my overwhelming grief. She believes that everyone will leave her and she’s left on her own to figure everything out. She thinks things like, “Why don’t people notice how sad I am???” She doesn’t know a Firefighter distracts her from feeling with a stupid magic trick while a Manager runs around pulling the curtains around her so no one sees. All the parts are trying to help but the animals are loose at the circus. Though the Exile doesn’t know it, she’s waiting for my core Self to step in and corral the monkeys. My Self knows what to do if I can only find and access it. Stepping from the shadows, my centered Self brings a soothing presence that stops the commotion and quiets the protectors. Here’s an example:

Manager: “You should shower and do a little cleaning. This place is a mess!”

Firefighter: “Honestly, I think eating a little cookie butter will make things better.”

Exile: “[Sobbing] Things are never going to get better! I don’t want them to get better!”

Firefighter: “I know! Let’s listen to Rage Against the Machine really loud in the kitchen!”

Manager: “Fine, don’t shower even though you stink. Don’t change clothes either. It’s not like anyone sees you anyway.”

Firefighter: “Uhhh, isn’t that friend coming over tonight?”

Manager: “Oh yeah! He’ll certainly notice those dishes that have been in the sink for 3 days. Just sayin’...”

Exile: “Oh no! [Hangs head in shame] People will find out how horribly disgusting I am because I haven’t run the dishwasher or broken down and recycled the Amazon boxes.”

Firefighter: “Just throw everything in the backyard!!!”

Manager: “Stack up all the piles neatly so it looks like you wanted them there on purpose.”

SELF: “Alright, let’s think about this. What if you broke down the boxes right now, put them outside, rinse the dishes, and filled the dishwasher all while listening to Rage Against the Machine?”

Manager: “That’s not enough but okay, fine.”

Firefighter: “Great ideas as always. I’m going to rest up for the next emergency.”

Exile: “Thank you for listening to me. I feel a little better and I think we can do this.”

SELF: “Great. Afterwards, everyone can take a break and zone out in front of the TV. Now put on that music and let’s get to work.”

WHO’S IN CHARGE?

As long as there’s no one in charge, your mind is a confusing and chaotic miasma of competing needs. Ideally, the Self steps up and takes over negotiation between the parts and directs the next steps. However, sometimes a part fills in the leadership role. You know you’re leading with a Manager when you feel buttoned up, intellectually sharp and emotionally numbed out. Leading with a Firefighter part feels like a continual state of irritability and agitation and keeps you ‘at the ready’ to react to danger. Exiles are rarely in charge because they’re really bad at it. They collapse the system and insist on activities like staying in bed all day.

WORKING WITH YOUR SYSTEM

As with most life problems, the first step is awareness. You’ve got to get to know your parts - their personalities, beliefs, and functions - before trying to intervene in their conflicts. Like I said before, there are no bad parts - just competing beliefs and strategies. A given part feels strongly that it’s right, sees it how it really is and knows the truth. Every thought or feeling originating from a part is trying to help you out, even if it doesn’t seem that way. The part of me that says no one wants to be around me is actually trying to protect me from rejection and abandonment. Unchallenged, that part will keep me from connecting to supportive people.

OBSERVING AND IDENTIFYING PARTS

It may be difficult to put your finger on and capture a particular part. When you’re ready, there’s a few ways to access them. Start by being curious and non-judgmental. Think of your centered self as just a researcher interested in data collection. Reassure yourself that nothing has to change as you’re presently in observation mode.

Take your emotional temperature by asking yourself how you feel right now. Ask to see what emotions are already present and how or where your body feels with that emotion. Observe those messages that are on repeat in your mind. Alternatively, you can access an upsetting memory from the past and examine it. Ask yourself, what exactly was upsetting about what happened? Did you feel afraid, sad, anxious, angry or something else? How did you react and what did you do? Did you rage, freeze, numb, avoid, or try to smooth it over? These questions will reveal clues to what was exiled and what managers and/or firefighters protected you. If at any time your brain says, “I don’t know,” consider that another protector part and explore accordingly.

STAYING CENTERED

Once you’ve got a handful of observations, pick out one voice and interview it. More than likely, you’ll be talking to a protector - probably a manager. Getting it talking by asking what it believes and it’s job in the system. Ask how old it is and what it looks like. A voice that says. “This isn’t fair,” may believe you get dumped on more than most and thinks the job is to protest on your behalf. It may show up as a finger wagging old man who suggests that something must be wrong with you because this keeps happening. What’s protective about this voice? What kind of Exile is it defending? Be gentle with digging down to the Exiled little kid part underneath. Kids are delicate and need protecting. If you find yourself continuing to have strong emotions or becoming reactive, you’ve likely run into another manager or firefighter. Interview and explore this part before moving deeper. We can’t access, validate and utilize the burdened exiles without honoring how the system set itself up to protect us.

Once you’re working with a particular part, another angle is to check back in with your calm and centered Self. What do you understand about the part? What do you think is going on? Can you find empathy and appreciation for the part? Even our nastiest parts work really hard on our behalf. A critical voice is mean but its heart is in the right place. An obsessive or addictive part is trying to soothe the system in the best and only ways it knows so far.

TRUSTING RELATIONSHIPS

Getting to know your parts is the process of creating trusting relationships between them and the Self. This is the next step in the process of converting your protectors and split-off exiles into your allies. Think about how trust is built with other people: consistent interactions, listening to and honoring what’s said, believing their words are important - even when you don’t understand. That’s exactly how we build rapport with the different parts of ourselves. It may be scary or unpleasant to get close to your inner critic or the tightly-wound explosive rage but it’s a vital step. Like a good CEO or President, once your core Self begins to get everyone on board, it’s easier to know what to do when life throws you the next curveball.

I’ve got a story for you from back when my wife was still alive. I left to go grocery shopping but stopped in at the craft store to shop for just myself. This nagging little voice kept popping up but I successfully shoved it back down at the craft store. Entering the grocery store a short time later, I could no longer ignore a little girl voice on repeat: “She’s going to be mad at you!” Sighing, I got centered and engaged it. Here’s how the conversation went:

Little Girl: “She’s going to be mad at you!”

SELF: “Okay, well, we can handle that. Why will she be mad at me?”

Little Girl: “Because you took too much time at the craft store.”

SELF: “Why is that a big deal to you? What are you feeling?”

Little Girl: “I’m worried she’ll be mad and call you selfish because you took time for yourself.”

SELF: “Okay, well if that happens, I’ll take care of it. You don’t have to explain it to her. I don’t think she’ll actually be mad but if she is, I’ll be in charge. How does that sound?”

Little Girl: “I’m still worried but I’ll try it your way.”

SELF: “Great. Thank you for trusting me. No matter what, it will be okay.”

This is the actual transcription of me engaging with a worried part. For the record, it’s not grounded in current reality. Naturally, Patty would be concerned if I hadn’t returned from shopping if it had been a few hours but she wouldn’t be mad. I already had a relationship with this part - the Little Girl. She’s about 5 or 6 and feels too small and powerless to change things in the world. She’s used to being dismissed and pulls at my sleeve to warn me about all the monsters lurking in the shadows. She’s protected by another part - my rebellious teenager. If I’m not gentle with the Little Girl, the Rebel leaps to her defense and commandeer the entire system. The Rebel says things like, “Oh no, you fucking didn’t just do that! I’ll show you!” and promptly turns off all inhibition and motivation and steers us back to the craft store to buy $100 worth of crap. I’ve learned my lesson - listen to and trust the Little Girl, or else it’ll cost me.

YOUR PARTS IN GRIEF

I’m still getting to know and lead the parts of me as they grieve. As with outside life, my internal life was thrown into disarray after Patty died. I had all the parts nicely organized, productive, and had good working relationships with all. Death took my puny little shoebox diorama on the inside of my mind and… shook it up really hard. I was so proud of my hand painted little figurines, all precisely glued in their rightful places. A manager most assuredly came up with that idea. Now, there’s a part of me that just wants to toss the whole thing and another part that’s picking up each piece, crying over its brokenness.

All I can do is be patient with myself for now as I sort through the pieces in the shoebox. I tried throwing it out but it just reappeared. I’m working on getting the lay of the land. I’m doing my best to accept and soothe the broken parts - even as they overreact, judge me for not keeping things cleaner, numb out with cookie butter, and cry at the grocery store. We are trudging down the road right now but when I get to know everyone again, I’ll call a meeting and figure out what’s next.

#grief #parts #Internal Family Systems #mind

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paullicino · 3 years

Text

On the Internet

Taken from, and thus generously funded by, my Patreon. The above image via ExtraFabulousComics.

Do you have a flashlight nearby? A lamp, or other light source? Keep it to hand, it might become relevant for something, something I’d like to demonstrate later. The demonstration is simple and entirely voluntary, the flashlight is not essential. It works just as well as a thought experiment in your head.

Meanwhile, I’m going to write about the internet on the internet. Because that’s what we all do these days, isn’t it?

---

I still remember the excitement of our first explorations online. It was a kind of hidden, secret space of unknown dimensions when we found it as young adults. A weird sort of Narnia. A modem meant you could open this door to an entirely different place full of entirely different people obeying entirely different rules. You had to find ways of telling one another about what you’d found this week, either the next time you were together in person, via an email or, God forbid, by printing out a webpage. Twenty-five years ago, the internet was a collection of imperfect search engines (crawlers) taking you to out-of-the-way websites that were as likely to have been made by someone just like you as they were to belong to some major company or organisation. Its mess was egalitarian. It was a decentralised place full of curious corners and sudden surprises. It wasn’t somewhere we logged on to with an expectation of finding the familiar. It was a place of discovery.

It wasn’t simply that the tech wasn’t as good as it is nowadays. That much is obvious. It was the fumbling newness of the place. It was a primordial soup, we were all blobs and we blobbed around together, testing out the water.

It was a tremendously international space. It was easy to stumble across websites in other languages, to find places that weren’t for you, that were never created with you in mind, and at the very edges of these places their owners and their users might just blend together. Spill over, even. Everyone was from everywhere and they were all mingling, uncontrolled. It was liberating. It was mind-expanding.

The internet was exciting, it was new, it was unfamiliar. It was a place to learn. It was a place without an agenda.

It was also a place to be different. Niche interests found their audiences and young people could be united by what they enjoyed, not marginalised. There was no need to fit in when the place didn’t even fit together properly. For those of us bullied, bored, or worse in tiny homogenous hometowns, isolated or upset by the toxic social dynamics and popularity contests that school can create, it offered little judgement about what you should want or who you should be. It was a place to be genuine.

I still remember the end of the 1990s, too. It was a decade of growth and change not just for a young generation, but for the wider world we were learning about. There was a peace deal in Northern Ireland, there was optimism in the media and there was a coming millennium that was supposed to be defined by technology and communication, the internet at its forefront. I was not a young man who could identify with very much of this optimism, but I was at least a young man looking forward to change, who could be accepted as who I was on the internet and who could be excited about what it represented. I’d never tried to be anyone else, even though being different rarely works out when you’re young, but now I knew for sure that I didn’t need to.

As my friends and I grew, so did the internet, and it became a place where we could share more about ourselves, where we could play together and where we found a bunch of ways of keeping in touch whenever we were apart. It became a tool to help me work, that kickstarted my career as a writer, as well as an ever-widening window on the world. It wasn’t yet too corporate, its websites and its tools not yet too monolithic.

I remember some of that early sharing. I remember talking to total strangers, a world away, about some part of my life or theirs. I remember talking to one internet friend of many years, who I never met, about British and American spelling. And about spelling in general. I remember they told me they weren’t sure how to spell a particular word and I said they could look it up in but a moment, since they were online there and then. “I can’t be bothered,” they replied, and that frustrated me so much.

