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pinksrs · 5 years

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THE PINK SERIES, VOLUME 1/PROLOGUE

CW: Death.

If you’ve ever felt like The Universe is working against you, there may very well be a point to your paranoia. If you ever felt like something wasn't a coincidence, I’m sorry to tell you you may have a point.

I’d like to tell you that The Universe is a benevolent character. I'd like to tell you that It takes your thoughts and feelings into consideration. I wish it were the type of person that minds Its manners, holds open doors, says please and thank you, and cares.

But It isn’t, and It doesn’t.

The Universe is an asshole. It’s got a sick sense of humor. Why do you think you only run into your exes when you haven’t showered in three days? That touch of sick irony is the work of The Universe. It's idea of funny is pushing people in front of trains.

That’s not to say It’s concerned with you. You may actually be paranoid, I’m afraid (and there’s nothing I can do about that). The Universe isn’t responsible for every bad thing that’s ever happened to you.

I'm sorry, but there's nobody to blame for their death.

You ought to consider yourself lucky.

When The Universe takes interest in something, it’s never pretty. It wreaks havoc, in the form of relentless circumstances we call coincidence.

Coincidence is easier to grasp than fate.

It’s easier to dismiss, too.

It should serve as some sort of comfort, though, to know that The Universe isn’t interested in you. No, you’re not on Its list of pet projects. There’s no ant farm with your name on it that the Universe picks up and shakes until your world is in shambles.

There is an ant farm labeled Duffy, though.

Boy, if you think you’ve got it bad… The Universe has really got it out for this lot.

It’s been watching them for years. In all actuality, in the long run, relative to The Universe, twenty one years is the blink of an eye. But as it so happens, The Universe isn’t the most patient of natural forces.

On the contrary, The Universe is quite childish despite being eons old. As ancient as It is, It’s still prone to temper tantrums when it doesn’t get Its way.

Rain streaked streets breathe in the night air. Steam floods the pavement and mingles with the midnight mist of the city by the bay, like condensation on one's breath. Rain in San Francisco – how original.

But in defense of The Universe, creativity’s dead. Believe it or not, It’s not actually responsible for the weather.

The rain sets the streets aglow, with fluorescent neon signs bleeding onto wet streets. Grease-stained asphalt has a kiss of color in the dark by headlights. Signs for 24/7 pharmacies, cannabis dispensaries, and burnt-out bulbs of street lamps blink. The city is alive as it ever has been.

San Francisco is advancing fast into the twenty first century. It’s not the same little town by the ocean with the fog and the trolleys anymore. It’s louder. bolder, more mature, with less fear of falling into the sea.

To the other billions of people on the planet, it’s any other night, but to one Englishman, it’s the end of the world. The Universe has been watching him the past few years, like a television show that’s always running. It only tunes in when there's nothing better to watch.

The Universe has tuned in at the perfect time.

The apartment is cramped and perched on the corner of the building. It's so close to the traffic stop outside that light dances through the window. The lights are bright enough to cast a sickly glow about the room. It cycles through crimson, emerald and gold. Each is as bad as the next. The menacing glow of red is no better or worse than the yellow light seeping across the skin like jaundice.

If he weren’t so used to them, they’d be a nuisance, but Edgar Duffy isn’t one to dwell on things he can’t change. He doesn’t dwell much of anything, actually. As boys go, he’s nothing special. He’s not the most handsome, nor tall, nor smart. But he's handsome enough, tall enough, smart enough.

He was enough, but never too much.

As of eighteen seconds ago, it was his birthday. So far, being nineteen doesn’t feel much different than being eighteen.

For a moment there, he thought it might. He thought things might be different, for once. His hopes had been too high to think a birthday with his brother could go any other way. Couldn’t they go one year without lapsing into their pattern of clenched jaws and grit teeth?

As brothers go, Edgar and Ivan Duffy aren’t the type you write home about. They’re more the type you write about in passive-aggressive posts on social media. They're the type to give thoughtless gifts to each other, bought last minute at the corner store. Takeout from the place he hates is paired with a cheap bottle of wine, and a store-bought cake.

If Ivan paid more attention to his brother, he might have a clue about what Edgar likes. The gesture is impersonal and empty. Neither of them have fooled themselves into thinking it’s anything but.

They made attempts at talking, all feeble and failed. Edgar and Ivan found that they had little more to bond over these days than schoolwork.

It's obvious that neither of them want to live together.

Edgar stares ahead at the half-full takeout box on the table, heavy brow set into a furrow. All these empty gestures are the sort of thing he’s learned not to dwell on. Instead, he's taught himself to accept this as one of the innumerable things in his life he cannot change. They were fixed and factual things he had to accept. That, or let it destroy him.

Like bad birthdays, filled with lazy attempts at siblinghood. That, and compulsory, celebratory dinners with Ivan. After nineteen years, it’s finally sunk in – some things don’t want to change.

His lips purse into a line, and at long last the words sitting on Edgar's tongue for the last hour spill out:

“You should go.”

