#you have no idea how hard it was to ask for critique on that panel of Luckys knees buckling without cluing my friends in on the fact he was

[sleights-of-hand]

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#sohLight #SOH-Comic #Nick Jha #Lucky Lewis #you have no idea how hard it was to ask for critique on that panel of Luckys knees buckling without cluing my friends in on the fact he was #going to be invisible.

[ily-fictional-women]

Free Time

Summary: Being a new member of the Avengers has gone over smoothly so far. Besides the ex-assassin, Natasha Romanoff hates Y/n for some reason though. Although with a little free time maybe Y/n will figure out why. 

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Warnings: None that I know of, but if I should add anything let me know! 

Word count: 1948

a/n: Kind grumpy x Sunshine vibes with a little forced proximity trope. (Reblogs are welcome and critiques/advice are heavily encouraged, but please no translating.) 

“Y/n L/n, Director Fury requests your immediate attendance in the debriefing center.” The robotic voice was something Y/n still hadn’t grown accustomed to even after being an Avenger for a few months now. “Tell Fury I’ll be right there.” Y/n begrudgingly got up from the couch she was lounging on in her room. Making her way to debrief center passing through the kitchen she’s stopped by Clint who has a large bowl of cereal in front of him, “And where exactly are you going?” The archer asked in such a tone that would make you think he knew the answer. 

“Just the debrief center, why are you so curious?” Clint laughs out loud dropping his spoon into the bowl quickly. As Y/n shoots him a questioning look though he settles down with a big smile still on his face, “It’s nothing” he waves his hand trying to shoo away Y/n “It’s nothing at all trust me.” Side-eyeing Clint Y/n continues to make her way toward the debriefing room. 

Making her way through the glass doors that’s when she finally notices her, Natasha Romanoff. As Natahsa looks in Y/n’s direction she immediately rolls her eye, “No, I’m not doing this. I’m not working with her.” Fury places two files on the long wooden table motioning for Y/n to sit next to Natasha, “You don’t have a choice Miss Romanoff, you and Miss L/n will be working together on this mission.” 

Natasha lets out an annoyed sigh, the rest of the debriefing going normally. Although it was hard for Y/n to focus with the radiating annoyed energy coming from Natasha. The basics were simple to remember though. Natasha and her were going to inspect an abandoned hydra base on a secluded island and inspect for any weapons. Extraction would come once either Y/n or Natasha made the call.

//

As the Quinjet landed quickly on the sandy beach of the island, Natasha grabbed her duffle bag seemingly in a rush to get out of the jet that she, Y/n, and a SHIELD pilot had been stuck in for hours. Not long after Y/n followed, the Quinjet quickly shot back up to the sky. The old hydra base was set at the top of a short mountain, the build of the base and the woods surrounding it making it impossible to land anywhere close to it. 

“So, you have an idea of how we’re supposed to get inside the base?” Natasha huffed, “If you read the file you would know there should be a keypad panel with the code- 8254181.” Y/n put up her hand defensively as if Natasha could see behind her as they trudge through the forest on the way to the base. 

“You have any plans after this?” Y/n tried to fill the insufferable silence. Natasha just pushed back a branch that (maybe) accidentally hit Y/n in the face, “We don’t have to talk to each other you know that right?” The comment kind of stung but Y/n tried to keep quiet. Besides some exasperated pants and the occasional sigh, the walk through the forest and the hike up the mountain were practically silent. 

Natasha placed down her bag, punching the code into the keypad with Y/n behind her, nothing happened- but within the blink of an eye, a quick sonic blast hit the two. Ears still ringing, Y/n managed to get up and check on Natasha who was knocked out from being closer to the blast. 

“Hey, hey. Natasha, come on. I’m gonna need you to wake up. Please.” Y/n was lightly tapping Natasha’s left cheek. After about two minutes Natasha finally woke up giving Y/n a dazed look causing Y/n to take a quick gasp of relief. With all the adrenaline rushing through her Y/n hadn’t realized until after Natasha woke up that she had been straddling her this whole time. After Natasha murmured something incoherent, Y/n awkwardly jumped off her moving to her side. 

“Uh,” she clears her throat, “Y-you okay?” Natasha scoffs moving herself to sit up by her elbows wincing in between shuffles, “Yeah, yeah. I’m great.” She fully stands up finally, Y/n following suit. Taking out her phone carefully Natasha clicks the on button once, then spams it a bunch of times, “Shit, shit, shit” she hurls the phone off the mountain “Shit.” 

“What the hell was that for?!” Y/n’s tone came out more angry than panicked which caused Natasha to press her hands against her face in frustration, “It was an EMP. The blast was an EMP. And by the looks of it, there’s nothing in there but dust and spiders.” Y/n started pacing, “How the hell are we gonna get out of here.” Instead of hearing an answer, she saw Natasha grab her duffle bag and start walking down the path down the mountain. 

“Where the hell are you going?!” Natasha shrugged throwing up her hands, “If we’re going to be playing the waiting game I’m not doing it up here.” Despite Natasha’s attitude, Y/n followed her down the path leading to the beach, the two settling in the soft warm sand. Of course, a good moment can never last, and Y/n loudly rummaging through her bag ruined it. It took a few seconds but Y/n fished out a granola bar ripping off the plastic wrapping but pausing after. 

She holds out the bar to the redhead, a faint smile on her face, “You want some? You should eat after that hike.” Natasha hesitates for a moment eyeing the granola bar as Y/n waves it lightly, “Fine.” She pinches the bar breaking it into two halves so they could eat separately. Taking small bites off the granola bar Y/n looked closer at the woman next to her, or that is until Natasha herself broke the quiet noises of the ocean. 

“How long do you think we’ll be here?” Y/n laughed quietly to herself, “I thought we didn’t have to talk.” Y/n’s sarcastic comment was quickly followed by a sharp glare from Natasha making Y/n laugh a little harder, “Alright alright. In all seriousness it could be a few hours, a day, a week maybe even more but no matter how long they take” she stands up unzipping her jacket and loosening her pants “I am going to enjoy myself.”  

Finally taking off her jacket and pants, leaving herself in her underwear and tank top. Natasha watched as Y/n splashed into the water sinking her whole body under the moving current. She shot back up from the water with a big grin across her face looking at Natasha, “You should come join me, Romanoff. It’s cold but nice. And there’s no way your thick suit can be comfortable.” 

Natasha ignored the comment focusing her attention in a separate direction. Some part of her wanted to keep looking at Y/n, keep watching, maybe even join her. But it didn’t feel right at the same time. 

Before they both knew it the sun was setting making the ocean shimmer with mixes of yellows and oranges. Y/n got out of the water admiring the sunset with Natasha. She leaned closer to Natasha, “If the sun’s setting it’ll get dark soon. We should start a fire.” 

“We?” Natasha asked finally putting her focus back on Y/n. 

“Do you want to gather sticks alone?” Y/n said with a quick and short laugh. 

“Yes,” Natasha replied quickly getting up and walking toward the woods. Despite wanting to follow Y/n knew now was a time to leave her alone, just for a few minutes at most, while watching the sunset. 

// 

Once Natasha finally came back with the bundle of wood carried like a hammock in the jacket she finally took off, the stars were shimmering and Y/n was lying on her back staring up at them. “I got the wood.” Natasha interrupted staring down at Y/n who was looking up at the sky as if it were her first time. “Thank you.” She finally sat up with Natasha settling down in front of her placing down the wood gently as Y/n started stacking the short pieces, before carefully lighting it with a match. 

The crackling warm light of the fire combined with the cold loud crashes of the ocean offered a type of security, and comfort you could never get in the city. “Why do you hate me so much?” Y/n’s question made everything feel like it went silent for Natasha, “I- I don’t hate you Y/n.” Even though to some Natasha’s answer would be considered enough Y/n rolled her eyes at it. 

“Then why is that the first time I’ve heard you say my name? Or more importantly, why do you always seem angry around? ‘No I’m not working with her’ you said that. It- it just feels like-” Natasha interrupted her, “I don’t hate you Y/n I’m jealous.” She said it so quick it was hard to understand. 

“What?” Natasha slowed her speech, quieter, “I don’t hate you Y/n, I’m jealous, of you.” Despite Natasha speaking slower Y/n still seemed confused, “What do I have for you to be jealous over?” Natasha groaned looking up for a moment as if trying to find the right answer in the sky but inevitably putting her focus back on Y/n. 

“You transitioned into the Avengers and SHIELD so easily. You already get along so well with so many people. And I’m jealous of that. I wish people could look at me the way they look at you.” Y/n put a gentle hand on top of Natasha’s, “Don’t ever say that.” It was Natasha’s turn to be confused, “Why not?” Y/n rubbed soft circles into her hand, “Because, you’re too amazing to be jealous. You should see the way the people who are important in your life look at you. So many people think you’re more than amazing, you just need to look carefully for it.”

“And who would think of me like that?” Natasha knew the answer but she wanted to hear it. Y/n intertwined her hand with Natasha’s, “Me. And others. But at least on this island, me.” Natasha gently tightened her grip on Y/n’s hand moving her focus to the fire, “Can I ask you a question? Since you asked me one.” Y/n raised an eyebrow smiling again, “Yeah, yeah. Totally.” 

“Back on the mountain, after the blast. You were on top of me and looked worried. Why?” Y/n laughed loudly this time, “Did you get a concussion up there? I don’t want you to die.” She cut off her laugh when she caught a glance at Natasha who’s eyes had begun to tear up. Placing a gentle hand on her face Y/n whipped away a stray tear that had started to fall, “And because I care about you Natasha.”  

“How can you care about me with how I treat you?” Y/n shrugged, “Because, I think everyone deserves to be loved and cared about.”  Natasha wiped her head over to Y/n, “You love me?”  

“Yeah, but not romantically” Y/n smiled suggestively, “I could do that over time if you wanted.” That made Natasha smile, “Maybe.” 

It took five days for SHIELD to get back to them, each day the two of them getting closer. Very close. Having them get closer was part of Fury’s plan, but this close? That was not planned, and definitely not expected.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x female #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff x reader #nick fury #clint barton #marvel fancic #marvel imagine

[p-pamda]

In case you're still taking feedback on Riser: I thought it was a nice, classic story (and I don't mean that in a negative way; classics are good!), but the disjointed layout, stark blacks and whites, and cartoon anatomy made it very hard to follow what was happening. I had to read it several times and really squint to make sense of what I was seeing, and even then, some parts were still a confusing mess of shapes for me... Which is a shame, because the ending is really nice to look at! But yeah, I think stricter paneling and composition could really help, otherwise, I feel like it's just confusing. Again, no offense meant, and godspeed!

Heyyy! thanks a lot for taking the time to leave a critique!

Im sorry to hear it was confusing aaa, dont worry you're not the only one who told when I was asking for critique haha, lot of people commented it felt confusing and hard to understand, which sucks cause that's one of the most important things when doing comics aaa.

Taking notes on what you commented, will try my best so the next ones are not so messy! i feel like I tried to chew more that I could while I was doing lots of stuff I had no idea how to do lmaooo.

Really, no offense at all, critique is what helps getting better. Will do my best to learn from this! Thank you very much again for taking the time on leaving a review, means the world <3. Have a wonderful day che!

#riser #ask #askbox #nihilagis #maceta

[antiloreolympus]

10 Anti LO Asks

(Note: All of these asks are before episode 206 (Season 2 finale) so some may be dated.) 1. LMAO there are literal myths from 2k+ years ago of mythology being pro breast feeding?? like there's a myth of Hera being so pro-breastfeeding she doesn't even flinch at the idea of feeding some random baby (Heracles) that Athena was holding who was being fussy. The nymphs are also called "nurses" to various deities and their kids, which including breastfeeding them. why do LO fans act like she's invented everything thats been common place for centuries at this point?

2. The gay representation in this is so bad that I forget about Athena and Hestia being LOVERS. I only remembered cause a fan mentioned them during an argument about diversity 😂 How ironic 

3. the reason RS doesnt get why her "fertility godess" idea is easily broken apart with even a second of thought it because she has this bizarre view of the world where she thinks a mythology that was fairly fluid in its ideals (esp with sex and gender) is to be like you know whats a good idea, separating EVERYTHING by sex to where it's more conservative than 800 BC. zeus is more of a fertility god than persephone is but god forbid rachel not be gender essentialist about everything in this comic

4. I do love that one panel of Persphone dressed as a Fury bc it was supposed to be her being "badass and sexy" that Hades literally GROANED over it (bleh) and it's like MA'AM she literally looks twelve??? does she know even short people have normal proportions as adults??? anyway jail Hades I hate him

5. I've seen some people critique LO for the colorful gods trope and tbh I don't think it's an issue? I think the issue is more how lazy Rachel is with it. Hercules and OSP put thought into the colors with still unique designs, so the color enhances their designs. meanwhile with LO color is their ONLY design, because there's nothing to tell anyone apart besides color, but even then it fails when all the nymphs are just Persephone with pointy ears, and there is now another Hera clone running around

6. The thing is to me Rachel SHOULD take criticism and fix what she can, but her only solutions to any criticism she does listen to is often just?? stupid?? The "internalized misogyny" and "but capitalism!" bits don't actually fix any issue within the comic and it's more of a virtue signal from Rachel she "hears them" but won't actually do anything and just wants them to shut up. It's also as subtle as the color schemes she uses, which is not at all. She's as subtle as a sledgehammer to the face.

7. I saw someone refer to the LO art as a saccharine "gender-reveal art style" and I laughed so hard that I'm never ever calling it anything else again

8. Isn't Persephone in comic confirmed to have stopped aging at 19? so wouldn't a timeskip not help the age gap? i's not like Hades somehow got younger. idk the specifics but it seems she didn't just stop physically aging at 19, she's also mentally and emotionally stuck at 19 too, so her technically being 30+ now doesn't actually help when she's still going to be 19 forever anyway. anyway RS isn't a very good writer.

9. Ok so either the rest of the season now is RS backtracking to do flashbacks which makes the timeskip a waste of time/random bc why not just go through the day by day style she was doing anyway in that case OR she'll just be like "idk YOU imagine what happened i'm moving ahead" which is so?? lazy??? and a waste of everyone's time?? like dont dick your readers around for almost half a decade with stuff that doesnt matter only to NOT show them over a decade of in story development??

10. ZEUS NUMERO UNO!!!! he's a better king than hades

#anti lo #anti lore olympus #lore olympus critical #lo critical

[libermachinae]

Night Shift

Also on AO3! Summary: Prowl and Jetfire analyze leads on a Decepticon smuggling operation, working together late into the night trying to find the missing connections. A sleep deprived slip of the tongue leads Prowl to revisiting old choices. Word Count: 2146

---

Prowl didn’t keep track of his chronometer this late in the night. Morning was inevitable, and he knew he could rely on a burst of messages from Orion to let him know when it had arrived. As such, he had no idea what hour it was when Jetfire broke through the productive silence.

“How did you come up with these predictions?” Jetfire asked. Worst of all, he was speaking with his mouth full, apparently too incensed by Prowl’s logic train to be bothered with common decency. “Every gun you’ve pulled in has been running on fumes; I’ve had to scrape the insides of the barrels just to figure out what they’re fueled on.”

The impressive thing about Jetfire was that even as a voice over the comms, he sounded like the biggest bot in the room. It wasn’t just that his voice was deep; Orion, who wasn’t that much taller than Prowl, had a voice you could feel through the floor panels. It was something about the way Jetfire talked, deliberate and straightforward, rarely stuttering even when caught off-guard. It was refreshing.

“I’ve outlined the logic process in my report. I won’t be repeating it,” Prowl said, scrolling back through his files.