The 90s passed and on September 11th 2001 whatever vision there was for the coming century was erased. The course of world events shifted immediately and dramatically. Never before had mass murder been so visible and so immediate. I remember talking not about how different the world was going to be, but that we had no idea how big a difference this would even make. In a very short space of time, it felt as if the world became not only so much more cruel and so much more cynical, but also so much more divided. I remember the weeks and months after those terror attacks as being my first experience of seeing people sharply divided in their politics, divided enough to be extremely angry, extremely offended, by the many suggestions of what should be done next. It set the scene.

As the decade continued, technology and communication certainly did change us. More of us were using the internet not only to talk, but for more and more of our everyday tasks. We were also sharing ourselves, too, in ways more personal and profound, and there was so much to know. I read a blog post by a Black woman from the American South describing the ways she had to bring up her son to interact with the wider world, how angry he was about it, how unfair it all was. I read updates from those caught in the civil war in Myanmar, talking about what they claimed the news didn’t show. I read about the realities of the rapid growth in Dubai, the working conditions and pollution. I read diary entries by people surviving the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, weeks without power and wondering when help would come. I read about the world in a way I’d never been able to before.

More than ever, the internet was a library of lives.

The first trip overseas I took by myself was all planned, booked and executed with the help of the internet. I flew to Chicago, in the United States, and I stayed in the most average hotel in the most average neighbourhood and it was wonderful. I heard real cicadas for the first time and walked through concrete valleys between towering skyscrapers that my tiny mind couldn’t process. In the evenings, I watched a plethora of American news, which was only ever about America, and that frustrated me so much.

The first interview I ever conducted with someone who wasn’t making a video game was with the writer Mil Millington. The interviews I really wanted to do were about people, their experiences, what they liked and why they do the things they do. Mil Millington was the perfect subject because we had both written about games, we both understood the reach of the internet and we were both interested in what the future of this medium would be. He had recently scored a book deal and written his first novel, Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About, based on his semi-autobiographical, tongue-in-cheek blog of the same name, listing comic domestic disagreements. I asked him what it was like to share all of his personal life online and he told me that, actually, he didn’t:

“I'm, honestly, almost obsessively private. It's just the way I write that, for some reason, if I say, 'Margret won't let me watch a film in peace,' causes people to think, 'My God! Mil's laying his whole life bare!'”

And then I realised that he had, of course, chosen to share all the things that he had. And carefully. It didn’t mean that those things were less honest, less real or less interesting, but he had been doing what all of us writers do: picking his words and his moments. We should all get to share on our own terms.

I liked his honesty. He wasn’t trying to prop up any persona.

---

A little after this time, I was asked on a date by a conservative American woman who I met in my first year at university in London. We saw each other a few times and stayed in touch when she returned to California. A couple of years later, the American Vice Presidential candidate Sarah Palin spoke about “death panels” run by Britain’s National Health Service. Online, I expressed my annoyance and anger both at Palin just making things up, as well as at the volume of people who seemed to simply accept her words. My former date said that Palin was allowed to “express her opinion” and I didn’t know how to begin to explain, to an adult in her mid 20s, the difference between fact and opinion, or that she could check such things in a moment, since she was online. That frustrated me so much.

This discussion played out over a relatively new website called Facebook, which had become an invaluable way to connect with my fellow students. I had feared being alone at university, lost in a big city, but the opposite had happened. As soon as we all finished our first year of studies and were hurried out of our student residences, we scattered across the capital and the closeness I had taken for granted was suddenly lost. But Facebook became a directory of friendship, another library of lives. In its early days, I made jokes about people oversharing, or using the site to attract attention, but this wasn’t any different to how some of us might behave anywhere else. It wasn’t such a big deal. That’s just humans.

And anyway, I like to share. My whole life, I’ve enjoyed sharing things I think are important because I feel like it helps me make genuine connections, express myself and feel useful. I saw the internet becoming another way of doing this, another way to be genuine. The younger me had played in bands and held dreams of reaching other people through music, in awe of those moments when an audience sings an artist’s lyrics back to them. I still wanted that, that connection, or some version of it.

On the ever-growing internet, we could all share ourselves more. It could become a new medium for acceptance and understanding. What a glorious future it promised.

---

In time, I adopted all of the social media platforms that I use because I enjoy human connection and I think one of the fundamental traits of people is that they can be so interesting. They do stuff, they make things, they go places, they inspire and they pull humour out of the most difficult of situations like a conjurer tugging an elephant from a beanie. I’d like to be able to do those things. Some days I can barely make a pancake.

Social media allowed me to make and share even more, and now I was sharing things with two people at dinner, ten people at a party or a hundred people online. The number mattered less than the creation’s ability to connect, because it all helped me figure people out and it helped me figure myself out. It helped me figure everything out so that, perhaps one day, I might also learn the trick that lets you tug an elephant out of a beanie. I would be able to say to people “Ah yes, you start with the trunk,” or “Surprisingly, you pull from the tail.” Then they could pass that on. Social media seemed particularly good for this, a way for us to all enrich one another.

In 2008, a series of devastating terrorist attacks erupted across Mumbai. Many of the events were documented in real-time by both journalists and locals using Twitter, which made the site seem to me to be an invaluable new perspective on current events. By the start of the next decade, the Arab Spring saw a broad uprising across North Africa, with thousands of people united in protest by the unifying power of social media. It felt like these tools could change our world forever.

Some other things happened as that decade wound down.

A woman on Twitter made a poor joke about AIDS and Africa before boarding a flight, only to find that, by the time she had landed, her words had been shared around the world many millions of times. A woman in England was caught on camera putting a cat in a bin, the footage of which went viral and received such an overwhelmingly furious reaction that one national newspaper asked, only half-joking, if she was the most evil woman in Britain. These events were shared, discussed and dissected with a comparable passion and level of investment as the terrorist attacks and the Arab Spring. On the internet, a cat in a bin was becoming as important as terrorists in a hotel.

I flexed some cynical opinions. We all had opinions by then (though still not the same as facts), because it was increasingly difficult not to get swept up in things like these as and when they happened. They were everywhere, echoed and repeated, with a kind of mentality of momentum. Countless people changed their profile pictures to something green in support of protesters in Iran, or added a flag to support victims of terror in France. They signed internet petitions demanding Something Be Done, though it wasn’t always clear where these petitions would be delivered or how they would compel someone to act. None of these protesters or victims were in any way saved, protected or enabled by a person on the other side of the planet clicking their mouse like this, but if a million other people did it, those metrics created a validity of their own.

I think I remember the late 2000s as the time that I really began to feel different about these things. But by then, I was too bought in. It had already gone from a habit to a dependency.

Year by year, the internet had become less egalitarian. Monolithic sites and spaces were increasingly the center of the experience, whether hubs like MSN and Yahoo, social media sites like Facebook or Twitter, or popular news outlets. We found ourselves in the same places, over and over, and we relied on these for our new discoveries. While social media in particular pitched itself as something that put us all on the same level, behind the scenes levers were already being pulled to shape and to manipulate what was shown and shared.

(That’s okay, people told me. Turn on this feature, or adjust these options, and you get to pull your own levers. That’ll undo everything. You still get to share on your own terms.)

These sites had swelled to envelop us, going from making themselves exciting to making themselves essential. We no longer went online, we were online, always, and we left more and more of ourselves there even when we were away from our screens. Social media allowed you to collect everything together, becoming a place where you could simultaneously read updates from your friends, your parents, Leonardo Di Caprio, the Prime Minister, your favourite newspaper and your favourite sports team. All in a moment and all competing for your attention. Sites like Google and YouTube started to track and understand the preferences of their users, delivering to them more of what they wanted, working hard to grab and to keep their attention. You liked that dog, that topic, that politician? Here’s another.

Here’s another, again.

I was pulling levers all the time, frantically now, like someone operating locks and gates to try and dam an ever more overwhelming flow. My social media sites had changed from something that I used to something I had to manage. Not only were we all carefully curating who we broadcast to and when, lest we offend an employer or shock a relative, we also found ourselves trying to coordinate and customise them, because if we didn’t they would do this for us. They began to choose what to show us, based on what they believed we cared about, they began to offer us things, based on who they believed we were. They even began to mess with time, giving us information and updates out of chronological order. All of these were changes we often had to undo or at least be mindful of, if we even knew about them. If we wanted to. And if we knew how.

If we didn’t, our reality might shift.

---

I still remember the excitement of our first explorations online. My first favourite website was Snopes, which was then a collection of myths and urban legends, most of them debunked. In the late 90s, bullshit chainletter emails would bounce around the internet with stories about how some Russian scientists had drilled their way to hell, or how a new computer virus had come out, or how Coca Cola dissolved human teeth. Sometimes, the strangest of stories really were true, or at least partially so, but most of them were trash. Thanks to Snopes, you could check such things in a moment. I loved that about the internet.

On September 11th 2001, almost twenty years ago now, it was difficult to disagree about what we saw happening right in front of our eyes. Nevertheless, there were a few people afterward who insisted that a plane had not hit the Pentagon, that the towers had been deliberately demolished, that some more mysterious sequence of events had transpired. They lurked in the darkest corners of the internet, much as they had always existed on any other margins in any other mediums. The rest of us could get on with our lives.

I grew up playing games and then, later, I became someone who analysed, critiqued and even designed them. One of the most powerful and important things I learned through games is that so much in life is based around systems and the longer a system is around for, the better we become at manipulating it. When a game has been around for a long time, we find many different ways to play it and sometimes we have to adjust the rules of the game to account for this. The rules for chess that we have today have seen many adjustments and revisions. The same is true for football. It is also true for our laws and for our systems of government. We have to modify these things in part because times change, but also in part because they are being abused and exploited, subverted in ways their designers never imagined.

Or simply used as optimally as possible.

It’s 2021 and the internet monoliths that we have begun to take for granted, that have surged like the rising oceans to engulf our lives and to carry us along their currents, are constantly being used in ways their designers never imagined. Two years ago, we thought the biggest problem we had with social media and internet monoliths was their subversion to manipulate elections, with great armies of bots and fake profiles being created and directed faster than the people who owned social media sites being able to prevent this. This presence could bring amplification and validity to anyone or to anything. “Learn the algorithm,” was the key to success online. Use a site or social media platform in a particular way and it will elevate you further. Elevate your work. Or your truth. Or just you.

Now, more than a year and a half into a pandemic that defines our generation, the areas of the internet with which we’ve become most familiar and most comfortable, those which we began to pour our lives and identity into, are not only places where elections were subverted, they’re places where the difference between life and death are considered a matter of opinion, where science and fact can be openly ridiculed, where conspiracies about September 11th are tiny in comparison. For some time now they’ve already been well-worn battlefields, public arenas within which opinion and force of will often carry more weight than evidence and reason, but now the consequences of doubling down on a belief are undeniably the difference between living and dying.

More important, for some people, is the difference between right and wrong. Not so much being right, but being seen being right, can give you validity, clout, value. I think we’ve reached the point where dying while being seen as right can matter more than living and admitting a mistake.

The flow of the internet, all those locks and gates opened by algorithms or AI or other people’s decisions that may simply have been motivated by a desire to give us what we like, have made it more difficult than ever to find things that go against the current, or to grasp something we can be sure is objective or straightforward.

One part of me believes that we can no longer look things up in a moment any more, because we have to second-guess every other thing we find. As a journalist and researcher, I never feel secure with what I find on the internet now and I dig, I verify and I compare, still coming away unsure, often worried I will publish something glaringly incorrect. A different part of me, a more dramatic part, sometimes wonders which things are even real.

I suppose anything is real if you can get away with it. If nobody ever notices.

---

There’s another aspect to all this, the aspect that makes me the most uncomfortable. The aspect I least enjoy discussing, but which I have to if I can fully explain myself.

Living alongside the internet, I’ve watched as some of us pull all those levers simply to control the flow as best we can, to keep ourselves afloat, but others have viewed this experience differently. They’ve seen it as a challenge, as another system they can manipulate. It’s an opportunity for them to choose how they present themselves. The more levers they pull, the greater their ability to do so. The more time they invest, the greater the result.