The pair of them serve as a harsh contrast to one another. Where Ivan is a fan of black and leather, Edgar prefers tartan and denim. Where Ivan prefers chocolate, Edgar would rather have vanilla.

By no means is Edgar tall, but he towers over his older brother. Depending on whom you ask, he’s the better looking of the two, too. His features fit his face, unlike Ivan, whose ears stick out too far and whose brow hangs too heavy. Wide eyes sit deep in sunken sockets, with lips bowed into a permanent pout. The look is complete with ill-aligned teeth and rodential overbite.

The older Duffy looks a bit pathetic slouching beside his brother. Edgar’s perfect posture, mane of chestnut hair, and green eyes was a startling difference. He made Ivan’s swampy, dark eyes and thicket of black curls look like sickly mange. It didn't help that Ivan had haphazardly shaved the sides of his head.

While the relation is undeniable, it’s not willing.

Not on Ivan’s part, at least– not if he can help it. Ever since Edgar ripped his way out of their mother, Ivan made it his life’s work to separate himself.

Ivan may be two years older, but he’s not acting it. Sipping wine out of a red plastic cup doesn’t help his case in the slightest. “Go? You can’t kick me out of my own flat.” For whatever reason, his accent’s harsher than his brothers, thicker and far more clumsy on the tongue. It could be the wine staining his lips purple, but Edgar’s always suspected it’s for show. "It's your birthday."

“I don’t want you here ‘cause you’re supposed to be here,” he begins, blundering on forward. Quick! Before he can lose momentum. Edgar’s never been one for boldness. “I want you here ‘cause you wanna be here, not ‘cause you’re supposed to. You can go if you want– don’t force yourself to stay here on my account." Edgar's hands fly into the air. "‘Sides, you’ve got plans, haven’t you? You only wanted to do it tonight so you could get it out of the way and blow me off tomorrow.” His tongue clicks against his teeth as he sits forward, grabbing for his cup to wash the taste of salt out of his mouth. “Right?”

Like a deer in the headlights, Ivan rubs a hand at his jaw and looks about the room. He'll try anything if it’ll buy him time, if it will spare him having to deal with this. Oh, he’d really rather not. “I mean,” Ivan heaves a sigh. “G wanted to do something… It’s our first anniversary, y’know–”

There wasn’t a nerd alive with a bigger heart and more criticism in his veins than the likes of G Cooper. A year later, Ivan was still there. It wasn’t like it was serious, only comfortable and convenient, lazy and warm. A year, no doubt, is a bigger deal to G than it is to Ivan. As he tends to do, Ivan fails to realize exactly how big of a deal.

Edgar is quick to steer him back onto the path. He had decided early on that he didn’t like G. Something about him never sat right. “Don’t change the subject, Ivan. Don’t drag him into this.”

Ivan’s eyes narrow with a look towards Edgar, mouth taut. Can you blame him for trying?

“Am I right or not?”

“Well–”

“Ivan.”

“Yeah, okay, you’re right…”

“I can’t believe–” Edgar pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut to taper off a glare. “Y’know what? Yeah, actually, I can believe it, that’s the sad part. Do you have any idea what an asshole you are?”

It’s the brashness and the source, that causes the wine to catch in Ivan’s throat. Sputtering, he manages to swallow, wiping away any drops on the back of a black sleeve. It’s not like he hasn’t been called an asshole before, but hearing it from the likes of little Eddy was obscene. They had their problems, but Edgar was a quiet kid that kept his opinions to himself. “There’ll be other birthdays, Edgar. What’s the big deal–”

“You’re going to do it on other birthdays, too! You’ve done it before, you’re doing it now, you’ll do it again. So,” Edgar scoffs, getting to his feet. “Stop forcing it; stop punishing me, Ivy.”

Ivy isn’t a name Ivan’s heard come out of Edgar’s mouth in years. He can’t help but think it seems exceptionally childish this time around. Desperate, even. It’s a subtle, passive aggressive jab. “Punishing you for what?” He may be petite, but somehow Ivan’s managing to make himself even smaller as he slouches into the sofa.

Edgar stops to flash his brother a look, his arms loaded with bowls, chopsticks, and takeout boxes. He gives a wag of his head, brown hair tossing. “You know what. When are you gonna stop blaming me and let it go?”

Now, it seems, Edgar’s hit a button. Ivan clambers to his feet, fighting gravity and a hungry sofa. “You let it go– I’ll blame you as much as I want, screw you.” Always quick to act, this one. Ivan’s never been good at getting a grip on his emotions, especially not where family’s concerned.

“She was my mum too–”

“Fuck off, she was not– you don’t get to say that.” Pint-sized fists clench at Ivan’s side. He stands his ground, as Edgar goes about his business.

His brother is calm by comparison, picking up the mess they made. Soon, it’s all piled into the garbage, except for the birthday card. “You can go now.”