“What are they teaching in the enforcer academy that reports don’t need to communicate anything?” Jetfire grumbled

It would be a reasonable estimate to say they spent 50% of these near nightly calls complaining about their targets, their coworkers, and the administration, and another 40% about each other. Prowl sat through them strictly as a matter of convenience, being a faster mode of communication than the intermittent data bursts preferred by the sanctioned enforcer agencies.

Having someone at the other end of the line also assisted the rust sticks and nucleon microcubes in staving off recharge protocols.

“It’s as I explained to Tumbler: it communicates everything I intended it to.” Ideally, very little to anyone who couldn’t have worked it out themselves. That way, the important information stayed with those who could actually use it, and the rest—

“Who’s Tumbler?”

Prowl lost his train of thought as the rest of his processor caught up to what the .5% he reserved for conversation had said. He froze, rust stick halfway to his mouth.

“No one,” he said.

“Okay.” Jetfire drew out the word. “Did he buy that line?”

No, of course not. Tumbler was always relentless about that sort of thing. His curiosity and drive could have lent to the makings of a detective or captain if he’d dedicated them more often to investigations and less on critiquing Prowl.

“He was young and failed to grasp the necessity of efficiency in our line of work.” Prowl had tried to be patient, but he’d been young too, and Tumbler was the first partner he’d had who would listen to him. Even if it was just to argue that Prowl’s opaque writing was the cause of their inefficiency.

“Hmph.”

Jetfire liked to intersperse their conversations with meaningless noises, and although Prowl needed more samples before he was certain of his explanation, he believed they meant Jetfire didn’t agree with something he’d said but was ending the discussion prematurely. It was illogical, leaving a matter unsettled for which a solution existed, but normally Prowl’s priority queues were ordered such that work came before ideological disagreements.

“What?” he asked, finally setting down the rust stick.

“You’re normally terrible with names,” Jetfire said without hesitation. “I’m just trying to imagine what a bot would have to be like to leave that much of an impression on you.”

“He was talented,” Prowl admitted.

“Do you keep in touch?”

“No.” Prowl straightened his back and flared his sensory panels, ready to move on. “It was not a practical partnership. Being together diminished our respective abilities and prevented us from fulfilling our responsibilities. It was for the betterment—”

“Hey, hold on, Prowl,” Jetfire said, his rolling voice enough to draw Prowl up short. “I know that you—but, you know what that sounds like, right?”

Prowl frowned, immediately recognizing Jetfire’s social theory tone.

“Pragmatism,” he said. “We can’t have everything we want in an ordered society. I—we did what Cybertron needed of us.”

“By disposing of a part of yourself?”

Tumbler hadn’t liked that explanation either.

“We weren’t conjunx.” And for very good reason. There were more important things in life than feelings or fleeting commitments, and it was idealists like Jetfire who—

“Just because it didn’t have a name doesn’t mean it wasn’t important.”

Prowl’s thoughts stumbled. He hadn’t expected Jetfire to say that, not because it was out of character but because he was right. That was the exact sentiment Prowl had tried to put to words maybe half a dozen times and now it was being turned on him like a spotlight.

“There are things that should never be sacrificed,” Jetfire went on. Prowl felt his silhouette thrown into sharp relief. “Things we’re worse off for letting go of.” He paused. “A while ago, I was made an offer: instant entry to the academies. No exams, no fees. Everything I’d ever wanted. In return, though, I would’ve had to give up my wings. My… sponsor, I guess, knew I had the processor for science, just not the frame. They asked for me to give up one part of myself to let the rest go free.”

Prowl shook his helm, leaning away from the speaker. Jetfire’s tone was the same one he occasionally used with Bumblebee. With Prowl, he was hard edges and warning lights. They weren’t this for each other. They didn’t do this.

“You were nearly the victim of a scam,” he said, searching blindly for familiar ground.

“I’m sure it seems that way,” Jetfire said, unperturbed. “Do you get it, though? Giving up any one piece would’ve meant tacit agreement with the Functionists, that I wasn’t fit to do my work in any form but what they prescribed. Even if I’d told myself it was for Cybertron, it really would’ve been a sacrifice in their honor, and nothing would ever be worth that.”

Prowl wasn’t entirely obtuse. He understood what Jetfire was saying, but he couldn’t afford to hear it, not with everything he had already done and the plans he had yet to set in motion. Maybe Jetfire had found a way to live that allowed him to maintain his idealistic commitments, but most mechanisms weren’t so lucky. Everyone had to give up something.

“And now you’re here, working on behalf of the Senate,” Prowl said, just to prove that point.

Jetfire made his noise again.

“Right, I forgot,” he said. Annoyed or frustrated: the usual feelings they brought out in each other. “Waste of time. Forget I said anything.”

Prowl wouldn’t, but he also wasn’t going to give Jetfire an excuse to keep pontificating.

It would have been a waste of their time, anyhow, because however sincere Jetfire was in his admission, Prowl had never understood the hypocrisy of bots who would claim to reject Functionism while maintaining an almost fanatical devotion to their frames. In some intangible sense, maybe he did enjoy the opportunity to go for a long drive, but he couldn’t imagine himself grieving his tires for their own sake. He tried to compare it to what he had felt when Tumbler had said going to Kaon was a selfish, pretentious idea and immediately recoiled.

“Results are exactly what I told you,” Jetfire said. Prowl realized he hadn’t gotten any work done in the last several kliks. “Not nearly the concentration of materials to support your theory the Decepticons have contacts in Uraya, and a few that will probably trace back to Kaon, like everything else.”

“I’d like to see for myself,” Prowl said, standing. He didn’t often get this badly distracted, and it was easy to pin it on the state of his desk: used energon cubes and wrappers from the cheap snacks he kept fueled on littered the spaces he should have been using for case notes and displays. When was the last time he’d cleaned?

“Really?” Jetfire asked. “The data’s pretty clear.”

“Humor me.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?”

Neither said goodbye before they hung up: another of their customs.

Prowl cleared the mess into the trash. Exhaustion was nibbling at his processor like a corrosive. Another couple shots would get him through his morning meetings, and then a regular midday fueling would carry him over until he could recharge properly in the evening. Before that, though, the day had to begin, an event he discovered was closer than he’d expected when he stepped outside and saw the horizon just tilting toward the pale blue of an oncoming dawn.

The air was gentle, the pleasant cool that foreshadowed a blistering day. Jetfire was a dot over the Rodion skyline. Prowl glanced up at the few stars that could punch through the light pollution and was reminded, suddenly, of the time he and Tumbler had discussed getting a little patch of metal out on the Tungsten Moors. The barren sparkfields had felt nonetheless fertile with possibilities, and they had gotten hung up on whether it would be more practical to live in a house with two stories or just one. It had been a fantasy, nothing more; even on their joint income, it would have taken millions of years to save up. But there had been something, if not fulfilling, thrilling about it, making plans that didn’t hinge on work or promotions.

He wondered if Tumbler remembered that conversation.

Jetfire’s slow approach gave Prowl time to dwell while keeping an idle optic on his teammate. There was nothing spectacular about Jetfire’s flying: Prowl had worked with and chased down fliers who were faster, more maneuverable, and flashier in every way. But there was something resolute and sure about the way Jetfire coasted, a steadiness that Prowl would have appreciated sooner if he’d noticed it, his thoughts of Tumbler and past mistakes and pointless sacrifice sliding away as he watched Jetfire’s flight.

Jetfire’s flying was beautiful, in its own way. Its understatement reminded Prowl of his own assembly line colors, but with an underlying confidence that left Prowl feeling inadequate. Though technically strong, his power was limited to what he could siphon off Orion and their other high-level contacts. He’d experienced a taste of the real thing under Sentinel, but that had been an especially tenuous connection, liable to snap had he ever tugged too hard. Jetfire’s power was all his own. Not overwhelming, not enough to make the changes Cybertron needed. Incomparable, really, to what Prowl had wielded. But it radiated from the tips of his wings to the burn of his thrusters, self-realized, without reservation or concession.

Prowl’s tac net pinged him with the results for a problem he hadn’t realized he’d plugged in: 50% Prowl should have been strong enough to find another way, 50% choosing Tumbler would have made him stronger.

A perfect 50-50 meant his systems were badly in need of defrag. He cleared the cache and set his tac net to reboot, shaking his helm to dispel the resulting vertigo as Jetfire landed on the steps below him. Prowl waited patiently for him to complete his mode switch, taking two steps back so they would be at optic level with each other.

“Pleasant flight?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t trade it for anything,” Jetfire said with a smugness that allowed Prowl to scoff as he motioned for the datapad.

Jetfire handed it over. Prowl knew he was being watched as he powered it on and reviewed its contents, but he took his time, using Jetfire’s results to run through a few warm up calculations as his tac net came back online.

“You didn’t check for copper fluoride,” he commented.

“No,” Jetfire said slowly, “because it wasn’t one of the compounds we were investigating.”

“Run the tests again.” Prowl tried to return the datapad, but Jetfire refused to take it. “The chances we would find evidence of materials native to the Urayan region were always slim to none. However, the old blackmarket pipeline between Kaon and Yuss ran directly underneath the city. Does that make more sense?”

Prowl saw the moment Jetfire finally saw the case as he did, a knotted web of deceptions meant to dissuade even the most seasoned detective from untangling its core. Jetfire took the datapad from Prowl and stowed it, though the hard look in his optics did not waver.

“Could’ve said that from the beginning,” Jetfire griped.

Prowl didn’t bother to respond. What was done was done. Talking so much about the past was a waste of time neither of them could afford, because for all that it might have mattered, nothing they said could change any of it. All they had was the future, and the possibility of starting each day stronger than they had the one before.

#finally remembered to upload! #maccadam #transformers #prowl #jetfire #my writing #oneshot

[sgtbradfords]

I just had an idea and I don’t think anyone wrote about it yet 🙈

SE2E12 when Lucy takes down that guy at the speed dating place

Any chance you would write something on that?

Lucy shutting down, nayla and Harper not being able to help her and having to call Tim to come and help

This turned out really cute and I am kinda happy with how it turned out... I hope you enjoy anon! :)

Lucy Chen thought they would be going to a bar or a club for her first girl’s night out with Nyla Harper and Angela Lopez. But no, what the two officers had planned was so much worse.

Speed dating.

As soon as she read the white words on the hideous pink sign, her fight or flight response kicked in. She wanted to run but knowing her two friends, they would never allow that. She tried talking her way out of it, didn’t work. So, she took the only option left, being to rope them into their own scheme.

‘Trust your judgement.’ They said. ‘Control the environment.’

‘Bullshit.’ Lucy thought as she took a seat, a sip of liquid courage coursing through her veins.

The night had started off decent, easily picking out the creeps to be vague to and actively ignoring the weirdos who sent a shiver down her spine. Though, she was not much better, as she came off a little too forward with the men that sat down in the seat across from her.

The buzzer sounded, announcing the end of the night as she and the last prospect, Isaiah stood. He told her he had a good evening, to which she off-handedly agreed. She heard him before she could see him as he reached out, pulling at the loose thread on her sweater.

She reacted instantly, his hands were moving towards her and all she could think about was the last time a set of unwanted hands approached her.

Lucy had him on the floor with his hands secured behind his back in eight seconds flat, Nyla and Angela running over when Lucy laid him out.

“Hey.” Nyla told her placing a hand on her shoulder, bringing her out of her daze. “You’re ok. It’s alright.”

She could hear the shrieks of people being startled around her, Angela’s voice foggy as she spoke to the man she just laid out. Her breathing increased rapidly, adrenaline coursing through her veins as her heart pounded in her chest.

Lucy never heard the question that Nyla was asking as she pulled out of the hold the other woman had on her arm. Her body moved on it’s own accord, her feet carrying her quickly, returning her to the car she had vacated not even an hour earlier, pulling on the handle of the car, sitting down in the passenger seat before she hit the automatic lock button, locking the doors.

“Hey, Chen?” said Nyla as she knocked on the window.

Lucy took a shaky breath to steady herself, focusing on grounding her mind.

“Lucy?” Angela asked as she pulled on the handle of the locked door, hitting the button of her car, unlocking it.

Lucy’s right hand hovered over the switch panel, pressing the button to lock the doors back.

Angela hit it again, only for the occupant of the vehicle to lock it back.

“Seriously. What do we do?” she asked looking over the top of the vehicle.

Nyla pulled out her phone, her thumb scrolling on the screen before pressing the glass, moving the phone to her ear. “Hey. You busy? Yes, I know you’re off duty. We’ve kinda got a situation. I mean kinda like you’ll find out when you get here. We’re in the pay by the hour parking lot on 42nd street. You can’t miss us.” She said before ending the call, placing the phone back into the back pocket of her jeans. “Well, this has been an experience.”

“He on his way?”

Nyla nodded, leaning back on the car. “Relax, she’s not going to budge.”

Angela glanced into the car, standing between the car and the one next to it, keeping an eye on the woman sitting in the passenger seat.

“You meet anyone interesting?”

Nyla snorted, telling Angela about the guy who got up and ran from the table holding a hand to his mouth, and the one she thoroughly grossed out, telling her the stories she had told them.

“What about you?” Angela had just asked when a familiar truck pulled in off the road.

Tim Bradford pulled his truck into the parking lot, stopping at the automated machine to pay for parking, grabbing his ticket before pulling up behind the car he knew all too well. He put the vehicle in park, pressing the button to roll down the passenger side window. “I’m not going to be your DD Harper.”

Nyla walked over to the truck, resting her arms on the sill of the window. “We may have done something stupid.”

“Define stupid.”

Angela walked over, joining Nyla as she looked at the driver guiltily. “I may have pushed Lucy too hard.”

Tim’s face dropped, concern quickly taking over before he could mask the emotion. “What did you do?” he asked as he unbuckled, opening the door of the truck.

Angela shared a look with Nyla, “We may have gone speed dating.”

Tim stared her as he rounded the truck. “You what?”

“She agreed, after some encouragement and bribing.”

“Speed dating.” Tim said as he ran a hand over his face. “What happened?”

“She had a loose string on her shirt and one of the imbeciles tried to pull it without telling her.” Nyla began telling him.

“Then she laid him out. It was impressive really.”

“Not the point Angela. Listen, we tried to calm her down, but she ran out of there and locked herself in the car.”

Sighing Tim moved towards the driver’s side of the car. “Unlock the car.”

Angela hit the button, Tim opening the door simultaneously, getting in behind the wheel before he pulled the door close.

Lucy stared ahead as the vehicle shook, her training officer sliding into the seat next to her, his chest against the steering wheel as his left-hand moved to his side, fumbling with the buttons on the side of the seat.

“How the hell does Ang drive like this?” he grumbled as the seat began sliding all the way back, his long legs slowly unfolding. “So, what happened boot?”

Lucy held a hand to her face, her elbow resting in-between the glass of the window and the door as she continued staring ahead, watching the things moving around the outside world of the vehicle.

“You’re uncharacteristically quiet.”

“Are you here as my boss or as my friend?” She asked, moving her hand down from her face as she began to wring her fingers.

Tim thought for a second, hesitating before answering. “Friend.” They were friends and they were coworkers but somehow, they were also more than that, their working chemistry setting the base of their friendship outside the four sides of the shop.

“I thought I was ready.” She sighed.

“For?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Something more.”

Tim nodded. “It’s only been two months boot. Your recovery isn’t something that will fix itself overnight.”

Lucy somberly let out a lone laugh. “Like hell it will! I’m tired Tim. I’m tired of the pity, I’m tired of the looks, tired of it all. I just want to put it behind me, live a normal life.”

“I know.” He whispered. “But neither one of us has a time machine Chen.”

“Tim, it wasn’t-“

“Don’t. Don’t say it wasn’t my fault. I’m the one who- I almost lost you Lucy.” He told her, his voice cracking at the admission.

“We talked about this the other night. What happened was neither here nor there and both of us are going to have to move on from it sooner or later.”