If you take your flashlight, lamp or light source and point it toward an object, you can easily affect the size and the shape of the shadows it will cast. Under your control, those shadows can lengthen or deepen, they can sweep and distort. A light up close can cast a gigantic shadow across a far wall, perhaps a sharp one or perhaps one fuzzy and undefined. Try it. See what you can make. The more you do it, the more tricks you can learn.

All of us try to present our best selves and all of us have our different selves, too. Forty years before I ever went online, the sociologist Erving Goffman published The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, a book about how we behave differently in different contexts. It’s natural for us to speak to our family in a different way to how we speak to our best friend, or to our colleagues, or to a crowd we might be addressing in a speech. It’s not necessarily disingenuous, it’s merely a part of the human experience. But impression management, as Goffman called it, is also a matter of degrees. Some people are more invested than others. If given the tools to perform more effective impression management, more levers they can pull, they will engage even further.

I have flexed a few cynical opinions in my life (at least as many as three, the stats suggest) but, at the same time, I think I have to admit that I have also been very naïve about people. I tend to take many of them on face value and assume they are genuine. Many of us are, perhaps even most of us. But I’ve come to know both that this isn’t always the case and that, given the opportunity, some people will use every tool at their disposal to shape a false version of themselves. We’ve found ourselves in an era where this is more possible than ever. It’s no longer simply within the purview of politicians and PR firms, it’s within reach of every one of us and all we need to do is put in the time and energy. The reward can be ever greater popularity, ever more validation

And I’m so tired of seeing this.

Over the past half decade or so, I have seen the internet and its many systems gamed more than ever. Gamed for political gain, gamed for personal gain and gamed to create images, personalities and that god-awful golem of hollow and lifeless artifice that is brand. Now a person can be a product, a new kind of commodity in this ever more opaque ecosystem.

The nausea and unhappiness I feel from all this is more than the simple declaration that I’m not a brand, I’m a person. It’s the discovery that other people, sometimes people I’ve known, really are a brand now. Their time, their energy, their life is now invested in shaping and maintaining that image, that brand, perhaps even at the expense of other pursuits. And with the right manipulations, the right tugging of the correct levers, they can perpetuate that, build that and further gain the affirmations and validations they need to prove to themselves that what they have created is as solid and as true and as real as anything else. And how would we know any different?

The ocean is not so far from my home. It’s not unusual to walk the beach or the seawall and see people engaged in impromptu photoshoots, dressed in their very best, expertly presented and shot with long lenses. A friend told me that most of these shoots are for the purpose of enriching dating profiles, that there’s an increasing feeling of expectation, a sense that everyone must present their very best selves, simply because everyone else now does so. To be on a dating site is to feel engaged in an ever-escalating competition for time and attention, to need to package oneself as the best possible product.

I don’t at all object to the idea of dating sites, but I could never get comfortable with them and I used to feel like I was browsing a human meat market, that it was all too easy for me to make judgements about people I didn’t know and then cast them aside. I felt, again, like people had become products and this was a system and a process I did not want to be part of. You can game it, people tried to tell me. There are ways to make it work better for you, it just takes a little time. I didn’t want to know.

The more time you spend trying to engage with things that aren’t genuine, the less you have for what is real.

When I use the internet these days it’s with an increasing sense of discomfort and disquiet. I find myself already on the lookout for the artificial. I second-guess people as much as I do information. I’m all too aware of the constructed persona and the deliberate framing, of that angling of a light to cast a particular shadow. In a few cases, this isn’t an abstract concern and social media in particular can be a place where I watch people I know are starkly different to the image they project be celebrated for the false façade they maintain, a façade that can be further reinforced by popularity and prominence. I see harmful and unhealthy people championed even in spite of their actions, because they have managed to engineer support and validation, or using the popularity and affirmation they have gained to push opinion over fact. The disingenuous and the distorted tie together like a greasy braid, each one reinforcing the other, and it’s no wonder falsehoods can spread so far, whether false representations or false information. I would say that sometimes I almost feel like I’m back at school, amongst the same gossip and garbage, but this is far worse than any of the toxic social dynamics and popularity contests that school ever created, and now it comes with measurable metrics in the form of likes, follows, retweets or subscriptions.

I’m sure, at this point, this is a common experience and common concern for most of us, and we are each finding our own ways to handle it.

Or not. For me, the experience is deeply unpleasant.

While drafting this I idly wondered if we could somehow develop a new version of Snopes for human beings. A demystifier of people, something that reveals each person’s private Picture of Dorian Gray, which grows ever more warped as they reinforce their persona ever more. But I’m sure even that would be gamed and subverted before too long.

I'm so, so tired of trying to work out who is real.

---

The internet monoliths I move between in my daily life all have one thing in common. Google, Twitch, Twitter, Instagram, YouTube, Tumblr, Facebook, Patreon and so many others are all based in the same place: the United States. They are towering. They overwhelm the rest of the internet. The levers that many of these pull, controlling currents and flow, are being operated in the United States. The politics, existential crises and cultural interests of that country are disproportionately represented and, while I care very much about the United States, I also want to hear about the rest of the world. I want to hear about where I live, and yet even that feels like it comes second. Yes, I am pulling all the levers that are supposed to make this happen. No, it isn’t entirely successful. I am using a paddle against a tsunami.

Once the bias is there, the snowball effect perpetuates. So often, whether I choose to or not, I am in that motel room watching a plethora of American news again, or its modern equivalent. It frustrates me so much. Most of us Westerners essentially live in America some of the time now, if we spend any period online. That’s where our presence and our attention are pointed.

Before publishing this essay, I changed every mention of “torch” to “flashlight” because I felt I had to cater to an internet that sees the first word only as a burning chunk of wood, not as a British battery-powered light source.

The internet doesn’t feel like the world any more. It hasn’t for a long time.

---

I can’t abandon the internet of today. I need it for work. I need it to promote the things I create. I need it to keep in touch with people. I’m not different or special, only someone too bought in as well, my use also going from a habit to a dependency. But it has almost entirely stopped being a place of delight and discovery. It has lost any sense of being egalitarian. So much less is new, so much less is unfamiliar. So much more has an agenda.

Algorithms, metrics and social media have quantified and gamified everything, encouraging competitiveness and narcissism. Public spaces have become arenas and arenas encourage performance. In an attention economy, the outrageous and the overblown mean a cat in a bin can have the same profile and presence as terrorists in a hotel. In spaces that now mix our friends, our parents, Leonardo Di Caprio, the Prime Minister, our favourite newspapers and our favourite sports teams, people we know and love are elevated or relegated according to how interesting an algorithm has decided they are, pushing them to the fore or pulling them from your view. “People on Twitter are the first to know,” says the social network that prides itself on immediacy more than integrity or fact-checking. Misinformation abounds. As the line between person and brand has smudged between all recognition, corporations insert themselves into and between everything else we try to examine. Surrounded by banner ads, the conflicts of polarised culture generate enormous revenue for monolithic American tech companies. As we fight, push our narratives, construct our personas or compete in the race to prove we are the most woke, we all make @Jack richer, or provide Zuck with more of our personal data.

I also find myself reminded of what Octavia Butler called “simple peck-order bullying,” the hierarchical behaviour where people want to, and now can, elevate themselves above others, according to identities they've built for themselves, to push their ideas, push their image, push their sense of superiority or push their opinions so hard that they can reshape them into facts. Anything is possible with enough pulling of enough levers. And now more people have more of those levers. And some of them love to pull and then push, pull and then push.

I don’t like what the internet has turned into, nor what it has turned people into.

So what now?

---

This was an essay inspired by an essay, inspired by an essay, which is always how it goes. Creativity is theft and anyone who says otherwise is only trying to distract you as they secretly shake you down. The eternal question that writers (or anyone creative) is supposed to dread is “Where do you get your ideas?” Because we aren’t supposed to know. But we do know. We get them from everyone else. We thieve them.

Ideas are pickpocketed from the people we pass in twisting evening alleyways, during the briefest moments of darkness and distraction. They’re caught with nets as they flutter with all the freedom of sweet springtime naivete. They’re spied upon from tremendous distances through the jealous lenses of sparkling telescopes. Nothing is truly ours and anyone wringing their words into a desperate defence of some unique capacity for originality ex nihilo is either deceptive or deluded.

(Avoid them. You’re likely their next target.)

This essay was heavily inspired by Lucy Bellwood reflecting on Nicole Brinkley. Both have written nuanced examinations of social media (focusing on Twitter) that I think you should make the time to read, but I’ll try and sum up the main thing I have taken from their writing in one line:

Social media is extremely bad, in a multitude of ways and for many complex reasons, and it is okay to leave it.

This is in so small part my interpretation, coloured by a particular belief I hold, that being that social media is extremely bad, in a multitude of ways and for many complex reasons, and it is okay to leave it. You can probably see why I approve.

There’s more to it than that. Brinkley talks about Twitter essentially breaking the way the Young Adult literature scene works, which to me is one facet of a dangerously seductive diamond that repeats many different stories of damage done by how we’ve used and gamed the internet. Her wonderful conclusion is that “These days it’s okay to not be sure what Twitter is for. We can stop going there until we figure it out.” And I so desperately wish I could stop going on the internet until I could figure out what it is for now, too. I wish it wasn’t essential. But it is, broken as it may be, breaking things as it may be.

While I don’t think leaving it is an option for me, I am using so much of it less. I have to. Social media, a place where I am shown arguments and controversy over the lives of people I care about, has become somewhere for me to hurriedly hurl out a quick update or two before I flee, escaping before I come across something, or even someone, that will make me sad. Any search box is a cause for scepticism, prompting me to analyse the results it gives and try a dozen different ways to find the same thing, just in case. Even Snopes is now a running commentary on the (American) news cycle. The best I can do whenever I think something fundamental to our society is unhealthy is to participate in that thing as little as possible. I know this limits my reach, limits my relevance and limits my success, but I also know that this makes me less unhappy and allows me to continue to feel genuine. Like I am still myself. Like I am still real. It may be apparent that my mental health has taken a few hits over the last couple of years. It doesn’t need to take any more.

I am not only unsure what Twitter is for, I am unsure what the whole internet is for.

---

There is no conclusion to this essay. It is supposed to be six thousand words of open-ended reflection. The past year or so has sometimes been a huge struggle for me and it really is true that some days I can barely make a pancake. Work has been difficult, writing has been difficult and maintaining regular Patreon updates has been difficult, with this piece being a huge challenge to finish. I think I’ve tried to make the best of things, as well as present an honest but still positive face to the world. I have piles of tasks to get through and I tackle what I can, with what feels like so much competing for my attention. At the same time, I can’t opt out of the systems I live and work inside of, much as I can’t stop paying rent or putting food in my mouth, because individuals can't kick a habit society has become dependent upon. I think the best thing I can do right now is be truthful about all that, try to remain as genuine as I can and continue to step away from what makes me uncomfortable, giving myself some distance from the things that make me unhappy.

That doesn’t mean I’m disappearing (I’m still checking in on social media, streaming on Twitch and so on), nor does it mean this change or this philosophy is forever, nor does it mean that things can’t improve. But it does mean I’m changing a few things about myself, my habits and my preferences. And it does mean I have a working, temporary, if unsatisfactory answer to the question “So what now?”

It is: “We’ll see.”

---

A big thanks to my Patreon community for the links I’m adding here, post-publication.

The first is How sex censorship killed the internet we love, on Endgadget, about controlling the internet in all sorts of ways and about what might be considered explicit (apparently a condom might be explicit).

Then there’s The internet Is Rotting, from the Atlantic, about bits of the internet that are disappearing and the loss of information that comes with it, as well as information that is overwritten and altered. We are keeping less than you might think.

Finally, The web began dying in 2014, here’s how, by André Staltz, talks about the growing prominence of big corporations (all American), what their priorities are, and what online things (services) they may bring to you.

#Patreon #America #Erving Goffman #September 11th #persona #social media #the internet #writing

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cetaceans-pls · 4 years

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Chapters: 1/2 Fandom: Batman - All Media Types Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne

On a quick mission with Jason to deal with pirates in the Caribbean, Bruce finds himself ejected overboard and accidentally lost at sea. Being a castaway gives Bruce ample time to indulge in self-discovery and survivorman-ing, as Jason boats across Pit-green waters in search of this dumb, fine man.

Or, things go incredibly wrong for Bruce and Jason while out at sea, but with help from a dedicated boat captain, The Fellowship Of The Rings, and banana-leaf-pants, they're actually unstoppable.

Written for the @batfam-big-bang, beta’d by @kuraness, @sultcnah, and hassan, with art by @pikachica, @succulents-and-fairy-lights, and @mandolinplayer (thanks everyone)! Special shout-out to @setsailslash for being the wind beneath my wings.

And! Thanks to the mods for organising this massive, chaotic event c:

Please enjoy the first part of a story about a damp and determined Bat and the struggles a a dapper young man’s gotta face to save his dank ass dad 🙏

On tumblr below the cut c:

Pulling a disappearing act is something Bruce should be good at; he’s had years and years of practice by now sinking into the night. Keeping secrets is pretty important in being invisible too, which is why the files outlining the increasingly severe piracy problems in the Caribbean are so heavily encrypted they may as well not exist. After all, at any moment any of his children could be using the Batcomputer to do anything from figuring out how to topple a corrupt government remotely to buying an unreasonable number of chew toys for Ace, and given that they’re all so ridiculously nosy, a security breach is more a question of when rather than if .

Nosiness is a good trait for vigilante detectives, but it makes it hard to work covertly without tipping anyone off. International travel isn’t a good idea for anyone this deep into a pandemic, and while Bruce Wayne being an ass and swanning around the Bahamas in a yacht is pretty believable as far as cover stories go, he’s not keen to subject anyone else to the sort of vitriol that behaviour will garner.

So the plan is simple, with as few moving parts as possible. Three, maybe four days tops being loud and visible on his biggest, ugliest yacht in the hopes that pirates will decide to come after him, and then maybe a couple of days after that to dismantle the bulk of the operation after he’s tracked them back to their base. There’s less of a chance of failure than his usual work, but it still leaves him feeling uneasy.

It’s a long way away from Gotham, and he’s not exactly excited to leave, but his comfort’s not more important than a greater good. The League really does need to sort out a presence for Central America though, and that goes on his notes for the mission too.

So he had planned in secrecy so complete not even Alfred was informed, because Alfred can be notoriously casual in his flagrant betrayal if he disagrees with Bruce’s plans. He’s skulking around the cave at 11 AM on a Tuesday when most of the family is either at work or asleep, and half an hour later he’s climbing into a Beemer, ready to roll out. He has a moment of smug certainty that he’s gotten away with this before the door to the passenger’s side is ripped open, and Jason climbs in with a little battered suitcase, a pair of aviators that reflect metallic blue, a genuinely heinous red wig, and what can only be described as a noxious Hawaiian shirt.

Bruce doesn’t think he’s ever seen a shade of yellow so bright, but it’s now imprinted on the back of his eyeballs, so that’s that.

“Jason, what are you doing?”

Bruce doesn’t even know if he’s referring to Jason’s presence, his outfit, or his hair (oh god, his hair ).

“Tim was supposed to be the one to tail your ass on this mission, but he’s still way too concussed after last week’s fight with Clayface so he got pulled out.” Jason chucks his suitcase to the backseat and pulls his seatbelt on, still fastidious about traffic safety despite it all. “Then Dick wanted to sub in but Blüdhaven needs him more than you do right now. So they called in the big guns to look out for you, and when I get back everyone’s gonna owe me favours. Sounds like a damn good deal for a week of work.”

Favours are a currency way more important than cash within this family, but Bruce struggles to see how a few favours is worth a few days in the company of a man you loathe.

(All right, loathe may be a bit dramatic, but it’s how Bruce feels about himself in reference to Jason, and it’s mind-boggling that a boy can wake up in a coffin and be driven to lunacy by the Pit and still, somehow, end up in this car with him in an ugly shirt and an offer of support).

He decides against asking if Jason’s really going to be all right floating in a sea of green in bad company, and doesn’t make Jason leave. It’s the rule of things; if he fails to out-sneak his children, he must deal with their demands, because it’s the only way he could get them to agree to his more paranoid measures in return.

So Bruce makes an effort not to think about it, in spite of himself, and gets the car in gear.

It really is looking like a damn good deal for a week of work; with good company, how badly can things go wrong?

Karma really wants to make him eat his words.

Years and years on the job, near-death experiences well past a hundred by now, active involvement in everything from petty theft to intergalactic peace missions, and it’s a little incredible that this is somehow the first time he’s been held at gunpoint while wearing the skimpiest pair of Speedos he could force up his thighs.

A billion dollars for a dressing gown, Bruce thinks but very carefully doesn’t say to the pirates who have commandeered the yacht. It’s all part of the plan, minus his questionable outfit.

Whoever’s manning the screens at the Cave is likely having a grand old laugh right now, but if it’s Stephanie he hopes she realises that he is using her trick with waterproof concealer and translucent powder to hide his scars, and it’s working like a charm. The Speedo was meant to feed the paparazzis that are currently stalking him in their little fishing boats that are weighed down with telephoto lenses, and L’Oreal 24 Hour Max Hold Extra Dewy Outlast! Long-Wearing Concealer makes him look happily whole from 40 yards.

He hadn’t expected the pirates to come on the one day he had planned to parade in front of the paps, but luck is a lady and it looks like Bruce just will not be getting lucky tonight.

The leader of the gang is yelling at the captain, clearly assuming Bruce cannot speak Spanish and isn’t worth speaking to regardless, which is fair. The leader is also standing far, far too close for a man without a facemask in these sickly times, and Bruce makes a show of tripping over nothing and landing in between Pirate Captain and Captain Luis, building space in between them. Half a dozen vaccine trials down, he’s as close to confidently immune as he can be, so he just strikes an entirely embarrassing pose and grins up at Mr. Pirate. “Sorry, sorry, not every day you get hijacked. Listen, you,” he waves at the assembled gang of ne’er-do-wells, “take my stuff,” he waves to indicate every gaudy expensive thing not nailed down in this frankly ghastly ship, “and leave us alone, okay?”

It’s tempting fate to be extra loud and extra slow like he’s talking to somebody extra dumb, but eyes on him are eyes off civilians, so that’s what he does.

It’s the point of information-gathering with the entire force of his Bruce Wayne Billionaire Playboy personality after all, even if Jason hasn’t stopped mocking him relentlessly for his outfits and table manners and affect (and so on and so forth) every time he breaks into the Master Cabin to help cover up Bruce’s many, many back scars.

The Pirate Captain appears to not appreciate being spoken to like a concussed toddler, and backhands Bruce right across the cheek. Bruce dutifully sets his tooth in so that he gets a dramatically split lip, and tries to look suitably cowed as he wonders about the man’s hand hygiene. Where is Jason, anyways? The standard response in this situation would be to evacuate civilians to safety, and even if the captain is currently stuck with Bruce, hopefully the stewards and the cooks are being shown to the panic room. It’s only in doubt because it’s a Thursday, and Thursdays are Jimmy-the-steward-boy’s day off. What that means is that Jason is likely in his bunk listening to audiobooks while half-asleep, and if it’s the Lord of the Rings and Jason’s hit a particularly engaging part, they could be firing cannons on deck and he wouldn’t hear.

It’s still fine, probably. Jason’s good at showing up when you least expect him.

There’s enough pride and bull-headedness in Bruce’s veins that he still officially objects to having back-up whenever he follows a case abroad, but times like these it’s really hard to feel anything but grateful that his children don’t trust him not to get himself killed in suitably dramatic ways as soon as he leaves Gotham. It’s even easier to feel glad that he and Jason have gotten good enough with each other that laid up on the ground of his yacht with blood in his mouth, Bruce knows that everything’s going to be alright.

“Please,” he says, and his voice trills like a well-trained bird, “please don’t hurt me. I have so much money, if that’s what you want. Somebody just needs to call my PA, we can do a transfer right now.” Oh, good, the captain is slowly backing away while all eyes are on Bruce and his tiny swimwear.

Thank you, Stephanie, for recommending a concealer that doesn’t even smudge as he dramatically cowers on the ground. The captain’s taken shelter behind the big outdoor dining table, a sturdy, immovable beast made of aluminium, and Bruce has a semi-circle of reasonably menacing men he could potentially incapacitate without definitely dying. Things are looking up already.

Pirate Captain (Pirate King? Pirate Lord? Pirate Admiral? Who knows how a hierarchy works for the lawless, after all) is barking orders for one of his men to handcuff Bruce and move him over to their boat, because this is now a kidnapping-for-ransom situation. In casual dress, Bruce wouldn’t have minded it much; there’s enough untraceable kit in his average pair of slacks to get him out of most situations.

Again, the cursed Speedos are hugely, disproportionately problematic despite their actual size. At least there’s the tracker and the lockpicks in his watch, because thankfully no one questions why a rich man who is mostly nude would be decked out in a fantastically expensive watch.

A gangly boy who can’t possibly be much older than 20 hauls him to his feet and starts to tie his hands behind his back, which is fine. The boy also deftly unbuckles Bruce’s watch and sleight-of-hands it away, presumably into the pocket of his beaten up jeans, and that is decidedly less fine. Still, as long as the tracker remains in his vicinity, it won’t take much effort for him to be found.

Things are still on track, even if they’ve gone off the rails an alarming number of times since he woke up this morning and nicked his face while shaving for the first time in, oh, a decade? More? Hopefully there’ll be a sack or something he can fashion into a tunic on the pirate boat; he doesn’t imagine this entire ordeal will outlast his long-lasting concealer, and given that the yacht’s currently bobbing in the ocean somewhere between Nassau and Port-au-Prince, help’s not far away (so long as Jason has also called the Coast Guard and is not still in his bunk, listening to Gandalf telling an overlong story).

It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, until it’s not.

Honestly, Bruce takes worker well-being very seriously, whether it’s the COO of the Hong Kong branch of WE or the tired cab driver who inadvertently helped the Bat on an undercover case at 3:30 AM one morning. Fair pay, fair working conditions, every benefit that’s the industry standard and a few that he secretly encouraged the unions to demand. It’s a point of pride that people who work for him enjoy it, and it’s a way Bruce Wayne can help people in a way that Batman can’t even dream of.

It’s important that people who work for him are treated well; them becoming a little protective over him when some journo gets particularly nasty on Twitter is frankly rather sweet.

It’s significantly Less Okay that when they meet him in real life, ‘a little protective’ becomes ‘Captain Luis, seeing his bumbling dim-witted but ultimately not a bad guy boss getting carted away by pirates, finds strength from deep within himself to pick up a chair, start screaming, and try to bumrush half a dozen heavily armed men’.

Time slows down in times of crisis, thank god. Jason’s still nowhere to be seen, and reality narrows to Bruce running through every possible thing he could conceivably do to keep Luis safe. In the first fraction of a second, a trademark Bruce Wayne clumsy stumble is discarded as an option; two of the pirates already have their guns up. He doesn’t have smoke bombs or stun grenades or any of his million gadgets, and his hands are tied (literally and metaphorically), but playing dumb and letting Luis get shot to preserve his identity doesn’t even feature as an option.

And so, half a second after Luis starts his war cry, cracked voice and all, Bruce is actively working to dislocate his thumb to get out of his bindings, weight tipped forward in the hope that he can body slam half the men to the ground before they can get to their guns.