Tim knew that his rookie was growing restless, the outcome of those twenty-four hours still eating away at her. “I think… what you need, is to find an outlet.”

“An outlet.” She stated, turning her head to face him.

“Something that takes the stress off, where your thoughts disappear and I don’t mean paintball, something a little more strenuous.”

Lucy snorted, rolling her eyes. “Isn’t that what sex is for?”

“That’s not a healthy outlet.”

“And what, Officer Bradford, is your healthy outlet?”

“I have a few, one of them being running.” He told her shrugging. “I try, every day, to run. In the morning, in the evening, doesn’t matter. If you hold onto the shit that we see on the job, you’re going to implode.”

She nodded. “So, what would you suggest?”

“Everyone’s different, you just have to find something that works for you.”

Lucy mulled over his words, silence enveloping the car before she took the opportunity to speak. “Thank you.”

“I would say anytime Chen but you’re making me miss Thursday night football.”

Lucy shoved his shoulder. “I’m sorry for ruining your Thursday with my insecurities.”

Tim flashed her a smile. “We all have our days boot. I do have to say that I wouldn’t mind seeing the video of you putting this guy in his place though.”

“What, so you can critique me?”

“No, so I can see you laying this guy out on his ass.” He said with pride in his voice. “Then critique you.”

A knock sounded on the driver side window. “If you two are done with whatever this is,” Angela said, gesturing between the two “we would like to get out of here.”

“Find an outlet boot.” He said as he pulled the handle of the door, his tall frame exiting the car. “You three text me when you get home.”

“Awwwe look Ang, I think he’s worried.” Nyla teased as Tim walked back towards his waiting truck, the man raising his right hand up the air as he flashed his middle finger.

It took several days and shifts to find what he was talking about, but as she wrapped her hands in tape, a bag of sand hanging in front of her, she took the advice given to her to heart. Lucy couldn’t help the smile that overtook her as she replayed the conversation that followed the disaster that was the other night as she began hitting the swaying bag. ‘Find an outlet boot.’

“Bring your elbow up.” A voice spoke from a few feet behind her causing her to jump.

“Giving boxing advice now are we Officer Bradford?”

Tim shrugged off the bag on his shoulder, letting it fall to the ground. “No but, I would rather you hit the bag properly than have a bummed wrist tomorrow and us get into a shootout.”

Lucy jabbed the bag. “Sounds like advice to me.”

He rolled his eyes. “Do you want my help or not?”

She stopped the swaying bag, grasping it with both hands. “Fine.”

Tim stepped closer, moving into her line of sight as he stood next to the bag. He began critiquing her, Lucy adjusting her stance and positioning countless times as he began placed a pair of boxing pads on his hands. “Enough with the bag. Hit me boot.”

“What?” she said in astonishment. “I’m not-“

“You will Chen, hit me.”

Lucy took a swing at him, missing him as he ducked. “Again.” He ordered.

She forcefully swung her right arm, her throw landing on the soft padding. “Good. Again.”

They kept it up, Tim counteracting her throws and punches, throwing in his own punches that she successfully blocked for the most part.

“See? Outlet.” He told her as he pulled a bottle of water from his bag, taking a sip.

Lucy began unwrapping her wrists, wading the tape into a ball. “Thanks, Tim.”

“You’ve got a mean right hook but your uppercut could use some work. We’ll meet back here in two days boot.” He told her, gathering his bag, moving towards the door.

“Don’t I spend enough time with you already?”

Tim turned around, smirking. “Two days boot.”

Lucy sighed, turning around mumbling under her breath. “He’s lucky I like him.”

“Heard that!” he yelled as the door closed.

#the rookie fic #chenford fic #chenford fanfic #tim bradford x lucy chen #fanfic #chenford

[grimrester]

The Heat

The fall semester of my last year of art school had barely started when the air conditioning in the senior art studios broke. If I lived further north that might not have been a problem, but I lived in Georgia, where the summer heat didn't quite break until September or October. And it was still August.

To make matters worse, the studios were in an old building with high ceilings and big glass panels built into the steep, sloped roof. All the natural lighting normally would've been a blessing. But with the air conditioning broken, it instead turned the studios into an oven. Heat seeped in all day long and remained trapped there indefinitely.

The studios themselves were two rows of cubicles with high, 8ft walls, built right in the center of the building after the college had purchased it. The open ceilings of each cell and the large gap between the cubicle wall and the sloped windows above allowed the light - and the heat - to reach anyone who might be working inside them. Each graduating senior was assigned a specific cubicle as their personal, 24/7 studio space.

There was a big hallway around the perimeter of the building. One section of the hallway widened to make space for a sink to wash brushes in and a table and chairs for critique sessions. The bathroom was there, too - a unisex one with a derelict little door, nearly hanging off its hinges.

Initially I'd worried that having just one toilet in the building wouldn't be enough, but it ended up not being an issue. Most of the students didn't last long. The heat during the day was too oppressive. At times, the air in the building was so suffocating that the heat almost felt like a physical presence, like a large creature weighing down on our shoulders, crushing us under its weight.

---

I caught the student assigned to the cell next to mine moving out all his paintings just a couple weeks into the semester.

"Hey," I said, pausing outside the door to my own cubicle to gawk. The student - I never bothered to learn his name - looked entirely morose as he stacked a few canvases by the door. "Moving out already?"

"Yeah," he said, solemnly, heavily dropping another canvas on the pile. "I have no idea how you can work in here. My oils keep melting."

"What?" I said, confused. I shuffled over to get a look at the top painting on the stack, and sure enough, the half-finished landscape he'd made with oil paint was completely distorted. Strangely, the melted paint seemed to be in round sections, about as large as my head, scattered all over the canvas.

"It's fucking weird, right?" he said, following my gaze.

"Wouldn't it melt all over?" I asked. "Why is it just in some parts?"

"Beats the hell out of me," he replied. "My best guess is it was cloudy or something so it melted unevenly where the sun got to it."

"Guess it's lucky I work with ink," I said. "It dries fast so it'd sooner burst into flames than melt, and it's too humid in here for a fire."

The student clucked his tongue. "I shoulda used acrylic. Might've held up better." He sighed and picked up the stack. "Too late now, I guess. I'm going to see if I can salvage them at home."

"Good luck," I said, watching him go. At least he had the option of working at home. My apartment was too small for the large paintings I wanted to make, so I was forced to bear the heat.

---

I and the few other students who had to work in the little plaster cells complained to the administration about the heat many times, but I guess our small group just wasn't a priority because the air conditioner remained broken. The heat remained an issue into September, even when the outside air had cooled off a little. I began to think there was something wrong with the building, that perhaps the AC was spitting out hot air or the large windows had been specifically designed to turn the place into an oven.

I eventually started coming into the studios later and later, hoping that the space would at least cool down at nighttime. I preferred working in crappy, dim synthetic lighting over standing there with the sun bearing down on me through the open top of my cubicle. But even at night, the heat was terrible. It felt muggy, smothering. I felt the weight of it on me from the moment I entered the studios.

To add to the uncomfortable conditions, the building was pretty old and made creaking and moaning noises as it marginally cooled down overnight. The exposed pipes near the ceiling were especially noisy, making all sorts of awful, creepy groans. I'd mostly gotten used to them after a while.

Then one night it got worse.

I was in my cubicle, in the final stages of one of my larger ink drawings. I was painstakingly cleaning up some lines with a fine brush when suddenly there was a huge slamming noise, loud enough that I could hear it through my music and earbuds. I jolted, screwing up my line in the process, and hissed through my teeth.

"What was that?" I called out, taking out one earbud. I thought maybe one of the artists who worked in the far end cubicles had dropped something or fallen over, but there was no reply.

I cracked the door of my cubicle and peeked out, looking around either end of the hallway. Nothing seemed amiss, so I just closed my door again and went back to work. I assumed it was just a new pipe noise or something.

Maybe fifteen minutes later, I was trying to decide on a new playlist when it happened again. My music wasn't playing, so I heard it clearer this time - a loud BAM noise from the back building wall, several cubicles away from me. It almost sounded like some huge beast was outside, hurling its body against the side of the building, trying to get inside.

But that would be silly. This was the first time I'd stayed past midnight and these noises were probably normal at this time of night. I just hadn't heard them before.

I tried to focus on picking a playlist. The noise happened again. But this time, the brushes on my work table rattled in their mason jar from the force.

I stared at them. I'd never heard a building settle so hard that it made things move.

I suddenly had the feeling that something was very wrong. I felt queasy - my stomach tightened and churned. Maybe I was just not feeling well and the heat was exasperating it? I'd been working long hours and late nights in the studio, so it was possible I'd made myself sick. I felt the need to vomit, and I hoped it would make my nausea subside.

I pulled my earbuds out and left my studio, walking quickly to the bathroom. The slamming noise echoed out again, on the other side of the building. I locked the rickety bathroom door behind me, my moist palms sliding against the metal handle as I did so. The back of my neck felt wet, too, that sort of gross, warm moistness that comes with the Georgia heat.

I knelt by the toilet, face hovering over the bowl. I still felt sick but nothing was coming up. I pressed my fist into my stomach hard and tried to retch, but still nothing happened. The nausea was starting to make me dizzy. Did I get heat stroke or something?

The door rattled behind me.

"Someone's in here!" I called out, my voice warbling a little. Weird, I thought, since the studios had been quiet all night. I thought I was the only one there.

The door rattled harder, the whole thing shaking with the effort.

"Jesus," I muttered. Then, louder, "I said, it's occupied!"

The rattling increased and there was a loud BANG as something hit the door hard. I twisted around and stared, gripping the toilet seat, shocked. Who the fuck needed the bathroom that badly? Whoever was outside smacked the door hard again and I worried that the shitty, old wood would simply splinter under the force.

Then, just as quickly as it started, it stopped. The rattling and banging just ceased. I stared at the door a little longer, wondering if the person outside had left yet. I didn't particularly want to run into them if a locked bathroom door was enough to make them throw a fit outside. I waited and waited, to be sure they left, so long that my nausea had subsided.

Put off by the whole experience, I quickly gathered my things from my studio and left for the night.

---

When I returned the next night, the heat was inexplicably worse than before. I couldn't even listen to music to distract myself this time. I was a little worried that whoever had given me a hard time in the bathroom would come back, and I didn't want to miss hearing them coming if for some reason they were on a warpath.

The relative silence of the studio was decidedly eerie. There was a faint buzz from the lights and the occasional groaning and moaning of old pipes, but otherwise you could hear a pin drop. I began to rethink my decision on the music because the silence was spooky and setting me on edge. I thought maybe I could play it on my phone's speaker so I could still hear someone coming. But then, if they were there and so quiet I couldn't hear them, playing music out loud might've pissed them off…

My train of thought was interrupted by that awful, thundering slamming noise from the far wall of the building. The great, hulking beast I had imagined was back.

Sweat began to gather on my palms and neck again and I put my brush down to wipe my hands on my pants. The air in the studio became so muggy that breathing suddenly felt like inhaling swamp water.

Hardly a moment later, there it was again - BAM. My paintbrushes rattled in the little jar. My first thought that maybe whoever had needed the bathroom yesterday was throwing another fit, but it really sounded like something massive hitting the wall. Something too massive for one person to hurl.

I once again had the distinct feeling that something was wrong. What would have the kind of force to make everything move like that? Was the old building going to collapse?

BAM - louder this time.

Maybe this was some bizzare, localized earthquake, I told myself. It didn't matter that I'd never heard of an earthquake that behaved this way. It seemed more likely than the alternative I imagined, that some huge beast was hurling its hairy, grotesque body against the walls.

I sat motionless, listening closely.

BAM. My door rattled.

There was no mistaking it that time. The sound wasn't getting louder - the source of it was just getting closer.

The monster I had imagined wasn't outside and trying to get in. It was already inside the building.

I stared, frozen in place, at my studio door. I felt ridiculous. How would some kind of monster large enough to shake the walls even get through the building's doors?

BAM. Even closer now.

BAM. It sounded like it was right outside my door. I could see the handle shake with the force. Something was definitely wrong. This wasn't an earthquake and it wasn't some deranged art student. There was something out there and it wanted to be in here, with me. I tried to take deep breaths to remain calm, but sucking in big gulps of warm, humid air just made me feel queasy again. I looked around, trying to find somewhere to hide, but my cubicle was bare - just a folding table and a stool. There was nowhere to go. I pressed myself against the corner of my cell, as far away from my door as possible.

There was a long moment where there was no sound - not the slamming, not the usual groaning of the pipes. I slid down to the hard concrete floor and waited. Perhaps it was over?

The door handle rattled, this time unaccompanied by any slamming noise.

My breath caught. Sweat dripped down my forehead. I stared, watching as the handle jiggled. Whatever was making it move seemed unable to turn it properly, just fumbling it around without getting it to unlatch.

I waited. The handle stopped moving.

There was another moment of dead silence. Then another new sound - fast, heavy, stomping footsteps, heading towards the section of hallway with the bathroom, table, and sink.

I got up and grabbed my phone and bag. I didn't know what the fuck was going on, but I couldn't stay there any longer.

There was a creaking noise, and then a terrible thumping sound, like something had just hit the ground hard. Then crashing, over in one of the cubicles on the far end, as though whatever had been in the hall had used the table in the critique area to hop the cubicle wall and was now making a mess inside. Another creak, another thump, more crashing, closer, just a few cubicles away.

I threw my cubicle door open. I just had to make it to the main door, but it was all the way on the other side of the building. I'd have to run around half the perimeter hallway to get there.

So I ran.

The beast, whatever it was, continued into another cubicle - creak, thump, crash. Then it paused as I rounded the first corner, my sneakers squeaking on the concrete. A terrible dread settled in my stomach. It was listening and it knew I was trying to leave. It didn't make any noise - no breathing, no wailing, no roaring - but I somehow still got the sense that it was pissed off by my attempted escape.

I rounded the second corner. I could see the door just ahead.

A creak. I looked at the tops of the cubicles as I ran for the door, but there was nothing there. No hairy beast hovering over the wall and dropping into the next studio. I slowed my running.

A thump. A crash. A creak.

I paused, my hand on the front door, my mouth gaping as I looked at the tops of the cubicles. I felt I had to see it, had to know I wasn't just crazy, but it seemed there was no beast to see.

Then I finally saw it, lurching over the wall, headed right for me. Warped air, shimmering, the way streets do on a hot day. A mass of heat made alive, barely visible unless you're looking closely. It was hard to tell the boundaries of it, but I could tell it was huge, fat enough that it nearly didn't fit in the cubicle it was lumbering out of.

It dropped down over the wall, landing in the hallway, with a thunderous thud.

I pushed the door open and ran into the night. I ran and ran and didn't look behind me. I didn't hear its thumping footsteps, but it was so difficult to see that looking might not have helped anyway.

I ran all the way back to my apartment, about a mile from campus. I slammed and locked the door behind me, blasted my air conditioner, and hid in my bed until morning.

---

I was eating a late breakfast, wondering if I'd somehow imagined the whole thing, when a friend called me.

"Were you in the studios last night?" she asked, a touch of panic in her voice, forgoing any pleasantries.

"No." The lie slipped out easily. I had that feeling of inexplicable dread again. "Why?"

"Apparently there was some huge break in," she said. "All the studios were trashed! It sounds like the people who did it didn't even take anything, they just… melted a bunch of stuff. Paintings, metals, anything meltable."

I struggled to think of an adequate response, just stared down at my soggy cereal. "Huh. Weird," I managed.

"Do you think they'll put some extra security on the building?" she asked. "It's weird they leave it unlocked all the time."

"No," I said, thinking of the broken air conditioning. "Knowing them, they'll probably just leave it, since no one got hurt."

---

I never told anyone what I saw that night. What would I even say? Who would believe me? Anyone would just assume I was crazy or suffering from heat exhaustion.