It doesn’t work; he gets shot in place of Luis, what feels like a clean through-and-through by the hip that hopefully missed anything particularly important. He does manage to bring a couple of the men nearest to him down with a heavy whumph , and little victories are still worth savouring even while lightly bleeding out on the ground.

He hears a lot of shouting, both from the direction of the pirate boat (reinforcements?) and from the grand double doors that lead to the inside dining room (reinforcements!) but he just keeps moving. Best case scenario, Luis knocked somebody out with one of the absolutely hideous chrome-and-leather chairs before beating a hasty retreat, and now Jason’s tag-teaming in for clean up.

Worst case scenario, he and Luis are about to be killed, and the news might be broken to his family by unflattering pap shots gone viral on Facebook. It’s an unbearable thought, so he doesn’t think, and just keeps moving around like an angry bull intent on sharing his displeasure.

There are a lot of gunshots, and something clips his ear as he knocks another man to the floor. While the pirate groans, Bruce headbutts him unconscious with a helping hand from the metal plates that help hold his skull in one piece. He thinks he hears Jason’s voice, but he knows Jay’s there for sure because no other weapon on Earth seems to crack the air quite like his Jerichos, and it’s like light at the end of a tunnel.

He hopes that Jason’s wearing some manner of face-covering; Bruce Wayne smashing a bunch of skinny pirates to the ground in a feat of great clumsiness and luck is entertaining enough to be acceptable, but a master marksman taking out a horde of sea-faring villains isn’t as likely to come off as normal.

Bruce doesn’t have the breathing room to turn around and check because more pirates are scrambling aboard with their own weight in weaponry, even if in his mind’s eye he imagines that Jason is wearing a pillowcase on his head with holes shot out for the eyes.

What an absurd quantity of guns. The number of ways Bruce hates the damned things is uncountable, and if Jason is actually on deck yelling blue murder in pyjamas, things can tip over from ‘scuffle’ into ‘bloodbath’ real damn quick.

Only one thing for it, then. He rolls away from a well-aimed kick and staggers to his feet, keeping his hands behind his back even though he’s worked his way free already. Pirate Captain man is angrily waving his rifle like he’s never known a day of joy in his life, but shooting Bruce might break the streak.

“Stop, stop!” Bruce shouts, aiming to look as non-threatening as a man who has mowed down a series of pirates can. “You can take me, just don’t hurt my staff.” Stand down, Jason , is implicit, while stand down, Luis , is implored.

It’s enough to get the man to bark for his men to stop shooting, as he tries to grab Bruce by the throat in a presumably threatening manner. This is what you get for modern-day piracy where there’s a lot less rigging and ropes and a lot more outboard engines; his grip strength is laughable, but Bruce gamely pretends to struggle to breathe anyway.

Pirate Captain hauls Bruce towards the cluster of his men, looking smug before he turns Bruce to let him see the wreckage of the outdoor lounge of the yacht. It’s bullet-riddled and messed up, but this far from the engine and the bridge, the damage is almost exclusively cosmetic. Thankfully Luis seems relatively whole even if he’s got the remains of a chair leg in his hands and a snarl twisting his face, and so does Jason. No pillowcase head-covering, unfortunately, but his steward-boy curly ginger wig is on and his oversized sleeping t-shirt is bulked out in a suspiciously bulletproof-vest shaped mass (thank God).

There are headphones hanging around Jay’s neck, so Bruce assumes he’d gotten it right about the morning lie-in and audiobook listening. Even mid-emergency, it’s still a rare, nice feeling to see that he knows Jason well enough to guess at least this correctly. Bruce tries to communicate with his eyes that everyone just needs to calm down and let him be taken. Pirates don’t tend to shoot billionaires dead, what with the invisible hand of the free market ensuring trigger discipline and all that, so it’s fine. They can rescue him afterwards, and there’s always help to be had. Superman might be off-world at present and Aquaman might take his own sweet time because he’s a sea king moonlighting as a massive asshole, but as long as no one gets hurt badly, a delay doesn’t matter to Bruce.

Jason’s scowling, but he does point his guns down. There’s hope yet that this is going to end relatively bloodlessly, but then the Pirate Captain lets his little victory get to his head. He’s got Bruce in an ineffective chokehold, and now he’s chuckling and waving his gun around and telling Jason that you’re not so confident now that we’ve got your boss, huh?

Even at a distance, Bruce can see that Jason is just barely holding on to his temper, jaw tight and teeth clenched. Having close to a foot over his captor and a hell of a lot of muscle mass on top, the ‘chokehold’ registers more like a messy cuddle, so it’s fine.

It’s all fine.

Until, of course, it isn’t.

Because Pirate Captain isn’t completely done flexing, because he takes it into his head to further press his advantage and slam the point home, he holds the muzzle of his rifle to Bruce’s temple, and shouts bang!

And of course Bruce has been held hostage before, of course he’s had weapons brandished in front of his face, of course there’s nothing exceptionally terrible about this situation when compared to the dozens of exceptionally terrible situations he’s been stuck in.

It’s just that he’s always, always hated guns, and he particularly hates guns held to people’s heads (a goddamn mystery why), and it’s just a little beyond what he considers tolerable, to find himself on the other side of a situation where a parent is about to be shot in the head in front of their child.

It’s something he’ll be ashamed about for the rest of forever, but hindsight’s 20/20 and not even an iron will could stop the tiniest of flinches when the thought of Jason’s going to have to see me die and he isn’t even the one pulling the trigger goes through his head at great speed.

It’s a blink-and-you’d-miss-it moment, but Jason hadn’t blinked, and it’s just that inch too far.

Lord, if Luis had been fearsome before, then Jason picking up a steak knife from the dining table and throwing it so viciously, so hatefully that it goes right through the back of a pirate man’s hand is an absolute vision of terror. While Bruce gets the side of his face coated in blood (he’s pessimistically hoping it isn’t from an arterial flow), Jason is scooping up Luis and chucking him overboard. It feels like barely a second has passed from when the first splatter of blood had hit his cheek before Jason appears right in front of him, one hand holding both guns (cool-looking but hilariously ill-advised) while the other is wrapped around the bulky plastic case of the emergency life raft.

Someone tries to drag Bruce back, and the man is met with two gun butts to the nose with a resounding crack! . A moment after that and Jason has Bruce pulled behind him, wig askew and kicking a different man right in the family jewels. The Pirate Captain is screaming and waving at them even as Jason hustles Bruce towards one side of the ship, shoving a life jacket down over his head and tightening the straps before Bruce can get his hands through the armholes.

It is, clearly, on purpose. “Jason,” Bruce warns him, growling even as he keeps the name as quiet as he can. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jason kicks a stack of sun loungers over to act as a barricade against the approaching pirates, but he’s completely unharried as he turns to look at Bruce. “B, you’re banged up to fuck and back, and these guys are just massive assholes who’ve been pillaging ships carrying aid during a goddamn pandemic. Your plan’s not working out, so I’m going to handle it my way. Just go hang out in the water for a while, okay,” Jason pauses and shoots over the top of the mass of wood, before ducking down to reload. “On God, I’ll swab the decks clean-ish before I pull you back up. That’s my plan.”

An errant chair arm by Jason’s side explodes into splinters from the return fire, and it’s getting really hard to avoid kill shots in order to have a civil conversation. They’re running out of time, and Bruce knows , knows without a shadow of a single doubt that this is restraint and thoughtfulness and care from Jason, to hold back on what he thinks is right just because he knows Bruce doesn’t like to see a case devolve into death. There’s also a chance that the gun to his head shook both of them up more than they want to admit. This could well be a really touching moment for everyone involved.

But a dozen pirates are advancing, and more than wanting to stop Jason from murdering a bunch of people, Bruce simply refuses to let him face this alone, so he just shakes his head and starts trying to work his way out of the vest.

Unfortunately, it’s at about the same time the pirates decide to go on an all-out siege, running towards them and knocking the stack of chairs over in their haste. Bruce doesn’t have time to think, just steps forward so that he can body block Jason and hope that polyethylene foam can take a shot or 12.

Jason disagrees with this course of action, and he makes it exceedingly clear. One moment Bruce is standing firm between his son and almost-certain death, and the next he finds himself being flung over the side of the yacht, Jason executing a frankly gorgeous Judo throw. A blob of bright orange follows him down, the instant raft deploying in midair.

“Fly, you fucking fool!” Jason screams at him, and Bruce’s last thought before he hits the water and the hard outer shell of the raft hits him in the head, is that he was right.

Jason had been listening to the Lord of the Rings.

(And Bruce is really regretting leaving the Shire).

It’s going to be a hell of a story to tell the gang; hijinx on the high seas, and if Jason can convince Bruce to take a picture of him looking suitably pensive while the sea breeze flutters his hair and open shirt, they’ll have a cover for the book deal that inevitably follows Jimmy the Red-Haired Steward’s dramatic rescue of literal billionaire Bruce Wayne.

It’s almost anti-climactic in the end; he sends Bruce overboard and is polite enough to chuck a raft down with him so that the man won’t have to find out that not even Steph’s go-to brand of makeup can stand up to the open ocean, and minus an overbearing parent idiotically trying to take bullets for him, Jason’s free to just go right the hell off.

By his count, there must be close to 20 pirates now, and just one of him.

Damn, what fun odds. He knocks out 4 guys the moment they pass his barricade, and they definitely won’t be dying from those wounds. There’s a slightly messier kerfuffle when he kicks a tabletop off its legs and flings it at the guy who thought setting off a rocket-launcher in a luxury yacht is a good idea, and casualties from that are self-inflicted, so there’s no sweating it.

A half hour of screaming and shooting later, and at this point he’s just showing off when he leaps off the upper deck and gets a trick shot out into the knee of the man with the biggest rifle. At the end of it there’s a lot of moaning and groaning on the ground, there’s blood everywhere, and barring rocket-man, the Pirate Captain’s still the worst off because a serrated steak knife thrown at high speed will do a number on anyone. It’s exactly what he deserves.

Jason putters about securing the pirates with fishing line, and shoves handkerchiefs into the deeper wounds as he does a headcount and takes deep pride in having not killed anyone even though his temper’s the most frayed it’s been in a while (his history with bodies of water is bad and his track record with parental figures is even worse).

He leaves the captain tied up on the sun deck, because a sunburn’s the least the man deserves after holding a gun to Bruce’s head and being so proud of it. If Jason had trod on his hand a little heavily on his way off the deck, well. Some lessons just need to be worked in with some elbow grease.

Cleaning takes a while because B can be so damn picky about appearances , and it’s easier to do without the man himself anyways, so he doesn’t think twice about leaving Bruce to sulk in his floating inflatable tent while Jason works. When he hears noises from the pirate ship while he’s going around disarming all the weapons, he ends up finding a gaggle of kidnapped fishermen stuffed in the hold, and he wants to go step on the Pirate Captain’s hand all over again.

He frees the fishermen and moves them onto the yacht, where the staff who have crept out of the panic room with knives in their hands and murder in their hearts welcome the poor fucks and make them something hot to eat. Really, being a crusader’s a lot easier without Bruce’s presence, and it’s like a victory lap at this point. No one’s dead, even more people have been rescued than when they started, and the Coast Guard should be rolling in any minute.

Jason cannot wait to show off to B just how damn good he is at his job.

Everything wrapped up and a dozen shoulder-slaps from the crewmembers later, Jason makes his way down to the back of the yacht, where a platform can be lowered and the canoes and jet skis can be set out in the water. He’s fully expecting to see Luis hanging on to the ladder near there, with Bruce tethered like an errant puppy. Jason’s already grinning as the platform swings open with a quiet splash, but the sight that greets him isn’t one for smug eyes.

Luis is there, looking a little cold but ultimately quite calm and relaxed, and smiles when he sees him. “Jimmy!” Luis calls out, hauling himself up onto the platform and taking his shirt off to wring it dry. “You crazy bastard. I’m glad you’re okay! Is Mister Bruce also all right? The pirates are gone?” He eyes the bobbing pirate ship with great distrust, and overall gives the impression of a man ready to pick up a kayak oar and go to war.

Jason’s leaning as far off the platform as he can, craning his neck to try and see the bright orange floating raft. “Pirates are taken care of,” he tells Luis, and doesn’t let his unease show. “Everyone’s fine, but I threw Mister Bruce off the boat too, with the little tent raft. Did you not see him, captain?”

Luis shakes his head. “You must have thrown him overboard on the other side, Jimmy.” He turns a frightful shade of pale, and leans back out the yacht to help look. “Can Mister Bruce swim?”

Everyone in the family is an accomplished swimmer; for reasons that probably only make sense when you’re a paranoid patriarch, all of them had to prove that they could swim a mile in full gear before they were okayed to patrol close to the waterfront. It’s also common knowledge in a family with a collective competitive streak a mile wide that Bruce once rescued 3 full-grown adults in the open ocean while fully kitted out, so yeah.

“Yeah, he can swim.”

So why in the hell is he not right here?

Jason takes a deep breath, and reminds himself Bruce always has a tracker on him somewhere, so even if he was carried away by the waves, actually locating him shouldn’t be an issue. What’s more likely to be a pain in the ass is the Coast Guard boats plowing through the sea towards them. Jason’s cover as a steward is enough to fool local police, but if he’s pulled in for questioning re: owning and using his guns, it’s going to become A Problem.

A problem that would take a lot of time to handle, and that’s not something Jason’s got in spades if Bruce is missing.

Ah, shit. He’s going to have to call this in, and that’s not going to be possible in an itchy wig on a ship crawling with officers. It’s time for Jimmy to disappear, looks like.

He considers his options, and decides to just go with his gut. Luis seems like a good guy; civilians who step up in a life-or-death situation despite common sense telling them not to usually are. And compared to B, Jason’s always been quicker to trust, anyways.

“Listen, Luis,” he tells the man, face serious. “I’m actually Mister Bruce’s bodyguard. If he’s missing or drowning, I have to go find him. He’s…. like family.” Thank God that no one else is here to hear this. “But if the Coast Guard comes and takes us all in for questioning, I can’t start looking for him. Can you tell them I jumped in the sea after Mister Bruce, and to send people out to find us? I need to grab the tender and sneak off first; he’s been in the water for a while already now, so I just don’t have time to wait.”

Everything is probably completely fine, but you don’t live and then die and then be reborn and then continue to live as a successful vigilante by hanging your hat on ‘probably’. Jason’s itching to get on the little tender and check in with Alfred, but Luis covering for him would be really fucking helpful.

It feels real good when his instincts pay off. Luis doesn’t even bother saying ‘Yes’ and ‘Of course’; he’s already striding to the little box by the light switch that has the keys for all the gear, and after a quick rummage around he throws the boat’s keys to Jason.

“I’m going to believe you, Jimmy. Go find Mister Bruce, and I will tell the police how you saved us and why you left. Do you need anything more?”

Luis is just hitting homerun after homerun today, wow. Jason grins, and shakes his head. “I’m going to get my stuff from my bunk and climb out the porthole in the kitchen right onto the boat. See you when I see you, captain.”

And Jason’s gone.

Bruce comes to a couple of hours after his inauspicious disembarkation, if he’s judging the sun right. His face is an achy sunburned mess, but he supposes it’s preferable to being unconscious while facedown in water. He regains consciousness quietly and calmly, an extremely important skill when you are regularly abducted and knocked out, but when he cracks his eye open all he sees is the sea, all all of it.

He takes stock of the situation, and notes with some resignation that his yacht (the Pretty Penny, and worth every cent for the look on Alfred’s face) is nowhere in goddamn sight. He’s still cocooned in a life jacket, but luckily a loose buckle had wrapped around the ropes lining the life raft. It takes a bit of finessing, to work his way free and then haul himself up into the raft when he’s disorientated from being sunburned and injured and groggy, but he manages eventually.

The raft had managed to inflate all the way up, and the little tent provided blessed, blessed shade. If he was marooned on a liferaft with his children, or with a civilian, Bruce would be all action by now, cataloguing injuries and rummaging around to find what equipment they have. That’s just the exact right thing to do, in a survival situation.

But he isn’t marooned on a liferaft with anybody else. He’s by himself, his face feels like it’s on fire, he’s a little concussed, and he doesn’t know if everyone’s safe on the yacht. Instead of doing something meaningful, Bruce just groans and lays out as flat as he can get on the small raft, with his legs hanging off over the side.

Might as well get sunburnt knees, make a set of it.

It’s starting to feel like he’s just not meant to have a casual fun time out here in the Caribbean, and this far away from shore, nobody can hear him swear.

His legs are starting to sizzle a little by the time Bruce re-finds his will to survive, and he eventually drags himself upright, looks down to once again despair that he’s literally in swimwear and nothing else, and tugs out the dry bag filled with survival equipment tucked into a pocket near the back of the tent. He’s sure it’ll have much more kit than the average equipment bag, but because he can’t remember the last time he took it into his head to pack survival kits for non-Bat vehicles, everything is likely several years out of date.

As he digs around, any hope of finding a tracker that can ping! loud enough to alert the Batcave disappears. There’s a brick of a satellite phone, but failure to keep it well-maintained means the battery is completely flat, and trying to fix it in a bobbing liferaft that’s constantly letting water in…. ill-advised.

At least being in the Caribbean in the summer means that the current is more likely to have him drifting across the archipelago instead of sweeping him out to the Atlantic. Deserted islands are a dime a dozen here, and Bruce shudders at the thought that he might meet his end here, where it’s warm and sunny and beautiful, instead of bleeding out into a puddle of what might be rainwater or piss or both in a dark alley in Gotham, which is what he thematically deserves.

If only Alfred were here to hear him loudly think about his death after maybe 3 hours of being at sea with his own grim thoughts.

At least the kit bag reflects his personal preferences. Enough energy bars to keep a man physically functioning for at least 2 weeks, and half of them are white-chocolate-and-cranberry flavoured. There’s a rain poncho made of the same material his cape was about 5 years ago, which means it’s light and breathable and incredibly strong. He puts it on, because where Jason presumably gets power from wearing either leather or garish beachwear, Bruce unfortunately counts himself closer to goth than not, and a black raincoat is enough to make him feel at least marginally better.

He digs around some more and finds the usual suspects: a multi-tool with a blade sharp enough to gut a camel (tried! And tested!), 3 flare guns, a little floating solar still, a first aid kit that could keep you alive through increasingly alarming injuries, wax matches and some solid fuel, and a little tin mug that had some fishing line and a bunch of hooks. God, there’s even sun cream in here, and that’s as Classic Alfred as the tiny glass bottle of exquisite whiskey. The reach of one elderly butler’s tender loving care extends really alarmingly far, and Bruce salutes the sky in his honour before taking a carefully-rationed glug of Stranahan for moral support.

It burns smoothly down his throat, and it’s as close to a second wind as Bruce is likely to get out here. Bruce sets up the solar still and has it floating on a tether right by the raft, even if he’s got at best a couple of hours of daylight left. Dinner for the night is either a protein bar or fresh-caught fish if he can swing it, and the bottle of good whiskey needs to stretch for 2 weeks for the worst case survival scenario, because that’s around when Superman comes back from his off-world mission and can come play fetch.

Best case scenario, Jason’s going to pull up in the BatWing any moment now, and Bruce will gaze upon a hideous ginger wig and once again get to marvel at the miracle of Jason alive and coming at him.

The Batman hasn’t survived so long off the backs of best case scenarios though. Fantasy revelled in, Bruce starts divvying up his resources and makes his peace with potentially having his body be found in a poncho 3 months from now by deeply unlucky fishermen.

Hell of a legacy to leave for his children, but it’s better than pearls and a dark alleyway (he sure would have appreciated a larger bottle of whiskey).

Escape was the name of the game, so Jason doesn’t burn time on thinking, just grabs his supplies and steals the tender, gunning the engine and gone out of sight before the Coast Guard could board the Penny. It’s pretty hair-raising, literally; throttle opened to full he almost loses his wig to the whipping winds.

Fifteen minutes after separating from Captain Luis, Jason’s dropping anchor in a tiny lagoon and pulling out his Bat-issued laptop. First things first, he runs through all the trackers Bruce is most likely to have on him. No point in alerting HQ if Bruce just got washed ashore on a little beach a couple of miles away. He could do without the rest of the family calling him out for simultaneously being both Bruce’s back-up as well as the main reason Bruce is currently missing, thanks. There’s already plenty of self-recrimination going ‘round.

The internet’s pretty slow considering the private BatSatellite beaming it right down at him, but it only takes a few minutes before he’s run through the checklist of the dozen or so standard trackers Bruce could have chosen from. Almost everything is deactivated, probably because a mother-of-pearl button and a tie clip aren’t options that mesh with swimwear too often, but one of his watches is active and blinking a cheerful green from the other side of the island, moving swiftly towards land.

Jason thinks hell yeah! at the start but then logic comes a-calling; neither the current nor a very determined man could move that quickly, and the blip is moving in a straight line away from the yacht. He takes another look at the list, and groans when he realises that what likely happened was that Bruce’s shiny golden Rolex was liberated from him pre-getting-thrown-overboard, and is now likely enjoying a pleasant ride to Nassau in the pocket of some pirate on the Coast Guard’s ship.

“This is why I told him to get a goddamn belly button ring,” Jason shouts down at an errant starfish, who fundamentally does not care. Garish intimate jewelry work because they can stay on regardless of the state of undress, and because not even the most determined thugs tend to be super interested about groping around a man’s navel to get half an ounce of cheap tin and silver. An ugly piercing is by far the best option for discreet trackers.

Just classic goddamn Bruce; too good for gun violence, too good for tacky piercings, too good to just stay the hell still. Jason half-heartedly goes through the rest of the list, on the extremely off chance that Bruce slapped on the temporary tramp stamp with its special magnetic ink, or decided to opt for the cute anklet with dangling shells that’s a Cass design, but no go.

There’s not a blip anywhere, and if Bruce is really really lost at sea, time’s not something either of them have a whole lot of. Jason starts up the boat and decides to head right to the outermost chain of tiny islands, because the vital thing here is making sure that Bruce doesn’t get swept right out into the open ocean. One hand on the wheel, with the other he pops an earphone back in and presses a complicated code using the volume up/down buttons. It’s another few seconds of the Fellowship coming through before the comm connects, and it’s Alfred.

“How can I help, Master Jason?”

“How much of what went down did you catch, Agent A?”

“I must confess to a little chuckle when I saw Master Bruce being thrown overboard. The onboard cameras caught the rest of your fight, and may I just say, splendid aim with the steak knife. I doubt I could have done better myself.”

That’s a blatant lie if Jason’s ever heard one, but he’ll take it. “Thanks, Alfie. Thing is, uh. Thing is, I might have misplaced B.”

There’s a short pause, and Alfred’s voice comes back on with polite inquiry. “What do you mean by ‘misplaced’, Master Jason?”

“You saw me chuck B over and leave him a life raft, right? Yeah, well, when I went ‘round to do a pick-up, he was gone. And he doesn’t have any kit on him, so.” Urgh, this is going to live on in infamy. “So I might have lost Batman somewhere in the sea.”

There’s another pause, a little longer this time, filled with enough character that Jason can just imagine Alfred with his head tipped back, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose to chase off a headache that has given him no peace presumably since B was born. “I see. Do you know if he is injured? Or if Master Bruce is missing as per some sort of plan?”

“Think he might have been grazed by a couple of bullets, but nothing life-threatening. And this could be a dick move that’s part of a bigger plan, Alfred, but he knows you’d be real passive-aggressive if he runs off without telling anyone. He pulls that kind of bullshit when things are apocalyptic, but it’s just a bunch of pirates not social-distancing.” Jason worries at his lower lip, and tries to feel more confident about the absence of serious injuries. “I don’t know, maybe he hit the water wrong and passed out and got swept out, or something. I just know I’m not leaving this as is.”