But I wish I'd at least tried.

I waited a week before going back to the studios to clean out my cubicle. I went during the day this time. I wouldn't be there long and I had encountered the creature at night so it seemed safer.

The building seemed empty when I arrived, but as soon as I opened the doors there was a terrible smell. It was sickly-sweet and sour, like trash left out in the sun. I pinched my nose as I rounded the corners to my cubicle, but the smell only got worse. It was so overpowering as I rounded the second corner that I considered cutting my losses and just leaving.

The cubicle door on the end was left wide open. Was someone in here working? I looked inside as I passed, then froze.

There, huddled under the table as though hiding from something, was a body. It was withered as though there for some time, almost mummy-like, the skin leathery and dry like beef jerky. The eyes were wide open, dry little balls pointed right in my direction.

I didn't scream. I just turned around, walked out of the building, and called the police.

---

The autopsy said the student died of dehydration and heat stroke. The news reported it as some sort of freak accident, a student that got so lost in their art that they stopped taking care of themselves and passed out in that hot studio, baking alive until they finally died.

The air conditioning finally got fixed after that.

#this is a short horror story :) #it was made for r/nosleep but i thought id also post it here #short story #creative writing #horror #horror stories #tw death

[whattheheehaw]

Hi! I’m sorry you’re getting shitty anons about this and you’re probably sick of it so I apologise for asking this but I’m genuinely curious what made you start actively disliking zutara? Like, considering how much excellent and insightful content/meta you yourself used to make/write? I get that interests change over time and you’re totally valid!! the anons sending you hate over it are really dumb, but if you’d be ok with sharing, I’d be really interested in hearing why you’ve done almost a complete 180 on the ship? Was is just burnout/end of a hyper-obsession? Or was it some of us in the rest of the fandom that turned you off? Or was it even something about the ship/characters themselves that you changed your mind about? xx

In short, it was a combination of burnout, dissatisfaction with fandom, and disappointment in myself that caused my disinterest for Zvtara.

I got asks similar to this one a couple of times before, but I never gave a comprehensive answer, mainly because I didn't know how to articulate my reasons why I don't like it anymore. But now that I've been out of ZK fandom for a month and have had some time to reflect, I think I can give a much more thorough response. Beware, this is long and I heavily critique the Zvtara fandom, so if you're a ZK shipper, keep reading at your own risk.

My first minor annoyance with Zvtara is that the fandom has a tendency to idolize certain fics and creators. And while there’s certainly nothing inherently wrong about that, I feel like the Zvtara fandom does it to such an extent that it influences the type of content that content creators make in order to get recognition. And to illustrate my point, I’m going to talk about one of the most famous Zvtara fics of all time: Once Around The Sun by eleventy7.

Don’t get me wrong, I love OATS. I think it’s a great fanfic and I think the author devoted a lot of time and effort to make it such an excellent fic. The plot, the development of the characters and their relationships to one other, and the messages about family and love were all brilliantly written. I mean, there is a reason why it’s regarded as the “Zvtara Bible”. This one fanfic had such a profound impact upon the ZK fandom, and I think the biggest impact that came from it is the dramatic influx of post-war Zvtara AU fanfiction. 

Because so many people kept reading OATS and recommending it to others, I think there was an overall interest in ZK fics that take place in a post-war setting. And I think that all of the high praise towards OATS made more fic writers start to write post-war fanfics because of this demand for post-war AU.* I normally wouldn't complain about it because more content is more content, but in my opinion, 99% of ZK post-war fics are the same fic but in different fonts.

Like, there's at least 3 of these elements in every ZK post-war fanfic:

Ambassador Katara

An assassination attempt (usually on Zuko's life)

A healing scene between Zuko and Katara (usually Katara heals Zuko)

Aang and/or Mai is pushed to the side or vilified to some extent in order to make ZK happen

A private journey between Zuko and Katara to facilitate #6

S L O W B U R N (that's not really slowburn and more like "I love you and I very much want to be vocal about my feelings but #7 is in this fic" but the love story takes up like 30 chapters so I guess it's a slowburn?)

Zuko's advisers don't want him to get married to Katara because ✨racism✨

Ursa is found

Azula is in the fic because a) she's going to get a healing arc ft. Zuko and Katara and thereby helps them get together or b) she's the villain and thereby helps them get together

ZK wedding happens in the FN

After reading multiple post-war fics back to back, I could tell that the format was pretty much the same across the board, which isn't very interesting for me to read. My only other fic options in the Zvtara tag on AO3 are canon divergence fics which almost always take place during The Crossroads of Destiny or after The Southern Raiders. And to some extent, those stories are pretty much the same too. There's nothing really new or creative going on in the ZK fandom fic-wise, and because of that, my interest in ZK fandom started to dwindle.

My second issue with Zvtara is that it's a very old ship from a very old show. Because there's been 10+ years since the end of A:TLA, every nuanced point about shipping and the show itself have been talked to death.** There's just nothing new to say. It's the same arguments being rehashed over and over again in the tag because there's no other interpretation one can come up with.

For example, there's so many people who talk about why Zvtara as depicted in The Southern Raiders is not toxic and that's great and all, but I (and most likely many others) have read those same points about five times already. And for some reason, each time this happens, people act like someone just discovered the lost city of Atlantis when they bring up their new-but-not-new argument in defense of Zvtara. Honestly, I'm ashamed to say that I'm not exempt from being part of the group of people that reiterate old arguments. I've done it with one of my posts about The Southern Raiders and I've done it again with my Zutara/Omashu parallels post.

There's no new content to really dissect and analyze (especially considering Zuko and Katara are rarely in the same panel in any of the post-war comics), and because of this, people are just restating points that someone else made several years ago.*** And even if someone did have a different interpretation of an episode, their ideas would most likely be shut down because for the past several years, the same interpretation has been recycled through the fandom repeatedly and people are resistant to new perspectives.

This brings me to the third thing that I dislike about Zvtara: the insistence that there can only be one way to interpret The Southern Raiders. For the longest time, I've read take after take that said if Katara decided to kill Yon Rha, it would be ok because that's her grief to deal with and if she thinks that's the best way to mete out justice, then good for her. And again, I'm ashamed to say that I perpetuated that idea in a few of my own posts. I have always thought that "Katara killing Yon Rha is ok" is just a bad take in general, but I didn't want to vocalize that opinion when so many people—so many of the nice mutuals that I made—all shared that same opinion. Taking down a popular opinion of your own ship is completely different from taking down a popular opinion of a ship that you dislike. The Zvtara fandom is the first fandom that I was actually active in and I wanted to fit in so badly with everyone else that I just parroted whatever other people said, even if I didn't agree with those sentiments.

This leads me to my final reason why I don't want to be a part of ZK fandom anymore. I think I established myself as a "meta" person pretty early on and because of that, I constantly felt pressured to come up with new takes on the ship. And when people started flooding my ask box with stuff like "Can you write a meta about your thoughts on the idea that 'Zuko only took Katara on that field trip in TSR because he wanted her to forgive him'?" and "What are your thoughts about antis saying Zuko and Katara are toxic because of TSR?", I realized that I don't need to come up with new takes. People just want me to paraphrase something that 10 other people said about the same exact topic, because if I said what I actually thought about the subject (i.e. there is some truth in what antis say about TSR and it's not as much of a "Zvtara episode" that most people make it out to be), I'd probably get ZK shippers in the replies telling me that I'm wrong because x, y, and z or "you shouldn't tag this as Zvtara".

And that was pretty much how my love for ZK turned into disinterest. I was and still am disappointed that I didn't stick to my personal opinions. For as much as I talk about herd mentality on Twitter, I certainly don't practice what I preach. In all honesty, the only reason why I held on so long to ZK fandom was because I had so many nice mutuals there and we all shared this collective distaste for antis. I think I started to become more anti-Zvkka and anti-Kataang than pro-Zvtara, which isn't what I wanted to do when I made this Tumblr blog.

The thing that made me joke about becoming anti-Zvtara was the fact that some ZK shippers just like to send shitty anons to people whom they've reblogged countless different metas from. Sending shitty anons to people in the first place is wrong, but sending them to people who tagged their posts correctly and did nothing wrong is just disgusting.

*I'm not a fic writer and can't speak for fic writers, but it definitely feels like a lot of ZK fic authors are pushing themselves to write the next OATS, and by doing so, they are proliferating the tag with post-war fics that have very similar aspects to OATS.

**I think that as more people point out the same nuanced points about Zvtara, it diminishes the actual significance of those points. Like, it's hard to explain but the more people talk about the subtleties of the ship, the more those parts become glaringly obvious and I become numb to their actual impact on the characters and the show.

***At this point, if someone wanted to make a new argument about Zvtara, I think they would have to look very closely at every little detail in every single one of their scenes together to find a crumb of new meta material. And speaking from experience, it's not very fun trying to make a mountain out of a molehill. Whenever I post a "meta" like that, I feel like I'm reaching to make a point that doesn't exist.

#anti zutara #anonymous #ask and ye shall receive

[lilydalexf]

Old School X is a project interviewing X-Files fanfic authors who were posting fic during the original run of the show. New interviews are posted every Tuesday.

Interview with Syntax6

Syntax6 has 17 stories at Gossamer, but you should visit her website for the complete collection of her fics and to see the cover art that comes with many of the stories (and to find her pro writing!). She's written some of the most beloved casefiles in the fandom. I've recced literally all of them here before. Twice. Big thanks to Syntax6 for doing this interview.

Does it surprise you that people are still interested in reading your X-Files fanfics and others that were posted during the original run of the show (1993-2002)?

I’m delighted but not surprised because I’ve written and read fanfic for shows even older than XF. Also, I joined the XF fandom relatively late, at the end of 1999, so there were already hundreds of “classic” fics out there, stories that were theoretically superseded or dated by canon developments that came after them, but which nonetheless remained compelling in their own right. That is the beauty of fanfic: it is inspired by its original creators but not bound by them. It’s a world of “what if” and each story gets to run in a new direction, irrespective of the canon and all the other stories spinning off in their own universes. In this way, fanfic becomes almost timeless.

What do you think of when you think about your X-Files fandom experience? What did you take away from it? What did you take away from your experience with X-Files fic or with the fandom in general?

(I feel these are similar, at least for me, so I will combine them here.)

First and foremost, I found friends. There was a table full of XF fanfic writers at my wedding. Bugs was my maid of honor. I still talk to someone from XF fandom pretty much every day. Lysandra, Maybe Amanda, Michelle Kiefer, bugs…these are just some of the people who’ve been part of my life for half my existence now. Sometimes I get to have dinner with Audrey Roget or Anjou or MCA. Deb Wells and Sarah Ellen Parsons are part of my pro fic beta team. I have a similar list from the Hunter fandom, terrific people who have enriched my life in numerous ways and I am honored to count as friends.

Second, I learned a lot about writing during my years in XF fandom. I grew up there. Part of this growth experience was simply due to practice. I wrote about 1.2 million words of XF fanfic, which is the equivalent of 15 novels. I made mistakes and learned from them. But another essential part of learning is absorbing different kinds of well-told tales, and XF had these in spades. Some stories were funny. Others were lyrical. Some were short pieces with nary a word wasted while others were sprawling epics that took you on an adventure. The neat thing about XF is that it has space for many different kinds of stories, from hard-core sci-fi to historical romance. You can watch other authors executing these varied pieces and learn from them. You can form critique groups and ask for betas and get direct feedback on how to improve. It’s collaborative and fun, and this can’t be underestimated, generally supportive. The underlying shared love of the original product means that everyone comes into your work predisposed to enjoy it. I am grateful for all the encouragement and the critiques I received over my years in fandom.

Finally, I think a valuable lesson for writers that you can find in fandom, but not in your local author critique group, is how to handle yourself when your work goes public. Not everyone is going to like your work and they will make sure you know it. Some people will like it maybe too much, to the point where they cross boundaries. Learning to disengage yourself from public reaction to your work is a difficult but crucial aspect of being a writer. You control the story. You can’t control reaction to it. It’s frustrating at first, perhaps, but in the end, it’s freeing.

Social media didn't really exist during the show's original run. How were you most involved with the X-Files online (atxc, message board, email mailing list, etc.)?

I participated in ATXC, the Haven message boards, and the Scullyfic mailing list/news group. For a number of years, I also ran a fic discussion group with bugs called The Why Incision.

What got you involved with X-Files fanfic?

I started reading XF fanfic before I began watching the show. I had watched one season two episode (Soft Light) and then seen bits and pieces of a few others from season four. I’d seen Fight the Future. Basically, I’d seen enough to know which one was Mulder and which one was Scully, and which one believed in aliens. An acquaintance linked me to a rec site for XF fanfic (Gertie’s, maybe?) so that I could see how fic was formatted for the web. I clicked a fic, I think it was one by Lydia Bower dealing with Scully’s cancer arc, and basically did not stop reading. Soon I was printing off 300K of fic to take home with me each night. I could not believe the level of talent in the fandom, and that there were so many excellent writers just giving away their works for free. I wanted to play in this sandbox, too, so I started renting the VHS tapes to catch up on old episodes (see, I am An Old). After a few months, I began writing my own stuff.

What was it that got you hooked on the X-Files as a show?

I had to be dragged kicking and screaming to The X-Files. I’m not a sci-fi person by nature. I think my main objection is that, when done poorly, it feels lazy to me. Who did the thing? A ghost! Maybe an alien? I guess we’ll never know. You can always just shrug and play some spooky music and the “truth will always be out there…” somewhere beyond the story in front of you. You never have to commit to any kind of truth because you can invent some magical power or new kind of alien to change the story. I think, by the bitter end, the XF had devolved into this kind of storytelling. The mytharc made no kind of sense even in its own universe. But for years the XF achieved the best aspects of sci-fi storytelling—narrative flexibility and an apotheosis of our current fears dressed up as a super entertaining yarn.

What eventually sold me on the XF as a show is all of the smart storytelling and the sheer amount of ideas contained within its run. At its best, it’s a brilliant show. You have mediations on good versus evil, the role of government in a free society, is there a God, are we alone in the universe, and what are the elements that make us who we are? If Mulder and Morris Fletcher switch bodies, how do we know it’s really “them”? The tonal shifts from week to week were clever and engaging. For Vince Gilligan, truth was always found in fellow human beings. For Darin Morgan, humans were the biggest monster of all. The show was big enough to contain both these premises, and indeed, was stronger for it. The deep questions, the character quirks, the unsolved mysteries and all that went unsaid in the Mulder-Scully relationship left so much room for fanfic writers to do their own work. As such, the fandom attracted and continues to attract both dabbling writers and those who are serious craftspeople. People who like the mystery and those who like the sci-fi angle. Scientists and true believers. Like the show, it’s big enough for all.

What is your relationship like now to X-Files fandom?

I look at it like an old friend I catch up with once in a while. We’ve been close for so long that there’s no awkwardness—we just get each other! I love seeing people post screen shots and commentary, and I think it’s wonderful that so many writers are still inventing new adventures for Mulder and Scully. That is how the characters live on, and indeed how any of us lives on, through the stories that others tell about us.

Were you involved with any fandoms after the X-Files? If so, what was it like compared to X-Files?

I ran the Hunter fandom for about five years, mostly because when I poked my head back in, I found the person in change was a bully who’d shut down everything due to her own waning interest. A person would try to start a topic for discussion, and she’d say, “We’ve already covered that.” Well, yes, in a 30-year-old show, there’s not a lot of new ground…

Most other shows, Hunter included, have smaller fandoms and thus don’t attract the depth of fan talent. I don’t just mean fanfic writers. I mean those who do visual art, fan vids, critiques, etc. The XF fandom has all these in droves, which makes it a rare and special place. But all fandoms have the particular joy of geeking out over favorite scenes and reveling in the meeting of shared minds. It will always look odd to those not contained within it, which brings me to the part of modern fandom I find somewhat uncomfortable…the creators are often in fan-space.

In Hunter, the female lead joins fan groups and participates. This is more common now in the age of social media, where writers, producers, actors, etc., are on the same platforms as the rest of us. Fan and creator interaction used to be highly circumscribed: fans wrote letters and maybe received a signed headshot in return. There were cons where show runners gave panels and took questions from the audience. You could stand in line to meet your favorite star. Now, you can @ your favorite star on Twitter, message her on Facebook or follow him on Instagram. In some ways, this is so fun! In other ways, it blurs in the lines in ways that make me uncomfortable. I think it’s rude, for example, if a fan were to go on a star’s social media and post fanfic there or say, “I thought the episode you wrote was terrible.” But what if it’s fan space and the actor is sitting right there, watching you? Is it rude to post fanfic in front of her, especially if she says it makes her uncomfortable? Is it mean to tell a writer his episode sucked right to his face?

Do you ever still watch The X-Files or think about Mulder and Scully?

I own the first seven seasons on DVD and will pull them out from time to time to rewatch old faves. I’ve shown a few episodes over the spring and summer to my ten-year-old daughter, and it’s been fun to see the series through her eyes. We’ve mostly opted for the comedic episodes because there’s enough going on in the real world to give her nightmares. Her favorite so far is Je Souhaite.

Do you ever still read X-Files fic? Fic in another fandom?

I don’t have much bandwidth to read fanfic these days. My job as a mystery/thriller author means I have to keep up with the market so I do most of my reading there right now. I also beta read for some pro-fic friends and betaing a novel will keep you busy.

Do you have any favorite X-Files fanfic stories or authors?

I read so much back in the day that this answer could go on for pages. Alas, it also hasn’t changed much over the past fifteen years because I haven’t read much since then. But, as we’re talking Golden Oldies today, here are a bunch:

All the Mulders, by Alloway I find this short story both hilarious and haunting. Scully embraces her power in the upside down post-apocalyptic world.

Strangers and the Strange Dead, by Kipler Taut prose and an intriguing 3rd party POV make this story a winner, and that’s before the kicker of an ending, which presaged 1013’s.

Cellphone, by Marasmus Talk about your killer twists! Also one of the cleverest titles coming or going.

Arizona Highways, by Fialka I think this is one of the best-crafted stories to come out of the XF. It’s majestic in scope, full of complex literary structure and theme, and yet the plot moves like a runaway freight train. Both the Mulder and Scully characterizations are handled with tender care.

So, We Kissed, by Alelou What I love about this one is how it grounds Mulder and Scully in the ordinary. Mulder’s terrible secret doesn’t involve a UFO or some CSM-conspiracy. Scully goes to therapy that actually looks like therapy. I guess what I’m saying is that I utterly believe this version of M & S in addition to just enjoying reading about them.

Sore Luck at the Luxor, by Anubis Hot, funny, atmospheric. What’s not to love?

Black Hole Season, by Penumbra Nobody does wordsmithing like Penumbra. I use her in arguments with professional writers when they try to tell me that adverbs and adjectives MUST GO. Just gorgeous, sly, insightful prose.

The Dreaming Sea, by Revely This one reads like a fairytale in all the best ways. Revely creates such loving, beautiful worlds for M & S to live in, and I wish they could stay there always.

Malus Genius, by Plausible Deniability and MaybeAmanda Funny and fun, with great original characters, a sly casefile and some clear-eyed musings on the perils of getting older. This one resonates more and more the older I get. ;)

Riding the Whirlpool, by Pufferdeux I look this one up periodically to prove to people that it exists. Scully gets off on a washing machine while Mulder helps. Yet it’s in character? And kinda works? This one has to be read to be believed.

Bone of Contention (part 1, part 2), by Michelle Kiefer and Kel People used to tell me all the time that casefiles are super easy to write while the poetic vignette is hard. Well, I can’t say which is harder but there much fewer well-done casefiles in the fandom than there are poetic vignettes. This is one of the great ones.

Antidote, by Rachel Howard A fic that manages to be both hot and cold as it imagines Mulder and Scully trying to stay alive in the frosty wilderness while a deadly virus is on the loose. This is an ooooold fic that holds up impressively well given everything that followed it!

Falling Down in Four Acts, by Anubis Anubis was actually a bunch of different writers sharing a single author name. This particular one paints an angry, vivid world for Our Heroes and their compatriots. There is no happy ending here, but I read this once and it stayed with me forever.

The Opposite of Impulse, by Maria Nicole A sweet slice of life on a sunny day. When I imagine a gentler universe for Mulder and Scully, this is the kind of place I’d put them.

What is your favorite of your own fics, X-Files and/or otherwise?

Bait and Switch is probably the most sophisticated and tightly plotted. It was late in my fanfic “career” and so it shows the benefits to all that learning. My favorite varies a lot, but I’ll say Universal Invariants because that one was nothing but fun.

Do you think you'll ever write another X-Files story? Or dust off and post an oldie that for whatever reason never made it online?

I never say never! I don’t have any oldies sitting around, though. Everything I wrote, I posted.

Do you still write fic now? Or other creative work?

I write casefiles…er, I mean mysteries, under my own name now, Joanna Schaffhausen. My main series with Reed and Ellery consists of a male-female crime solving team, so I get a little bit of my XF kick that way. Their first book, The Vanishing Season, started its life as an XF fanfic back in the day. I had to rewrite it from the ground up to get it published, but if you know both stories, you can spot the similarities.

Where do you get ideas for stories?

The answer any writer will tell you is “everywhere.” Ideas are cheap and they’re all around us—on the news, on the subway, in conversations with friends, from Twitter memes, on a walk through the woods. My mysteries are often rooted in true crime, often more than one of them.

Each idea is like a strand of colored thread, and you have to braid them together into a coherent story. This is the tricky part, determining which threads belong in which story. If the ideas enhance one another or if they just create an ugly tangent.

Mostly, though, stories begin by asking “what if?” What if Scully’s boyfriend Ethan had never been cut from the pilot? What if Scully had moved to Utah after Fight the Future? What if the Lone Gunmen financed their toys by writing a successful comic book starring a thinly veiled Mulder and Scully?

Growing up, I had a sweet old lady for a neighbor. Her name was Doris and she gave me coffee ice cream while we watched Wheel of Fortune together. Every time there was a snow storm, the snow melted in her backyard in a such way that suggested she had numerous bodies buried out there. How’s that for a “what if?”

What's the story behind your pen name?

I’ve had a few of them and honestly can’t tell you where they came from, it’s been so long ago. The “6” part of syntax6 is because I joke that 6 is my lucky number. In eighth grade, my algebra teacher would go around the room in order, asking each student their answer to the previous night’s homework problems. I realized quickly that I didn’t have to do all the problems, just the fifteenth one because my desk was 15th on her list. This worked well until the day she decided to call on kids in random order. When she got to me and asked me the answer to the problem I had not done, I just invented something on the spot. “Uh…six?”

Her: “You mean 0.6, don’t you?”

Me, nodding vigorously: “YES, I DO.”

Her: “Very good. Moving on…”

Do your friends and family know about your fic and, if so, what have been their reactions?

My close friends and family have always known, and reactions have varied from mild befuddlement to enthusiastic support. My father voted in the Spookies one year, and you can believe he read the nominated stories before casting his vote. I think the most common reaction was: Why are you doing this for free? Why aren’t you trying to be a paid writer?

Well, having done both now, I can tell you that each kind of writing brings its own rewards. Fanfic is freeing because there is no pressure to make money from it. You can take risks and try new things and not have to worry if it fits into your business plan.

(Posted by Lilydale on September 15, 2020)

#new post #old school x #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #xf fanfic author interviews #syntax6

[redantsunderneath]

DC COMICS: Incoherence as Not-a-Bug-but-a-Feature (Spoilers for Batman 89-100)

Due to the emergence of the new Batman villain character Punchline, I wound up buying the last 12 issues of Batman and reading them in a single sitting. I’ve had trouble following DC comics for a while, constantly feeling that they were in trouble since back in the mid 2000s (with a glimmer of hope here and there). The act of reading DC comics has been a frustrating experience, where individual good stories and runs were laying around in the context of a lot of things that didn’t make sense while the company’s thrust felt chaotic and ideas not well blended. Every status quo change seemed hard to figure out the rules of enough to parse the context.  We’ll get into the background of this, but my reading today of this extended stretch of comics that keeps losing the plot in favor of a fever dream of what’s happening at the moment with specific characters that refuse to cohere, it became obvious that what I had been looking at as subtext or critique was actually the text. I could see the messed up trees but was missing the the forest the universe was trying to describe.

What happens in these issues (Batman current series 89-100, I missed the beginning of the first of 2 arcs) is rolling war between the major Batman villains and the heroes (plus Harley Quinn and Catwoman), which shifts into a Joker and Joker adjacent vs. all as the Joker double crosses everyone then manages to steal Bruce Wayne’s fortune.  We meet 3 new baddies – Underbroker, whose schtick is putting ill-gotten gains beyond the reach of the legal system (with an explicit line to rich globalists drawn), the Designer, who back in the day offered the four A list Batman villains plans to achieve what they most wanted, and Punchline, who is your toxic ex’s new millennial GF who really has it in for you (there is also a new good guy Clownhunter, which is a whole different thing, and a new costumed detective that predates Batman).  This doesn’t convey the chaotic nature of what is happening issue to issue, but there’s more than one Batman hallucinogenic spirit quest, dead characters ostensibly walking around, a plan revolving around the Bat’s origin story that tells some version of it several times, and a no-nonsense declaration that the Joker, as the Devil of the Batman spiritual system, cannot die.   The whole thing has the effect of convincing you there is no definitive sequence of events, only versions.

Alan Moore’s Killing Joke is not a favorite of mine, for a number of reasons.  But the ending holds up.  The Joker has done terrible things there is no antecedent for, and Batman wonders aloud if this never-ending dance they do ends in anything but both of their deaths; can they uncouple from the unhealthy duality the cycle of which simply repeats.  The Joker responds, well, with a joke about two lunatics trying to escape an asylum.  One jumps the roof to the next building, while the other is too scared to try.  The escapee offers to hold a light while the other crosses on a beam but he says no, no you’ll just cut the light while I’m half way across.  This not very funny joke nonetheless has a bunch of resonances – BM and Joker as conspiring co inmates, BM wanting to break out, a commentary about their natures (almost a reversal of the frog and scorpion story where the scorpion won’t go because he knows how this ends), but mostly it implicates BM as the one who is enabling the cycle, the reason why it won’t end.  They both laugh uproariously, and the ambiguous final panels can be read as the fundamental realization of his complicity causing BM to kill J.  A lethal joke indeed… except, next month, we see the both of them again.  In broader context, the ceaseless cycle of the diad is reaffirmed.  This has been hellaciously sticky as an idea in the Batmen universe.

My realization of what DC has been doing is pretty banal in its pieces. Marvel has “ground level” heroes while DC has a mythos, a pantheon.  Their archetypal makeup is strong, the seven JLA members lining up with the pantheon of Greek gods and the Chakras weirdly closely.  DC has big characters that are somewhat flat which they can use tell big bold individual stories that are cool the way legends and fables are cool. But these stories require bold strokes that a bit incompatible with each other. People get attached to these iterations. Meanwhile, Marvel trucks in soap operas where the characters give you an empathetic stand in and are narratively flexible. Marvel events are usually about the writer vs. the company, asking you to sympathize or deconstruct the creative impulse amid efforts to impose control or order.  DC’s events are about editorial vs. the audience, the shapers vs. the forces of the world.  It may seem obvious, given this description, that DC’s focus is on an archetypal tableau though it may be less obvious that this tableau is under extreme pressure from expectations when trying to tell ongoing tales month in, month out (or semi-monthly in some cases). The stories are constantly compared against the big stories that have gone before, and the audience’s ideas of the characters exert pressure to push them in directions that capture “the” version they believe in.  This circle is not possible to square.

DC and Marvel both have a multiverse of sorts.  DC used to tell “Elseworlds” stories which were later tucked into pocket universes.  DC invented crossing over between “realities.”  DC’s continuity is heavy baggage and they began to have “Crises” to resolve the narrative incompatibilities.  These only made things worse as you can’t get rid of the past people have a relationship with – it will come back.  Now you have to explain that away too.  Marvel just lets it lay – forget about the iffy stories, they count, sure, just no one is ever going to talk about them unless they have an angle.  Marvel continuity is all angles and amnesia. This is just easier to do with dating and rent and your ancient aunt’s medical bills than with Gods. Marvel’s multiverse is about sandboxes that you can always dump into the mainframe if they work (and never really mention the sandbox again).

There is a shift that occurred in the industry in the 2004 to 2005 era that is less remarked upon than many upheavals in comic’s history. Marvel had gone through a period of incredible new idea generation in the early 2000s after a late 90s creative cratering but had just fired the pro wrestling inflected soul of that moment (Bill Jemas).  DC was coming off of a period of trying to do moderately updated versions of what they basically been doing all along. The attitude was “yeah we’re under stress from the combined history of these characters, but we got to keep telling the stories.” Geoff Johns was one voice of DC over the 99-04 period that showed potential - he seemed to get how to find the core of characters and push them into a new in sync directions if they over the years have lost a clear identity.  But mostly he had internalized a basic schism between something mean that the audience wanted, and something good and wholesome about the characters themselves, and figured out how to mess around with this in a equilibrating fashion.

Interestingly, the ignition point of the main forces that were going to blow DC over the next decade and a half was a comic that had virtually nothing to do with any of those main forces. Brad Meltzer, a novelist, was hired to do a comic called Infinity Crisis, which sold extremely well and was, justifiably or not, recognized as an event.  At the same time, everyone also kind of hated it because the dark desires of some DC fans were pushed forward just a bit too much for comfort and for a comic with Crisis in the name it didn’t do a whole lot other than “darken” things.  Nonetheless, this lit an “event” fire at both companies.  Marvel chose a shake up the status quo for a year, then do it again, pattern and was off to the races (I have written about this, and more, here) while continuing its Randian framing of beleaguered do-gooders opposed by rule making freedom haters.

As this was playing out, Dan Didio quietly took power in DC Editorial.  His outlook was more Bloomian – he seemed to spark off of writers who exhibited anxiety of influence. He recognized Johns was the one person they had could be promoted into something of a universe architect, starting work on two key projects from which the rest would evolve. The first, was bringing back Hal Jordan as Green Lantern and diffracting the GL universe into its own symbolic system, with parts frisson-ing other parts, and almost a Magic the Gathering color scheme of ideas. The other was to build up to Infinite Crisis, which would become the model for most of their universe changing events until the present day.

The basic frame is this: DC heroes want to be good (in a sense of their inherent nature) but forces outside form a context that makes them fall.  It’s a very gnostic universe, DC.  They  examine reflections of the concepts, invent scapegoats for certain tendencies (see Superboy Prime as entitled fanboy, Dr. Manhattan as editors that try and fail to mend things, etc), make characters violate principles, rehabilitate them, then show that the world if anything is more broken than before.  This is kind of Johns’ thing and it fits Didio’s narrative as historicval tension fetish.  But then came Scott Snyder (not to be confused with Zack) who began to work on Batman in 2011.  Since then, as much as Justice League is pushed as the central title and Lex Luthor has been pimped, Batman has been the core of the universe and the Joker the core villain.

Snyder had the same continuity conflict wavelength but was significantly more meta and able to contain multitudes than Johns.  He was the first to make an explicit mystery of how there could be several Jokers around at one time (who are the same but not, he posited 3 – man, Christians!) that seems prescient given the near future coexistence of filmic Jokers that are not able to be resolved.  I believe he was the first to begin to tease out an idea – that different versions of things in comics are not a diffraction or filter effect, a using the set of things that work best for that story and leaving the rest, but are a matter of the archetypal system of the audience coming apart. From an in story perspective what appears to happen is that multiple versions of incompatible things exist in the collective unconscious of the continuing narrative, and this is something that the characters may become conscious of.  