God literally save B if this does turn out to be some dumbfuck ploy to go off and Rambo a mission solo, that’s a Jason Todd guarantee right there.

“I believe not trusting Master Bruce to be all right is generally the right way of thinking, unfortunately.” Alfred sighs, and it comes off as static in the earpiece. “I will make some inquiries, and see what resources we have for a search and rescue mission. In the meantime, Master Jason, do what you think is best. Master Bruce may not have any of his usual equipment, but so long as he has the raft, he should survive for a good long while.”

Knowing how extremely over-prepared Bruce is in almost every aspect of his life, Jason wouldn’t be too surprised to know that all WE rafts came prepared with spear guns and a bar of solid gold. Best case scenario, he’ll find Bruce in time for dinner, and they can have an(other) awkward meal where Bruce does his damnedest to be inoffensive and haltingly the best father he can be, while Jason tries not to get ticked off by every third word out of the man’s mouth.

Jason tells Alfred that he’s going to whip out some maps and do a lap around all the tiny little cays that dot the sea to try and find Bruce, and half his head’s thinking about a memorial service where Clark will presumably burst into tears while stood in front of a casket that’s got a symbolic Speedo in it, and that’s how Bruce is going to go down in history, which is what he deserves.

The other half decides that now is a good time to remember how Bruce had once gone all-out on a search-and-rescue mission for Jason too, many many years ago, and oh, look how that turned out.

What a fucking feast or famine man.

Fishing is an accursed activity for accursed men. Bruce is somebody whose hobby slash raison d’etre involves getting dressed up in armour and perching on a gargoyle somewhere high up in an unmoving manner for hours at a time, and he still finds himself bored almost to tears by the lows and lowers of idly holding a fishing line in his hand, being convinced something has gotten hooked, and pulling up absolutely nothing (again and again and again).

It’s blissfully sundown by now and there’s no fresh fish on the menu, but he has a mouthful of fresh water thanks to the solar still, and he’s got half a protein bar in him for dinner. The moon’s nowhere near full and the stars are obscured; he’s completely enveloped in the kind of darkness that’s so, so foreign to a city like Gotham.

It’s all blackness as far as the eye can see, which is not very far, and all he has for company are his thoughts and the quiet splish splish splish of little waves pattering against the side of his raft.

It’s deeply unnerving even for Bruce, a man who has on occasion described himself as The Night. He has a fire starter and nothing to start a fire; he has a phone and no way to connect to anyone. He has a lot and very little all at once, and despite his best efforts, no amount of focus can get anything done .

So Bruce sits with his back to the opening of the little tent, and over the next couple of hours finds himself slumping and sliding lower, til his head is thrown back across the edge and all he sees is nothing.

Stoicism in the face of terrible odds is an important part of being the Batman, but Bruce has no cowl and no cape; he’s just him right now. As he stares at what may or may not be the North Star, he finds himself thinking about how dinner was supposed to be scallops and baked fish with a side of exquisite wine, and gently mourns just a little. If his luck held, Jason would have swung by later to help himself to the dessert tray that Bruce has delivered straight to his room, and he could have sat there and basked in the unending pleasure of Jay's healthy and hearty and whole company.

Instead, he’s stuck out at sea trying to guess how close or far away he is from 10:47 PM, which is the default time to throw up a signal in cases where a team’s been broken up. In Gotham, even if he didn’t have a watch or a phone or a comm unit or a car, he could usually guess the time down to 15 minutes, just based on which shops were open and which shops were closed, what buses were running and what colour the WE building was lit up to, by the presence or absence of the tinkly elevator music that accompanies the fountain light show in the main plaza.

Here, there’s nothing. The position of the planets would be a bit of a hint on a good day, but on a bad day with heavy clouds and a concussion he’s not confident Venus is real. The outdoors are a mistake, and laid out in a raft miles and miles away from the nearest cityscape Bruce feels homesickness so keenly he has to turn over and throw up a little bit.

At least the concussion is keeping him company.

The first hour after nightfall he had taken the initiative to just sit there and count time out, but there’s something spectacularly soul-sucking about counting down seconds. Bruce was somewhere in the 3000s when he came to the conclusion that he would rather not reinforce his concept of mortality by literally calling out each moment he comes closer to death, thanks. It’s been a while since he stopped counting, but time’s a mess in the absence of manmade context.

He’s also, shamefully, a mess in the absence of manmade context.

Bruce has 3 flares and a son out there somewhere looking for him. Having a predetermined time to launch a signal is not a fundamentally bad idea, but it’s not practical when out in the field, and right now he’s even willing to go so far so as to admit that using the time of his parents’ passing is both extremely grim and extremely unkind to all parties involved.

All factors considered, it’s as good a time as any to get the flare gun. If he’s lucky, Jason will be ‘round to pick him up in under an hour. If he’s less lucky, it might be a different band of roving pirates that come for him, though by this point the company of sun-dried criminals is greatly preferable to just his own.

If he’s really, really unlucky, the flare’ll explode big and bright up in the sky to the attention of absolutely no one, and when that happens Bruce can begin to doubt his reality as much as he doubts Venus’.

“Please let it not be 10:47,” he says in the vain hope that karma’s looking out for him as he sticks his upper body out the tent flaps and shoots at the sky.

The flare goes up straight and true and explodes into bright bright light, and all of this would be a thing to be happy about if the presence of light didn’t highlight the clear, helpless absence of everything else.

For the first time in a very long time, the fearsome big bad Bat of Gotham turns in early for the night, but nobody is even around to appreciate it.

(He will find out that it was, in fact, just around 9 when he shot off the flare, or just about 3000 seconds after the 3000 seconds he’d already counted.)

(The invention of time was a Mistake.)

[1/2]

#batfam big bang 2020 #batman #bruce wayne #jason todd #whale writing #the vibe is v much that specific kind of humid depressed u get in summer #when ur not feeling great but #the overwhelming presence of the sun tells your body to #keep on keeping on #anyways i love the sea thanks for coming to my community tedtalk

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mordoriscalling · 3 years

Text

48 Weeks (1/4)

Throughout the 48 weeks that Geralt and Jaskier spend apart, their relationship develops.

Aka, part 3 of the Singer and the Sailor AU no one asked for but I wrote anyway. The events of this story happen after Stay or Sail Away but before Homecoming. Warnigns: some sexual content ahead!

Weeks 1-12

Week 1

The memory of everyone he left behind is still fresh in his mind. He clearly recalls how he embraced Ciri and Yen for the last time. The hugs were short but his daughter and ex-wife know that he needs to grow distanced before deployment. It hurts less this way.

Jaskier was there to say goodbye too, but it was different with him. He has no idea how all of this works, and they only had mere three weeks to enjoy each other’s company. They tried to make best of it but Geralt still wanted to detach himself in the last week. Jaskier reacted with panic and kept asking if he’d done something wrong.

The only wrong Jaskier’s ever done was to appear in Geralt’s life just like that, waltzing past his walls and defences with laughable ease. Jaskier is loud and bright, almost unbearably so, and everything is suddenly too dark and quiet when he isn’t there.

Geralt didn’t use to mind dark and quiet. He rather enjoyed them, in fact. Now, as he waits for Jaskier’s first video call, he’s vaguely annoyed that he allowed Jaskier to influence him like this in such a short period of time. The change is small but significant and he shouldn’t have let it happen, not so fast.

But then Jaskier’s face appears on the screen, his face lit up by a brilliant smile, and any negative thoughts suddenly fly out of Geralt’s mind.

“Hi, handsome,” Jaskier purrs.

“Hello,” Geralt replies.

“I must say,” Jaskier goes on in low voice, “the sight of you in the uniform does certain... things to me.”

Geralt looks down at his clothes with a bemused frown. He’s wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt with shoulder pads showing his rank, a black tie and black trousers. It’s nothing special. He has no idea what Jaskier sees but what he does know is that Jaskier’s gaze on him is distracting, so Geralt decides to change the subject. Clearing his throat, he asks, “How are you?”

Jaskier beams as if he asked the best possible question.

Week 2

“How the first two weeks on the ship have been?”

“Busy,” Geralt answers truthfully.

“And?” Jaskier prompts, after a moment of silence.

Geralt sighs, irritated. “And there’s a lot of work to do and some chaos, like always at the beginning.”

Jaskier chuckles. “This will have to suffice for now, but know this, White Wolf: I will get all your stories out of you.”

Geralt rolls his eyes and asks, “How are you?”

There’s that smile again.

Week 3

“How are you?”

Jaskier’s grin is blinding as he answers, “Honestly, Geralt, you’re just so sweet.”

Geralt grunts. Jaskier has to be mentally challenged in some way, to think that the basic human decency which Geralt displays is some kind of special gesture. (Or have had unpleasant experiences with past relationships but that doesn't seem right. Who would treat Jaskier like that?)

He only asks Jaskier about how he’s doing the first moment he can. It’s not much but Jaskier appears to think it is. Geralt’s not going to correct him, not when it makes Jaskier smile like that.

Week 4

“I wrote you a song.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that.

“I’ll send you the recording, just tell me what you think.”

He only nods. As he listens to the song after they hang up, he can’t find any words to describe it. The beautiful lyrics tell a story of lovers camping in a forest, and Jaskier’s voice conveys so many emotions that Geralt’s chest aches.

Before the knows it, he listens to the song every evening, then it keeps replaying in his mind at all times. Jaskier’s voice is there with him, luring him towards thoughts that he shouldn’t entertain, and it all affects him in a way he struggles to express.

Week 5

“Thank you, siren.”

It’s the only words he’s found. Somehow, they seem to be enough for Jaskier.

Week 6

Jaskier is leaving on tour tomorrow, his first international one. He has a lot to say, but not necessarily on that topic.

“It turns out my agent and your ex-wife are friends from uni. I hate it, Geralt. I don’t want them to get along. I have a feeling I’m gonna have little say in my own life from now on.”

Geralt acknowledges Jaskier’s despair with a grunt that is barely noticed because Jaskier chatters on, “The only thing I’d hate more would be you knowing Triss too.”

Geralt frowns. There’s only one Triss he knows. “Triss Merigold?”

There’s a stunned pause and then, “What the fuck, Geralt –”

Week 7

Jaskier is in Europe now and Geralt is somewhere on the Atlantic but he can’t say anything else. Jaskier seems tired but Geralt finds out that it doesn’t make him any less talkative.

“I’m still not over the fact that you were right there the whole time –”

“Jaskier –”

“ – just two introductions away!” A huff. “Hey Jaskier,” he pitches his voice high, imitating how a woman would sound rather well, “do you know my friend Yennefer? Oh, and here’s her ex-husband, who’s gonna ruin you for other men, women, and everyone in between and outside of that spectrum.”

Geralt snorts.

“I could’ve had you for so much longer,” Jaskier laments, “But actually, I wouldn’t have, because it seems I’d have had no idea about your existence at all if not for Lambert? Those two introductions were possible for five goddamn years that Triss has been my agent but apparently, that’s not enough time for it to happen –”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs. He needs some sleep and rest. He misses home, already.

“Yes, dear?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt does want to tell him to shut up but Jaskier’s eyes are too distracting, so what comes out of his mouth is, “Sing something.”

Jaskier obliges with the brightest of smiles.

Week 8

“We can’t –”

“I know,” Jaskier replies, “but that’s the thrill of it, don’t you think, darling?”

Geralt clenches his jaw, breathing heavily. The temptation is so strong he almost trembles, like a bloody teenager. Memories don’t work in his favour now – he still remembers Jaskier’s scent, how his skin, mouth and cum tastes. It sets his nerves on fire, and it takes every ounce of his self-control not to start palming himself through his trousers as Jaskier keeps talking in that damned husky voice.