The run I just read is written by James Tynion IV building on the above trends.  The trick seems to be going all in on the Jungian aspect (at Jung’s most religiously epiphanic).  The Designer was a progenitor and adversary to Batman’s predecessor and his intellectual approach eventually defeated the detective… broke him.  At some point in early Batman history, the Designer brought the top four Bat-baddies together and offered each, in turn, a plan to achieve what they most desired: the Riddler, a way to achieve an empire of the mind; the Penguin, power; and Catwoman, money.  They are all elated as they await the Joker to come out.  The Joker emerges with a furious Designer on his heals and promptly shoots him dead.  He explains that he didn’t like his joke in the form of a fable – the devil offered four people the path to their greatest desire: the three chose earthly things, but the Joker’s wish was to be him, to become the devil.  The story proceeds to suggest that the Joker just exists, he is present as a necessary component in the system.   You can kill him, yet he is alive.

DC has been using physics metaphors for the nature of their reality since Flash of Two Worlds in 1963.  The multiverse as a continuity concept was their idea and the holographic universe of the hypertime was a thing.  It seems like since Dan Didio took over, they’ve been heading towards a concept of broad superimposition, of measurement effect being weak, of the universe being like a quantum computer with all possibilities coexisting and the story instantiating not one reality but a path through all the possible ones.  By making Batman trip balls through quite a few issues and relive his origin from different angles, the story is one of its own instability and the heroic task that confronts our hero is attempting to actualize the world.  The Joker is the Devil in the sense of lack of fixed meaning, of relativistic chaos, of the world not making sense because it’s unmoored nature with ultimately no knowability.  Batman, in this story, functions as a postmodern knight crusading against the impossibility of epistemological grounding.

There’s more going on, sure.  One plot is, literally, defund Batman.  There is rioting, people brainwashed by being exposed to toxic ether, people paid to go to theaters even though they will die as a result, and questions about neoliberalism similar to that one Joker movie. Punchline has no personality yet (Tynion’s not the best at that) but she serves well as a generational foil for Harley – a rudderless ideological vacuum susceptible to Joker-as-idea-virus rather than an unfulfilled MD who felt alienated due to the structures of her life and was seeking escape into structureless possibility.  The Designer stuff is both continuity play (See why they changed from goofy villains to more “realistic” ones! Look how pulp heroes informed superheroes!), a comment on the nature of a longstanding narrative (strong intentions die out as Brownian motion overwhelms momentum), and a lawful evil/chaotic evil setup of the dualism of apocalypses (overdetermined authoritarian vs. center does not hold barbarism).  But the thing that ties this to the past decade and a half of DC is the sense that the reality is fluid and susceptible to change or outright s’cool incompatibility.

This is different than other flavors of meta in superhero comics.  Grant Morrison believes the archetypes are stronger than the forces that seek to bend them.  Alan Moore wants you to deconstruct your sacred cows and probably hates you personally.  Marvel might play with self-awareness, but effortlessly resolves inconsistencies after it’s finished playing.  DC, at this point, allows you to watch the waves solidfy into symbols and dissolve, and the constant confusion and lack of grounding is more of a choice then I thought this time yesterday.  The conflict theory of DC reality has been in full swing but this looks to be turning towards a kind of Zen historicism, holding contradictory things in your mind at once. Warren Ellis’ JLA/Authority book is the nearest comparable text I can think of. I need to call this, but I didn’t even talk about Death Metal, DC character multiplicity as meta-psychosis event extraordinaire.  Comics just keep getting weirder.

#DC comics #batman #joker #punchline

[musingsbycaitlin]

Short Story Update

[image description: a textured oil painting of a young man playing the violin in mute, yellow toned colours, in profile. there is a title of “Da Capo Al Fine” in the centre in a pale cream, bold font with a drop shadow. /end id]

Heya! This is the new title for my short story “Sleepless” which I updated on here not too long ago.

I actually wrote that previous update quite a while before I posted it because I’m anxious and this story has undergone many different title renditions and actual plot variations which has been a whirlwind to say the least. 

“Da Capo Al Fine” is a classical music term for going back to the beginning and repeating all the way through, a theme very poignant in this story and the main character’s life. The idea of wanting to go back and do it all again, would you do things differently, what can you learn by reliving/self-reflecting on your past actions, etc etc.

I also have a new log-line for this story that I think fits a lot better:

A woman overwhelmed with the guilt of killing someone becomes obsessed with replaying her past to uncover some way to absolve her of the crime.

I have to say I’m really happy with how this writing is going, I haven’t hit any major hiccups yet apart from having to rejig who my narrator was cos I stupidly wrote in second person. This has been a really fun exercise in writing short stories and developing and interesting plot, character and form. My current word count is sitting just above 2000 and I still have a few more scenes to write so I’m expecting (with the way things have been going) to finish this first draft around 3500 words but I’m trying not to set a hard and fast goal. I also just worked out how to get Word on my phone so I will be writing whilst I’m away next week which is good because I worried I was going to miss a week of writing.

Considering I started this story towards the end of June (maybe the final week I really can’t remember), I am planning to have finished my first draft by the end of July if not before then. I will then have a self-editing process, another editing process after my parents rip it to shreds and then I have been thinking of maybe asking some people on here to critique and send my some simple line edits so that I can have alternate perspectives. I mean let me know if you’re interested I guess but don’t feel pressured haha.

That’s all for now, happy writing. Excerpt under “Keep Reading”

Here’s an excerpt:

And you lay there, eyes staring intently at the Artex ceiling and making shapes out of the swirls. Carefully, you bring the blindfold to your face, covering your eyes and bridge of your nose before tightly fastening the back, looping cloth over cloth as your ritual comes to an end. The final string notes of Chopin reverberate around your skull, stinging your eye sockets. You rest your head back against the pillow. Sink into yourself. Reveal your restricted form.

For a moment you’re floating in your own darkness. You don’t feel anything but a numbness creeping over your skin, infecting your veins, until it’s impossible to tell if you’re moving or not. Ripples of bright light pulsate towards your body like being struck by lightning, sudden and visceral jolts syncopating through your limbs. You feel both dead and alive. You both feel and don’t feel. Air catches in your throat and your cheeks start to prickle and purple, unaware if you’re even still breathing.

Sharp breezes swirl around you, tightening your posture, and landing you in a familiar armchair. The walls around you begin to take form; atrocious floral wallpaper with scuffed wooden panelling; crookedly hung family photos, most in sepia, sway on their rusted nails; water damage slowly seeps down from the ceiling. A mud-stained window is cracked open letting a cool blue draught slur its way into the now fully realised room. Mother is stood in the corner fiddling frantically with the cord of a vintage floor lamp, resting uncomfortably on the arm of a cream coloured sofa, shifting her weight every few seconds.

Subconsciously you pick at the exposed foam of the arm chair and look down at your feet which fidget uncontrollably. Outside you can hear people talking, laughing, Uncle Reid’s booming voice overshadowing most of the conversations. A door slams in the distance.

#writeblr #wip #wip excerpt #my writing #short fiction #short story #atlastracking #literary fiction #writing update #dacapoalfine

[passionate-reply]

This week on Great Albums, I finally explain the deal with that record you’ve seen in the background of these videos, with those dudes working in the office. These dudes used to be in the Human League! Oh, and they really hate fascism. Full transcript of the video after the break.

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! Today, I’ll be looking at the debut album of Heaven 17: 1981’s Penthouse & Pavement. While you may not be familiar with Heaven 17, chances are pretty good that if you know your Western pop, you’ve heard of the Human League! Before forming Heaven 17, Ian Craig Marsh and Martyn Ware were members of the Human League--and they were also the band’s creative core. But they had a very different artistic vision, and one that doesn’t exactly prefigure the success of hits like “Don’t You Want Me.”

Music: “Being Boiled”

Between its plodding electronics and inscrutable lyricism, “Being Boiled” is pretty far from a pop hit. When Marsh and Ware left the Human League, they were keen to continue pursuing this sort of underground, experimental, quasi-industrial direction. Initially, the two of them formed the British Electronic Foundation, or “B.E.F.” It was chiefly a production company that worked with other artists, though they also released some instrumental music under this name. With the recruitment of vocalist Glenn Gregory, who Marsh and Ware had initially intended to front the Human League in the first place, they were set to get right back into the groove of what they had been up to before.

Music: “Fascist Groove Thang”

“Fascist Groove Thang” is the opening track of Penthouse & Pavement, and was one of its chief singles. While it’s much less ambiguous than “Being Boiled,” and much easier to dance to, it’s still got a lot of that subversive, underground charm--enough to get banned by the BBC, anyway. I know they always say that history rhymes, but it’s one of those songs from this era that really feels like it belongs more in our time than the one it came from. I like to think that its unforgettable chorus sounds more like a chant you might hear at a protest march, as opposed to something that belongs in a proper song. “Fascist Groove Thang” is actually based on an instrumental track by BEF, which was simply called “Groove Thang” before being reworked into this political anthem. Both versions are indeed pretty groovy, thanks in large part to the bass guitar work of session musician John Wilson. Compared to their work with the Human League, Penthouse & Pavement has an overall richer sonic palate, with more of those traditional instruments, as well as backing vocals. You’ll hear a lot of those on the album’s title track:

Music: “Penthouse & Pavement”

Penthouse & Pavement’s title track is the longest track on the album, clocking in at over six minutes. Between that, the lush instrumentation, and the honour of being the title track, it certainly feels like an anti-capitalist epic, dramatizing and dignifying the inner thoughts of a common wage-slave. The first side of the album, dubbed the “Pavement Side,” is where you’ll find both of these tracks, and it seems to deal chiefly with working-class struggles, as well as having a bigger emphasis on that bass-heavy groove, musically. Naturally, then, the flip is the “Penthouse Side,” it’s more melodic, and it seems to focus more on the lives of the rich and famous...though it isn’t quite that straightforward.

Music: “We’re Going To Live For a Very Long Time”

“We’re Going To Live For a Very Long Time” is perhaps the clearest expression of the idea of the upper classes living in their own protected bubble, shielded from plebeian woes. There’s a religious dimension to it, in that the narrator manages to live without worries because of their assuredness that Heaven awaits them when they die...but, as the title reminds us, they’re also confident that Earth will be good to them, as well. In case you were worried this message might not be ironic, the song actually stops abruptly in the middle of its final refrain, providing a sudden end for that narrator--as well as closing out the entire LP with a bang, since this is the final track! The idea of the wealthy actively taunting those beneath them is also central to the most rhythmic track of the Penthouse Side, “The Height of the Fighting.”

Music: “The Height of the Fighting”

In “The Height of the Fighting,” that march-like chanting takes center stage again, but it feels very different here. Rather than embodying a sort of grassroots resistance to the consolidation of power, “The Height of the Fighting” seems to be the voice of authority and power coming downwards, fitting the theme of the Penthouse Side. The song’s assertions, like “if you can’t take it, fake it” and “they sent you to it, do it” could be interpreted as pithy, meaningless sayings--perhaps throwaway lyrics, taking up space on a single aimed squarely at the dance floor. However, if you know the context of the Penthouse Side, it’s hard not to see them as representations of the worthless advice the rich often give the poor. Get a job. Get a side hustle. Work harder. Eat out less. And so on. Much like the implicit messages about class in popular culture, “The Height of the Fighting” might seem disposable, but the thrust of what it’s saying is actually deeply warped. Another complex, and perhaps conflicted, track on the Penthouse Side is “Let’s All Make a Bomb”:

Music: “Let’s All Make a Bomb”

Songs against nuclear war were commonplace in Cold War-era music, but “Let’s All Make a Bomb” isn’t quite a typical example. At first, its slow pace and despondent melody make us think we’re getting the usual fare. But the return of that swelling, chant-like refrain style, as well as a closer inspection of the lyrics, reveal otherwise. As the title might imply, “Let’s All Make a Bomb” asks us what kind of character is actually crazy enough to *want* nuclear war, and the character Heaven 17 have chosen is a hedonistic libertine, who sees the end of the world as one big party. The atomic bomb is not a thing to be feared, but “a brand new toy, to idolize.” As dark as that is, the fact that it’s also part of the Penthouse Side, and ostensibly a representation of what those who hold influence and power believe, adds a whole new level of horror to it.

While I love album art, and my interest in it is the main reason I started collecting vintage vinyl, I think [the cover of Penthouse & Pavement just might be my favourite of all time. Penthouse & Pavement’s cover portrays the three members of Heaven 17 as though they were businessmen, co-opting motives like glass-paneled skyscrapers and the deal-making handshake straight from the 1980s corporate visual lexicon. They've even got cities they're allegedly based out of, one of which is their native Sheffield, England. If you look closely, there are a few hints that they’re actually a music band and not a firm, such as the reel-to-reel tape player in the upper right-hand corner, and the fact that in the lower left-hand corner, Martyn Ware is writing music in front of a keyboard. At the bottom, we also find the logo of B.E.F., which brings this grand “joke” full circle. As the “British Electronic Foundation,” they had also billed themselves as a faceless organisation, adopting a name that sounds more at home on a utility bill than an album cover. Here, the trio have done it again, in a bit of ruthless satire towards the rising “yuppie” culture of the 80s. Incidentally, the cover art is a traditional painting, credited to one Ray Smith. It wasn't unusual to commission paintings for album art at the time, but it does tickle me knowing a human being physically painted Heaven 17 as office workers. If the original ever came up for auction, I'd probably shell out for it. It would look great in my office!

Anyway, it’s also worth mentioning how the title “Penthouse & Pavement” adds to that corporate theme. The X-and-Y format recalls the names of many real-life firms and companies, such as Ernst & Young. A “penthouse” is an apartment located very high up in a tall, urban building. Such apartments are usually expensive, and are hence occupied by well-off tenants. “Pavement,” in this context, probably refers to what Americans call the “sidewalk,” the paved pathways where the less fortunate among us might walk past those penthouses, without ever getting too close. Each side functions as an ideal symbol of the kind of people it represents, and the physical gap between them is a visceral representation of economic inequality. The title is also quite pleasingly alliterative!

While Penthouse & Pavement maintains a certain underground integrity, which is consistent with Marsh and Ware’s track record as part of the Human League, it’s still much more of a pop record than anything they had done before. Heaven 17 never went quite as pop as the Human League did without them, and they certainly never saw the same level of mainstream success, but they did pursue an increasingly pop direction with their next several releases. Their 1983 followup, The Luxury Gap, delivers less of that hard-hitting critique of capital, but did produce some of their best-known singles, namely, “Temptation” and “Let Me Go.”

Music: “Let Me Go”

My favourite track on Penthouse & Pavement is “Geisha Boys & Temple Girls.” I like this track’s overall mysterious, otherworldly vibe--it’s not terribly easy to pin down what it’s really about, or what sort of mood it’s meant to convey. The intro to this song sounds more like Karlheinz Stockhausen than something you would hear in pop, and I love how strident and abrasive it is. Given its place as the opening track of the Penthouse Side, and its opening line, “look ahead, on the screen,” I’m tempted to interpret it as a representation of a fictional romance in television or film. It’s dramatic, unpredictable, exotic, and also completely fake and divorced from how people behave in the real world. The idea that entertainments and diversions are part of what shelters the rich from the consequences of their actions is another one of those things that makes this album continue to feel relevant. That’s all I have for today--thanks for listening!

Music: “Geisha Boys & Temple Girls”

#music #album review #album reviews #great albums #heaven 17

[thewebcomicsreview]

So I've been following this one guy who gives really good writing advice, but lately he's been: telling people it's OK to skip the Intermission in Homestuck; defending bad writing as a "structural issue" (those poor writers, it's not their fault they've structured their story / writing process in a bad way); priding himself on making a half-assed "unfinished-on-purpose" comic review. This person was my main source of writing advice, so I don't know where to turn to. Any recommendations?

The only other webcomic review guys I’m aware of are the Bad Webcomics Wiki, but if you think I’m too nice on writers, they might be up your speed anyway and oh my god they just posted a review of a SpiderForest comic. Guess it’s time for

The Webcomic Review Reviews Webcomic Reviews

So, this is a review of a SpiderForest comic called “The Guide to a Healthy Relationship” which is a comic about LGBT people, and it’s being reviewed by the Bad Webcomics Wiki, so obviously there’s going to be a whole bunch of slurs, so consider that a content warning and I’m putting the rest of this behind a ReadMore

This is going to be slightly disjointed because the BWW review is disjointed, but I’ll do my best

We’re already in some factual trouble right on line one, since TGtaHR is a traditional webcomic and not a long-scroll mobile-friendly webtoon, nor is it hosted on webtoons.com. Is this nitpicky? Maybe a little, but we’re off to a poor start here. 

This comic is just under 200 pages.

I feel like if you’re going to write a big thing attacking a webcomic’s story, you should try to have some kind of understanding of what that story is. I know what the story of Sinfest is, and Sinfest is a confusing nightmare.

Okay, so maybe the reason you think this story is bad is because it’s 2deep4u. 

So, in the space of about twenty pages, we learn that Apollo had a friend named Julian who killed himself, and then we cut ahead to Julian drinking on the job, going to a party, taking drunks, and waking up naked in the bathtub covered in beer bottles, and the living room is full of too-hot-for-tumblr passed-out drunks. The Bad Webcomics Wiki calls this “Softcore porn that is never brought up again”, because the Bad Webcomics Wiki is written by high school dropouts for an audience they presume has never read the comic proper. 

This debauchery is never brought up again because it’s not relevant to the plot, it’s relevant to the character. Apollo is fucked up because his friend killed himself when he was a teenager, and he deals with being fucked up by retreating into sex, drugs, and rock and roll. That’s what’s being established here. Also being established if you’re paying attention: Apollo has scars on his chest. 

In chapter 1, Apollo goes to a party, the entirety of which is dedicated to him walking around naked, and we get a bunch of obviously sexual shots of his dick, clearly catering to the author's gay fetish. His boss goes to his place to check on him, and it is revealed he is a hoarder. This never comes up again.  

1. In this scene, there are two panels where you can see Apollo’s penis, one panel where you can see someone’s vomit-covered dick, and two panels where you can see a woman’s breasts. None of these panels of flacid dicks or sagging boobs are sexual, though. The dicks are unpowered, it doesn’t make a bit of difference guys, the balls are inert. 

2. What the fuck is a “gay fetish” and how it different from just “being gay”.

3. I don’t know the author, even though we’re both in SpiderForest, so I don’t know where Dani The Carutor lies in the whole gender spectrum thingamabob, but I will note that “Dani” is usually short for Danielle. So maybe it’s not a safe assumption that the author is a man? I dunno. That’s just me, guessing people’s genders by screen name is hard, so I try not to lest I embarrass myself.

4.So, when you say Apollo is a “hoarder”, you link to a page showing his room is disgusting and covered in garbage

Is your takeaway from these panels....that Apollo is some kind of fanatic garbage collector? That his room is full of garbage because he actively works at having as much garbage as possible because he wants it? 

There are a couple pages explaining Apollo's purple special snowflake eyes with some snowflake "disability".

Apollo has Ocular Albinism, which is a real condition that really exists, and really does give you purple eyes. It also gives you major vision problems, which are the context in which it gets brought up, because Apollo needs help crossing the road because he can’t see well enough in the light. So I don’t know what the scare quotes around “disability” are for. He can’t see. You could, if you were so inclined, connect this plot point with the way the chapter titles are named after mental conditions, and start to formulate some coherent critique with the seemingly cavalier way this comic uses disability, but that would require thought. It might even require research into difficult topics, because you’d ideally not want to make a fool of yourself talking about things you didn’t understand well enough to talk competently about. 

Chapter 2 is the most pointless, as it is basically there to confirm what we already know so the author can insert a cringy buzzword (see image below)

Okay, so a couple of things

1. In what fucking universe is “tranny” an SJW buzzword? What the fuck are you even talking about? 

2. Having the protagonist of your comic say someone is “smart, for a tranny” is like the least SJW thing you could possibly do.

3. Perhaps “Apollo is asking someone for help but casually insults her causing her to leave” is some kind of “character” moment? The author of this review is so /pol/-poisoned that they have no ability to understand “context” or “characterization” or basically any thing that exists. 

4.Your list of the comic’s characters includes this bon mot: 

So what the fuck? That’s so stupid I’d think it was an intentionally hypocritical joke if I had any reason to believe you were capable of it.

Chapter 3 is dedicated to revealing the boyfriend shit

I should point out that Apollo and Julian being boyfriends is something the BWW invented, the comic itself clearly states they were “best friends”, not boy friends. Couple of dudes being prudes. 

Apollo believes that Julian faked his own death, which fucked up Apollo for years, and now that they’ve met each other Julian keeps ghosting him. Apollo’s motives for chasing Julian around are extremely clear. 

That’s a scene transition, bay-bee! 

Apollo finally gets ahold of Julian. Julian blows him off and Apollo gives up. There’s then a clear scene transition to Apollo, at a restaurant, talking about what we just saw. This is a perfectly clear scene transition, with a transitory panel and everything to indicate that this is the next day. It’s certainly more clear than Apollo waking up in jail in chapter 2 which you skipped over. Are you actually reading this comic at all? 

You are such a fucking moron, holy shit. 

Julian got beat up for being trans. It’s unclear if he’s actually trans or just a feminine-looking cis dude, but regardless it was bad enough to traumatize him and this all happened when he knew Apollo, who calls Julian his “best friend”, and says things like

There’s literally two dots here, and you’re unable to connect them. Galia even has the same hairstyle as Julian to make it visually obvious This Is What The Reference and you still missed it. 

Julian and Apollo walk around the woods in their underwear for no reason whatsoever. Julian takes some drugs or something, and passes out?

Hm. Why does Julian go outside at night? I wonder if that’s explained in the comic?

Oh, I see. He went outside to smoke. But why did Apollo go outside at night?

Oh, he was looking out the window and saw Julian mysteriously go off into the woods. I guess that’s explained, too. I guess you just missed those pages

Julian takes some drugs or something, and passes out?

Huh, I wonder why Julian was asleep

Oh, he has Insomnia, so he took something called Halcion. I wonder what that is.

Oh, it’s a prescription insomnia medication. And you shouldn’t take alcohol with it, wow Julian is dealing with a super pushy alcoholic I should file that information away for later, like how knowing Wellbutrin’s side effects in teenagers were critical to understand Drop Out. Luckily webcomics are comics, on the web, and I can look this up! 

He is then woken up by the fatty side character punching him. Somehow, Julian destroyed the kitchen, even though he was passed out - this is never explained, and makes no fucking sense

Sigh.

So, here are some hints as to what happened.

1. 

Julian has bruises all over his body, which you have consistently failed to notice.

2. 

Daniel, Julian’s friendly boyfriend, has like no negative reaction whatsoever to Brandon, some random dude, punching Julian in the fucking face

He even takes Brandon’s side and basically implants the idea that Julian did it into Julian’s head, and that last panel is rather threatening. 

Julian took insomnia medicine, and fell asleep, and then got wrongfully blamed for destroying the kitchen by Daniel, who know’s that Julian was passed out and couldn’t have done it. Who actually did destroy the kitchen is a mystery, but Daniel is the most likely culprit. 

it transitions into this trippy bullshit with blood, and body horror, and Julian's hair is suddenly short

It’s short because it’s a flashback to when he was a teenager, and he had short hair when he was a teenager so that literate people are able to understand this without getting confuzzled. 

Apollo turning into Daniel in this trippy dream sequence is also pretty relevant! 

Also, we have random nudity and sexualization of this sick person.

No, we have reveals that he’s in worse physical shape than we thought.

By the way, in your character list, you describe Daniel as

Daniel (Side Character): He may as well be a wall. This guy has no personality whatsoever. No quirks, no interests, no purpose outside of causing superficial melodrama.

If you’ve made it all the way to this point and not picked up on Daniel being an abusive boyfriend and the primary antagonist of the story, you may be beyond hope.

The rest of the chapter is Julian being angsty, and SO ILL while everyone talks about how weird he is

Again, that’s very clearly and obviously not actually what’s happening in the story.

What’s happening isn’t “Julian is sick lol”, it’s “Daniel is working to turn everyone against Julian”. That’s why he destroyed the kitchen and blamed Julian for it; to ensure that the other boys all thought Julian was a nutjob and thus keep them from reaching out to Julian and providing Julian with a guide to a healthy relationship instead of the abusive one he’s currently in. Your inability to read even slightly between the lines isn’t just distressing in terms of your inability to think critically about stories, it’s maybe worrisome re your ability to think about the real world, too. How are you this dense? It’s like watching Star Wars and not picking up that the empire and the rebellion don’t like each other. No wonder you’re confused! 

Chapter 5 is still in the works. It jumps the shark right away with Apollo getting drunk and sleeping with Julian's boyfriend. The author makes Apollo the guilty party and not the boyfriend

The comic is fairly clear that Daniel is the bad guy

This webtoon is so convoluted there is no saving it at this point. Each chapter is titled after some mental illness such as 'Monophobia', 'Anxiety', 'Psychosis'. You think they would have some thematic meaning with each chapter being about one of those things. Nope, they're just titled like that to show how EDGY this webtoon is! You can taste the cringe. Julian's mental shit has no rhyme or reason - he will act sick when the plot calls for it, and if it has anything to do with the chapter's title, it is also crazy inaccurate.

The author of this review somehow managed to read the entirety of The Guide to a Healthy Relationship without picking up that Daniel was an abuser. The comic thus seems convoluted to him because he thinks all the things happening are random events without rhyme or reason because he has completely failed to notice the whole plot, which is not subtle. Just....fucking staggering incompetence, as a critic.

Guess you’re stuck with me, anon.

#Anonymous #The Guide to a Healthy Relationship #bad webcomics wiki #The webcomic review reviews webcomic reviews

[antiloreolympus]

6 Anti LO Asks

1. Okay, when I first read the comic and saw Hermès and Persephone together, I thought, “Hm, they’re kinda cute together- NO WONT PERSEPHONE BE MARRIED TO HADES TOGETHER WTF BRAIN?” But then I saw more of them and somehow they got more chemistry as friends than the chemistry with the main couple (I mean, some of it is cute but sometimes it’s the right lines but very wrong timing type of situation and the couple in general seems rushed). So in conclusion, I NEED MORE FRICKIN LAYERS- (you don’t need to agree with me, I just want to get it out)

2. Something I have a hard time with in the story is how we keep getting told that Persphone is “the daughter of a friend” but we’re also told that Demeter and Hades don’t get along. I know they don’t hate each other since Demeter let Hades visit/sober up and Hades said if P is Demeters child she’s gonna be strong. Like I know the 6 traitors is what brought them together, but honestly I feel like if Hades had any ounce of respect for Demeter he wouldn’t do half the stuff he would for P that he has already

The internship without telling Demeter is shady in my eyes. Yes Hera signed it but I’m pretty sure there was no note saying “hey don’t tell Demeter”. It would have given him an excuse to chat with Demeter and say congrats on your daughter but that’s didn’t happen.

Another thing I felt like Hades could have done was put out secret agents for Demeter since Hecate told H and P Demeter was hiding in the under world but instead she got kidnapped.

Idk what their relationship totally is, but I feel like Hades is a shady creep in all of this. I know it’s a lot of should have would have could have but the way he’s written just rubs me the wrong way. 

3. I love your blog. I’m sad to see a lot of the lo critique blogs disappearing.

From OP, Not Anon: Thank you! I think most of them are busy or talk more on discord (at least the ones I’m in contact with).

4. Seriously it's really embarrassing that LO stans think the artwork is anything close to beautiful, while in reality it's just....mediocre at best. Even the big panels that are used as wallpapers are not as good as they make it out to be AND THEYRE LIKE MEANT TO BE MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN THE USUAL PANELS?!?!? (Take the ep. 171 panels with Daphne for example). It also doesn't help that the art is so inconsistent most of the time. It's like RS is putting effort only for like 5?!?! Panels at best, and the stans are willing to defend her and gobble up whatever it is she's feeding them.

5. The unnecessary cliffhanger effect that Rachel constantly uses to end an episode of LO has been having a negative effect for me from the start, especially if the episode is a filler or is followed by a filler. You don't make me curious for the next episode or anything like that. It just makes me lose interest when I am met with YET ANOTHER badly written filler episode (because let's face it, the fillers are only there to give a sense of progression while in reality the MAIN story never progresses.) 

6. even barring how out of wack persephone's characterization is (she's supposed to be sympathetic underdog yet comes across as a spoiled, overpowered child instead) hades just isn't nice? like hes not even charming or interesting in the idea hes a big tough guy who softens around the person he loves, hes just a power hungry jerk who is basically moulding persephone into his perfect wife via being her own actual relationship/source of power/income/safety, so it doesn't seem cute, it's just creepy.

#anti lo #anti lore olympus #lore olympus critical #lo critical

[qualityshoellamabat]

In this Pandemic, all of us was suffering when it comes to education. We are experiencing struggles about learning and how do we passed our grades when it is online.

We don't know what will happen to our grades for the following days. We must not make fun to the pandemic we experience in these days.

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I woke up an hour late Wednesday morning, and by the time I had thrown on a sweatshirt, prepared my glass of Emergen-C, and logged onto Zoom, my class had been going on for 15 minutes. The night before I had taken cough syrup for my seasonal cold, and this was the first day my school switched to virtual instruction. Over the course of the three-hour workshop, I noticed my puffy eyes on the panel of faces and became self-conscious. I turned off my video. I became distracted with the noise of sirens outside and muted my speaker, only to then realize: by the time you’re done muting-and-unmuting, the right moment to join the conversation has already passed. I found myself texting on my computer, stepping away to make coffee, running to the bathroom, writing a couple e-mails, and staring at my classmate’s dog in one of the video panels. I don’t think my experience is unique; I imagined similar situations playing out in virtual offices and classrooms across the world.

In the aftermath of the World Health Organization’s designation of the novel coronavirus as a pandemic on March 11, universities across America are shutting down in an attempt to slow its spread. On March 6, the University of Washington took the lead, canceling all in-person classes, with a wave of universities across the country following suit: University of California, Berkeley, U.C., San Diego, Stanford, Rice, Harvard, Columbia, Barnard, N.Y.U, Princeton and Duke, among many others.

This shift into virtual classrooms is the culmination of the past weeks’ efforts to prevent COVID-19 from entering university populations and spreading to local communities: cancellation of university-funded international travel for conferences, blanket bans on any international travel for spring break, canceling study-abroad programs, creating registration systems for any domestic travel.

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Columbia University, which I now attend virtually, moved all classes online starting on March 11. The following morning, president Bollinger declared that classes would be held virtually for the remainder of the school year, and suspended all university-related travel; both international and domestic. The pandemic has affected over 114 countries, killing over 4,000 and shows no sign of abating, leading to chaos in university administration and among students. I find myself obsessing over my family in Japan, especially my mother, whose lung cancer puts her at particular risk. Cancellations are affecting future students as well—admitted students’ events, open houses, and campus tours are all being canceled to minimize contagion.