“You know... your moans are the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He bites down at his lip, hard.

“Moan for me, Geralt.”

Geralt does.

Week 9

It’s been more than two months and gloomy silence hangs between them as they stare at each other through the screen.

“Tell me something funny,” Jaskier says.

Geralt searches for any memory of the kind in his mind. When he finally finds it, he launches into the story, “There was that time when me, Eskel and Lambert went out and got so drunk that we blacked out. Next thing we know, we’re in some stranger’s flat, and Lambert’s wearing actual handcuffs, his hand tied to the guy’s ankle.”

“What?!”

“Yeah. We couldn’t find the keys to uncuff them anywhere and we couldn’t pick the lock either. Me and Eskel had to get clippers to set them free. We still have no idea how we got there.”

Jaskier starts chortling.

“That’s how Lambert met his boyfriend Aiden. They’ve been together for seven years now.”

Jaskier keeps cackling. When Geralt realises that listening to that – probably the most inelegant sound he’s ever heard in his life – warms him to his very core because it’s Jaskier’s laugh, there’s only one thought on his mind.

Fuck.

Week 10

“Another song?”

“Yes,” Jaskier admits, looking almost embarrassed, “I hope you like it.”

“Hmm.”

He knows he will. When he listens to the recording, he quickly finds out he wasn’t wrong. The song is more lively and dramatic than the first one, expressing the wonder of watching your lover move, and it feels like a promise. It makes Geralt look beyond the sea.

Week 11

“Thank you for the song, siren.”

Jaskier sighs in a love-sick way. “I wish I could kiss you right now. Have got the slightest idea what I’d do to you?”

Geralt smirks. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Jaskier moans and goes on to describe his fantasy in vivid detail.

Week 12

Geralt toys with the gold wolf signet as he waits for Jaskier’s call and tries not to drown in grim thoughts.

Being away from his family starts getting hard. The worst period of deployment begins – he hasn’t been away from home long enough to forget but just enough to miss his loved ones terribly and not be able to get over it. The very second his thoughts wander away from work at hand, he remembers Ciri’s laugh, Yen’s smile, his brother’s embraces and father’s gruffness.

Then there’s Jaskier, with his bloody bright smiles, charm, quick wit and endearing... everything. He makes it so much harder.

They should’ve just parted ways, Geralt muses. They shouldn’t have exchanged their “engagement rings” for safekeeping to give them back to each other after Geralt returns like it’s some ridiculous romance novel.

Jaskier’s ridiculous like that, though, and Geralt’s still hasn’t learnt to say no to him.

When Jaskier greets him cheerfully and asks him about how he’s doing, a smile tugs at Geralt’s lips as he answers, “Better now.”

Part 2

***

A/N: you can also read this on AO3.

The first song that Jaskier writes is in Icelandic IRL (and it’s so goddamn beautiful) but even the English lyrics are just so stunning, I can 100% imagine Jaskier singing that: This night is ours, spring in the forrest air Let’s pitch our tent among the berries over there. Lead me, my dearest, to the grove of yesterday Where the brook kindly whispers and the birches sway. Light locks in motion, lingering emotion A rose scented breeze from the Fae Dew drops glitter, the dale is quiet and fair Dreams coming true for lovers sleeping there Heather blushing in the evening sun’s last ray The cool quiet night comes after a perfect day Light locks in motion, lingering emotion A rose scented breeze from the Fae

#myfic #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #the Sailor and the Singer AU #mildly nsft

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sanstropfremir · 3 years

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I absolutely LOVED reading your kingdom review. You gave me such an insight in things I never even considered, especially since our rankings are so different from each other. The Boyz was my favorite, the narrative was about RTK. How they felt bad for having to compete against their friends but eventually the groups only lifted each other up and it helped TBZ grow into the group they are now through the hardships and mental dilemma, falling into the next challenge right after they reached the top. It should have been more obvious though, I agree, it wasn't really visible for anyone who didn't know. I was wondering how you felt about the dancing in general? my reason for not ranking BTOB high was lack of choreo (and Peniel's verse), same goes for SF9. Mostly because I don't feel the hype when watching, it doesn't keep my focus on the stage. As a baby-performer myself, my goal is to make the viewer curious about what's next. is that the wrong way to look at it? that's what I've always been told, building the tension up and down to create focus. would love to hear your feedback on that! thank you so much for sharing, we need more reviews of people who actually know what they're talking about.

i'm glad that you got some insight from it! like i answered in the previous ask im here to hopefully bring some more depth and understanding for people that care and are curious!

you unintentionally proved my point about tbz’s performance: that is way too complicated! even the most talented solo dancers i can think of would have trouble distilling that down to something readable in 100 seconds, much less a group of like, a dozen people! the introductory stages are meant to show us the character of the group and their abilities in the most concise way possible, it's not the stage to do deep philosophical and emotional introspection. for a full stage? absolutely, go hog wild! but for this stage it was too ambitious and ultimately was ineffective to anyone that isn't a fan of them specifically.

by dancing in general do you mean like, every group? i put most of my opinions on the dancing where i had them in each of the individual rankings but honestly? unless there is something that really stands out positively or negatively, a lot of ‘average’ kpop dance looks the same to me. i know it’s not, obviously, and if pressed i probably could do a more serious breakdown, but dance is only one element of performance. it has equal weight with all the others in my mind, and therefore i notice when it is either

very good

does something unique

very bad, or

interferes with another element

which is the same as how i evaluate every element, if that makes sense.

hmmmm. i thought about this a lot in the shower and turns out i had more opinions that i expected so i'll put them under a cut.

firstly, i don't think lack of choreo should be penalized or considered an ‘incomplete’ performance. at the end of the day, these are bands, and a part of their brand/product they sell is the music. complex choreo does not need to be attached to that to make it a successful performance. also, btob did have choreo. any movement on stage is technically choreography. but this terminology can cause confusion so usually non-dance choreo is referred to as ‘blocking.’ but they also did include the song’s original point choreo at 1.41. the blocking in their performance was well thought out and suited the arrangement, by placing spatial emphasis on each part of the song that needed it. obviously it comes down to personal taste if the performance is ultimately ‘successful,’ because all art is subjective, but just because something isn't as visually complex as something else doesn’t mean it doesn't have the same level of thought. think of it like this: one is a super clean-lined post-post-modern grey/white living room, and the other is a kitsch goth basement. both share interior design principles and have obvious care put into the space, but they are vastly different styles that appeal to different tastes.

part of the job of production designer/AD is to decide what gets emphasis. a question you're always asking yourself is ‘is this important to the story that we’re trying to tell?’ and btob/their AD made a very smart choice with their introductory stage because it says a lot about them and their abilities in a short amount of time. that stage said ‘our foundation is strong, we have the training and experience and confidence to be up here and not rely on visual tricks.’ because they know they physically cannot do the things the 4th gen groups can; they're a decade older and they only have four members, it's just not feasible. something you learn with experience is the power that specific and pointed emphasis holds, which segues into my answer to your last question. i don't necessarily think that ‘building hype’ is the wrong way to perform something, but i do think it is a flawed way to approach creating a performance.

i think that ‘hype’ is flawed concept at its core, and one that focuses on the idea that there’s always being something more, something next, beyond the work itself. now there’s nothing wrong with playing with tension within the internal structure of a piece, that's exactly how constructing a narrative happens. however, the flaws come once we extrapolate beyond the boundaries of that individual work. the idea of ‘whats next’ implies that you have to constantly be promoting, have a sequel coming, building hype etc so people will keep engaged with your work. which is deeply capitalistic in nature and operates on the assumption that art exists purely as a product to be sold. and in order to keep selling you need to keep making a bigger and better and more spectacular product. and this is not the case at all. marketability is not the essence of art, it merely a factor of creating it under this insufferable system. kpop in particular suffers from this because the industry is specifically fabricated to produce capitol. we can have discussions all day about idols and their artistic integrity but at the end of that day, they are all cogs working with a system that was specifically made up by essentially one person to be culturally exported and to just print buckets of money. so in following that train of thought, there is a constant attitude of bigger and better because shock value (whether positive or negative) gets social media attention and therefore it sells. and it has become exponentially easier (and also seemingly required) to make things that are bigger and better than ever before. i remember being blown away by the projection floor at the sochi 2014 olympics because something of that scale and complexity would never have been possible without literally having the funding of the olympics. now that technology is easily accessible to anyone with an amazon account and the time to learn how isadora works. in comparison, it took 2400 YEARS for just the job of a ‘theatre designer’ to be even become a job at all.

because of kpop’s fan culture it is especially prone to ‘hype’ behaviour. in general with the accessibility of the internet and social media, everything has turned into a competition, and who can generate the most buzz ‘wins’. but ultimately that has taken away the general public’s ability to recognize that you can enjoy something quietly and you can enjoy something slowly. that the enjoyment of something doesn’t need to be all exclamation marks and keysmashes and trending hashtags on twitter. there is value in a work engaging in an emotion within you that is not just excitement. most of the artists and companies that i consume the work of i don’t do so because their work makes me excited, i do so because i liked the experience of engaging with that work. several years ago i saw the eternal tides by legend lin dance theatre, which you can watch a really short clip of here. that is not slow motion, that is actually how slow the dancers are moving. and 90% of the show is performed like that. and its two hours long. and it was one of the most incredible performances i've ever seen. if i ever get the chance I will go see another one of their shows again, not because i care about how they can top that experience i had, but because i know they can produce that experience, and that is enough to make me want to seek them out again. the speed of the internet has also loosened the general public’s understanding of just exactly how long creating a performance work can take. the lead dancer in the eternal tides was with the company for eight years before she and the piece were ready enough to be performed. large scale operas, musicals, and plays often have a year or more of pre-production before they even get to rehearsal. smaller theatre companies workshop new pieces for years at a time. performance is hard and it takes time. you can eliminate some of that with sheer amounts of money and people, which is what the kpop industry has done, but it speeds up the cycle of consumption to a degree that is not sustainable, especially for companies and creators who do not have that kind of access. performers and performance makers often don't put enough trust in their audiences. if they like what they see, they will come back. they dont need to be constantly bombarded with content at all times.

now that i’ve said a bit about why i think hype is a flawed concept, let's bring it back to kingdom. sf9 did something very interesting with their stage in that they actively chose to limit their dance time. and this plays very well off the performance film stage that taeyang did a couple of weeks ago. taeyang is talented and confident (for good reason), and his solo was incredible. but when it came to the intro stage, instead of trying to one-up the solo stage, the group instead said ‘well people are going to be looking at us because taeyang is insanely talented, so let's show them that we ALL have the confidence and the attitude to be up here.’ no need for flashy theatrics, they had the foresight to do something that would make them stand out from the rest of the groups. even if i was just casually watching the stages without doing any analysis on them (like i did for rtk), i would still be able to distinguish them because they had the stones to stand around for half their stage time. now i recognize them and would like to see what else they can do. same principle as what btob and also what ikon did. there is a fine line between anticipation and hype that gets equated in media consumption nowadays, but the two are not the same.

i think the tldr on this is that you dont need to ‘build hype’ or ‘go all out’ to make an interesting work. just focus on telling the narrative that you want to tell, and the people that recognize that will come. i could have a lot more things to say about peoples shrinking attention spans and the constant stream of information that we consume on a daily basis that devalues the labour done by artists in the eyes of the public and promotes hustle culture that is burning out and damaging creators at a rate that is both exponential and frightening, but that’s probably for another time, because this is SO LONG

#kingdom #kpop questions #this was a very interesting ask thank you anon!#the consumption and production of art is fascinating and also as an artist it gives me a fucking headache #many thoughts head too full #i hope this provided you with some more insight anon #none of your opinions are wrong i just have different ones and thats ok! i love discussions like this #Anonymous #kpop analysis #text #general design questions #kingdom review responses #answers #kingdom asks

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