The quick turn to platforms like Zoom is disrupting curricula, particularly for professors less equipped to navigate the internet and the particularities of managing a classroom mediated by a screen and microphone. I had professors cancel class because they had technical difficulties, trouble with WiFi, or were simply panicked over the prospect of teaching the full class over the new platform. With university IT services focusing efforts on providing professors with how-to webinars on using online platforms, individual student needs for these same services have been placed on hold.

While the initial shift online has created a flurry of chaos, there are benefits to a virtual classroom. Especially in a place like New York, students can continue participating in discussion sections and lectures without riding the subway for an hour, avoiding the anxiety of using public transit or being in other incubators like classrooms, public bathrooms and cafeterias. Students can “sit in” on a class while nursing a common cold or allergies that come with the season, but which can make students a target of serious threats or violence—particularly racialized harassment for Asians. I have found immense relief in not having to pay for Lyfts to campus, avoiding side-eyes for my runny nose or using the little remaining hand sanitizer I have left after holding subway poles. In some situations, online teaching may not even affect student behavior or learning. Studies have shown that medical students learn and perform equally in live versus recorded lectures, and these results are reassuring at a time like the COVID-19 outbreak.

However, the reality is that some subjects are much harder to transfer online. A biochemistry or introductory economics lecture is easier to teach virtually than a music or dance class. The creation of a film or theatrical production requires physical bodies in close proximity. Even in my creative writing workshop, responding to a colleagues’ memoir about her mother’s death is hard to do without looking her in the eye. The screen creates an emotional remove that makes it difficult to have back-and-forth dialogue between multiple people, and it’s almost impossible to provide thoughtful feedback without feeling like you’re speaking into a void.

Over the last few decades, online learning in higher education has been studied extensively. Online MBA programs are on the rise, perhaps unsurprising for a field that often requires virtual conferencing and remote collaboration. Universities now offer online master’s programs to accommodate full-time work and long commutes, or to circumvent the financial barriers of moving to a new location with family. Online bachelor’s degrees are offered by a growing number of schools: Ohio State, University of Illinois Chicago, University of Florida, Arizona State, Penn State and many more. The benefits are the same: classes can be taken anywhere, lack of commute offers more time for studying or external commitments, and the structure is more welcoming to students with physical disability or illness. And yet, online learning hasn’t threatened the traditional model of in-person learning.

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A large part of this can be attributed to accountability. Online classes require significantly more motivation and attention. I found it difficult to focus on a pixelated video screen when I could browse the internet on my computer, text on my phone, watch TV in the background, have one hand in the pantry, or just lay comfortably in my bed. The problem, too, is that webinar technology doesn’t quite live up to the hype. Noise and feedback—rustling papers, ambulances, kettles, wind—make it impossible to hear people talk, and so everyone is asked to mute their microphones.

But muting your audio means you can’t jump into a conversation quickly. The “raise hand” function often goes unnoticed by teachers and the chat box is distracting. Sometimes the gallery view just doesn’t work, so you’re stuck staring at your own face or just two of your eighteen classmates. It also means another hurdle for those who hesitate to speak up, even in the best of circumstances. It means you’re just one click away from turning off your camera and being totally off the hook. In an online class over the summer, I once watched a woman—who forgot her camera was still on, though she was muted—vacuum her entire kitchen and living room during a seminar.

In a recent New York Times article, columnist Kevin Roose wrote about his experience working from home while quarantined after COVID-19 exposure. Roose, once a remote worker, cites studies that suggest remote employees are more productive, taking shorter breaks and fewer sick days. But he also writes extensively about the isolation and lack of productivity he feels: “I’ve realized that I can’t be my best, most human self in sweatpants, pretending to pay attention on video conferences between trips to the fridge.” He notes that Steve Jobs, who was a firm believer in in-person collaboration and opposed remote work, once said, “Creativity comes from spontaneous meetings, from random discussions. You run into someone, you ask what they’re doing, you say ‘Wow,’ and soon you’re cooking up all sorts of ideas.”



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In educational settings, creativity is arguably one of the most important things at stake. The surprises and unexpected interactions fuel creativity—often a result of sitting in a room brushing shoulders with a classmate, running into professors in a bathroom line, or landing on ideas and insights that arise out of discomfort in the room. This unpredictability is often lost online.

In the essay “Sim Life,” from her book, Make It Scream, Make it Burn, Leslie Jamison writes about the shortcomings of virtual life: “So much of lived experience is composed of what lies beyond our agency and prediction, beyond our grasp, in missteps and unforeseen obstacles and the textures of imperfection: the grit and grain of a sidewalk with its cigarette butts and faint summer stench of garbage and taxi exhaust, the possibility of a rat scuttling from a pile of trash bags, the lilt and laughter of nearby strangers’ voices.”

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Classrooms offer these opportunities for riffs and surprise, and a large part of being a student is learning to deliver critique through uncomfortable eye contact, or negotiating a room full of voices and opinions that create friction with your own. When I Zoomed into class from my apartment, I missed being interrupted by classmates who complicated my ideas about a poem or short story. I missed being in workshop and bouncing ideas off of each other to find the best structure for a piece. I missed handwritten critiques, and felt limited in Word: no check pluses, no smiley faces, “Wow” feels flat when it’s not handwritten in the margins, and "Great" feels sarcastic in 10-point Calibri. I was frustrated that I could sleep in because online class meant I could wake up five minutes before class and pretend like I’d been ready all morning.

The COVID-19 pandemic will likely continue presenting challenges beyond those that come up in the course of routine virtual education. Even if this viral spread subsides, or a vaccination becomes readily available, the shift from online classes back to in-person learning may create disruptions of its own—adjusting back to higher standards of accountability, weaning off of phone-checking habits, and transferring comments back to hard copies instead of digital notes. Hopefully, these phases of trouble shooting can provide universities, professors and students the opportunity to practice adaptability, patience and resilience. And hopefully, these experiences will serve as preparation for future challenges that come with the next epidemic, pandemic and other disaster.

For now, I am trying to not look at myself in the gallery of faces, stop being distracted by my expressions, resisting the impulses to check my phone or e-mail, or at least recognize these urges when they arise.

#education

[innuendostudios]

Thoughts on The Witness

[no spoilers... this game would be nearly impossible to spoil in text]

Where do I even start?

I guess one thing to know about The Witness is that you can watch the famous 9-minute tracking shot from Nostalghia - where Oleg Yankovsky tries to walk a candle from one end of a drained pool to the other without extinguishing it - in its entirety. (I think it’s the entirety, I left before the clip was over; yeah, Jon, I get it.)

How do we interpret this? I haven’t watched Nostalghia, but I know that scene. Every film major knows that scene. Tony Zhou cited it in discussing lateral tracking shots, how they emphasize environment and create emotional distance from humans in the frame, and how Tarkovsky uses this to make the sequence lonely and arduous. Kyle Kallgren cited it in discussing how YouTube makes critique of certain types of art difficult, and Content ID essentially decides for us what film as a medium is even for.

Jon Blow plays the clip in full with no commentary - or, rather, the game itself is the commentary. There’s a sequence in Indie Game: The Movie where Jon Blow expresses some pain about how his game Braid was received, how he felt no one who played it ever really understood everything he was trying to say with it. That feeling might be ameliorated if he weren’t such a constituionally obtuse motherfucker.

Perhaps the scene is meant to draw parallels between Yankovsky’s dedication to a task that is simple yet difficult and the game’s puzzles, built, as they are, around complexity-through-simplicity. Except, Yankovsky’s Andrei has a personal investment carrying this candle, one Tarkovsky has spent the entire film setting up. I was about five hours into The Witness when I found this clip - more than twice the duration of Nostalghia - and I still didn’t know why I was solving the game’s puzzles or what they were trying to communicate.

Perhaps the scene is meant to draw parallels between the patience it encourages in its audience and the calm, meditative mode all The Witness’ allusions to Buddhism are seemingly on about, to give yourself over to the time investment the game demands of you. Except, Nostalghia asks you to spend nine minutes thinking about one thing; zen Buddhism encourages you to think of nothing; The Witness asks you to spend between fifteen and forty hours thinking about a zillion things. It is not a game about clearing your mind, it’s about filling your mind up. There is little continuity between the thoughtless peace of meditation or Yankovsky’s emotional collapse and the game’s intended “aha” moments.

But the ambiguity, the contextlessness of the scene’s inclusion, means you can’t be sure whether it’s contradictory. If we assume it’s about dedication, and we find a flaw in that worldview, maybe the problem is that we didn’t assume it was about meditation. And vice versa. If it fails to communicate, maybe the problem is us.

The only thing this scene communicates for sure is that Jon Blow wants me to know he watches Tarkovsky.

Jon Blow wants you to trust he knows what he’s doing. That the game is saying something. He also never, ever wants to tell you what it is. (If he could just tell you, he wouldn’t have spent eight years making it into a game, I suppose.) But this operates on completely opposite rules to the puzzles. Puzzles in The Witness are maze-drawing panels with increasing numbers of rules, all conveying their rules nonverbally, through gameplay. You see a symbol you don’t recognize, or a shape you don’t know how to draw, and you try things out, you make assumptions, you fail repeatedly, and then something works, the panel lights up, and you know you got it right. Now you understand what the symbol means.

The theming doesn’t work that way. Whatever theory you have as to what the game’s about, there will be no moment of clarification. Blow has an incredible talent, in fact, for constructing imagery that is hilariously blunt yet still ambiguous. As with Braid, where he crammed a straightforward narrative about memory and regret with allusions to quantum physics and the atomic bomb, The Witness references Einstein, the Buddha, Richard Feynman, romantic poetry, tech culture, game design, and - most of all - itself.

I realize I’m dancing around the subject here, because what the gameplay is (or isn’t) in service of is far easier to talk about than the gameplay itself. The Witness is a big island full of touch screens where you draw lines on grids. That’s it. The island is dense with structures and biomes, impossibly having a desert, a swamp, and three different kinds of forest which appear to be in four different seasons. What it doesn’t have is any reason why you’re there or a justification for solving ~600 line-drawing puzzles other than because Jon Blow wants you to. I was wrong in my video from 2015 to call The Witness narrative-based; the game contains narrative but it is not a narrative game. The island is very pretty, meticulously crafted, and not trying in the slightest to look like a real place. It is Myst minus everything people like about Myst.

Absent a reason for my character - if I’m even playing a “character” - to solve the puzzles, why am I, the player, solving them? The short answer is, “Because they’re there. You knew what you were buying. You solve the puzzles because it’s a puzzle game, do I gotta draw you a diagram?” (No, you need me to draw 600 diagrams.) That is unsatisfactory because the island is clearly more than an elaborate menu system.

Do I solve them because they’re interesting? I mean, they’re not bad, if you’re into Sudoku or, like... cereal boxes. In and of themselves, they’re not my cuppa. People told me about a repeated sense of epiphany the game provoked for them, but that’s not the way I experienced it. Every puzzle is so carefully tutorialized that I never felt I was making an intuitive leap. There is no lateral thinking in The Witness, it is strictly longitudinal. You get a row of puzzle panels, and you take them one by one (you are, in fact, prevented from jumping ahead), each one building on what it taught you. And they get hard, certainly, but each is the logical progression of the one before. And each is a marvel of nonverbal communication, but that’s more Jon being clever than it is me. This is not to judge people who did get a feeling of discovery; one person’s “aha” moment is another’s “yeah, Jon, I get it.”

(Aside: I did get a proper “aha” moment when I came to a panel that could be solved two ways. It controlled a moving platform; draw one line, the platform moves right, draw the other and it moves left. And I thought, “Huh, I guess I get it, but those shapes seem kind of arbitrary.” But then, while it was moving, I realized the platform itself mirrored what I had drawn; the two designs were what shape the platform would take when connected with each endpoint! And I went “oh fuck, oh fuck, that’s clever, that‘s really clever.” My first epiphany. It was the most Myst-like the game got, it was clearly not the kind of experience Jon Blow was interested in recreating much, and it took place 7 hours in.)

Do I solve them because I’m compelled? In the first play sessions, I asked myself several times, “Do I even like this?” The game is often tedious and frustrating and I regularly muttered “fuck off, Jon.” But I kept playing. I got annoyed when people interrupted me. I got a hideous case of Tetris effect. They’re not the kind of puzzles you can spend the day thinking through, like you would with Myst or Riven; they’re too abstract to visualize without them right in front of you. And the world is pretty but it’s not a place I wish I could visit, like I would with, again, Myst or Riven. But I kept going back. I solved puzzles less because I found pleasure in finishing them than I found displeasure in them being unfinished. Jon Blow has given talks on how game design focused on being “addictive” is basically evil - his word, not mine. And yet... it felt more like I was playing his game because I was hooked than because I was enjoying myself.

Do I solve them because I trust Jon Blow? Because I believe this will all amount to something? Jon certainly expects me to trust him. The game blares PROFUNDITY AHEAD constantly. (I remind you it quotes the Buddha.) But, in the years since Braid, I have grown less impressed with Jon Blow’s “art game genius” shtick. One fun bit about playing The Witness so late is finally reading all the discourse, and, well before finishing the game, I had read the thoughts of Andrew Plotkin, and Liz Ryerson, and Andi McClure - all of whom are brilliant - so I had a pretty good idea of what I was getting into. What’s surprised me is, having gotten to the first ending - not the secret ending - what the game is up to still isn’t clear. There are enough allusions to heady ideas that you can infer some stuff, but the default ending - while pretty enough - adds nothing and reveals nothing. And getting the True Ending means completing the In the Hall of the Mountain King section, something many will never find and precious few will ever complete. (Debating whether I’m going to even try.) If Jon Blow wants you to trust that he’s going somewhere with this, he makes you wait a long time before finding out if it’s worth it. [EDIT: turns out the secret ending comes after a different set of obscure puzzles than Hall of the Mountain King.]

Which leads me back to my original conclusion: I am solving the puzzles because Jon Blow told me to.

I suspect the arc Jon wants is for me to begin solving puzzles because I want to know what they’re in service of, what point Jon is trying to make, and then spend so long on them that I forget about the destination and just wrap myself up in the work, and, after dozens of hours on the hardest of the hard puzzles, Jon will finally reveal that the point he was making was about the labor I have just done. That he couldn’t tell me what it was for until I’d already done it. That the labor was its own reward. And how much you like The Witness is going to depend on whether or not you feel ripped off.

The overall impression The Witness left me with was less of meditation than discipline. (I have joked that playing The Witness feels like being in a D/s relationship with Jon Blow and not knowing the safe word.) Jon presents a simple concept and then expects you to solve every. single. permutation. of that concept. You do the work to find out what it’s about, and then what it’s about is the work. That game is about itself. The subject of The Witness is solving The Witness. It’s about purity of design, about simplicity, about slowly mastering a set of skills. (That these skills are neither inherently pleasurable to perform nor applicable in any other context seems not to matter; the point is, you learned them.) It’s hard not to read a game fixated on the beauty of its own design as all kinds of smug.

I allowed myself to be spoiled on the True Ending, and it seems, in the eleventh hour, if you draw lines til your fingers bleed, the game makes room for self-critique, questioning whether all this dedication to design actually is, in any way, meaningful or useful to us. Which, just a little bit, smacks of an artist spending two years making a sculpture of himself, chiseled to make him look a perfect Olympian beauty, only to label it “EGOISM.” Ooo. Make you think.

I suspect, in the end, I played it to (partial) completion because I was curious. I didn’t necessarily buy Jon Blow’s hype, but his hype is intriguing. As a portrait of a certain mindset, a monomaniacal obsession with design for design’s sake, the folk-religion of salvation through technology, and the critique of same, it is fascinating. I know people - smart people - who genuinely love this game, and, if the above is any indication, I clearly love talking about it. I have no regrets.

But, word of advice: if you don’t a) love the puzzles, or b) love the discourse, just walk away. Everything will be fine.

#capsule review #Adventure Games #the witness