There’s anger welling in Ivan’s chest, ready to boil over. Is he going to scream, or cry? Neither of them can tell. A moment passes before he realizes he’s holding his breath, like he used to do when he was a child. (He'd kill himself if their father didn’t come home that second.) “You asshole...” But Ivan trails off, eyes squeezing shut.

No, he won’t cry.

Ivan swallows down the lump in his throat as he grabs everything he can. He hastily shoves his phone into a pocket, wallet already safe in his jacket. There are more things he needs, but in his frenzy, Ivan can’t bother to remember them. All he can think to do is throw his arms out and shriek. “Fuck you, Edgar!”

Edgar may be calm, and far less dramatic than Ivan, but he feels himself bordering on hysterics. If he had it in him, he might fight to keep his brother there, but he doesn’t. They’ll put up an argument another day, but he’s tired, and his shoulders feel heavy. Can’t they table it? “Just go see G, Ivy. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah? I’m tired– you’re drunk, anyway.”

“I’m not drunk,” Ivan snaps, but he's clumsy as he pushes his way past Edgar and to the door. He leans his weight into the wall for support. “But whatever, you’re right, I don’t want to be here. It’s sick– she died and you’re making me celebrate it. It’s not fucking fair.”

“Life’s not fair, Ivan.”

“You’re right, Edgar. Life’s a bitch, then you’re fucking dead.”

The door flies open and slams shut behind him. Ivan storms into the hall, barreling down a single flight of stairs. There’s an elevator, but he doesn’t have the patience to wait. Stomping down the stairs and out the building feels right. Bursting into the night air, Ivan finds that the rain has let up.

The fog is heavier than ever, swirling at his feet and leaving steamy breath to fall from his lips. Black hood up, hands shoved into pockets, and he marches.

Where? In no time, he finds that he’s left his cigarettes and lighter at home, but there’s no way in hell he’s going back now. It calls for a quick stop at the liquor store for a pack of cigarettes and the first lighter his hand finds. Then, he let the wandering begin.

G's apartment was the destination, eventually, but for now he’s aimless. He keeps his eyes ahead and focuses on nothing more than the pavement under his boots and the wind on his face. The wind has Ivan pulling his hood back up to right it again, securing it over the tangle of curls. He feels raw without it, and far too vulnerable for comfort.

He’s always been like this. Ivan was stubborn, flighty, and keen on running away whenever the pressure got to be a little too much. He could be a diamond under all that pressure, but he fights to fly and avoid every problem. Ivan does it almost as diligently as he avoids having to spend time with Edgar.

They could get along if he’d let them; Edgar’s the sort to get along with anybody.

After nineteen years, keeping his brother at arms length has worked for him. That, and everyone else he knew.

But what of the rest of it?

The sniff is audible, wet, and sloppy as he tries to clear his sinuses of signs of distress. Sleeve balled over his fist, Ivan scrubs away at his eyes to wash away tears. He fights back the urge to throw himself onto the pavement and sob. That’s ridiculous and dramatic, and the sort of thing best saved for the bathroom floor. The shower running and the music blaring would drown him out and keep Edgar from listening. The walls of their apartment leave nothing to the imagination.

Edgar was right about one thing.

He is drunk, Ivan admits to himself when he stops to lean heavy into a brick wall, looking down the length of the alley.

This isn’t familiar territory, and if Ivan were smarter, he’d be more wary of dark alleys on darker nights.

If he were sober, he'd pay attention.

If he were smarter, or sober, he’d have noticed the soft sound of boots falling against wet pavement. Something is stalking and creeping, with lips curved into a sneer.

A predator lurks, ready to snap.

Ivan pushes himself from the wall to right himself, swaying when he stands. The hood slips back over his head and falls down. Eyes shut in time for hot tears to boil over. It doesn’t count if they never reach his cheeks. Still, he’s not stopping them or wiping them away.

Not until the sound of gravel underfoot catches his attention. He rounds on his heel to turn and face whatever is in the alley with him. In a whirl of fog and alcoholic haze, of loose curls and tears in his eyes, Ivan can hardly make anything out, save for a looming figure.

Before he can process a single thing, everything gets cut by the flick of a wrist, a tug, a scream, and the last desperate whimpers of a heart still kicking.

#pink chapters #pls don't reblog thanks #lms if u read tho

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starspatter · 6 years

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Heroes and Thieves, Ch. 4

Title: Heroes and Thieves Fandom/Universe: BTAS, pre/post-RotJ flashback

Summary: A story about second chances, healing, and having hope.

Rating: PG-13, for references to character death, child psychological torture and trauma.

Genre: Romance/Family/Friendship/Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 5,361 Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3

Also on ff.net and AO3.

Merry Christmas, everyone! Thanks for your patience, here's part 4~

See me here in the air Not holding on to anywhere But holding on so beware I have secrets I won't share

-t.A.T.u., "Clowns (Can You See Me Now?)"

Then.

“Psst. Hey look over there, it’s that Brown girl.”

“The one hanging out with the freak in computer class? You think they’re dating?”

“Ew, gross.”

“You know I heard she got knocked up by some loser in high school. I bet she has like, no standards.”

“Wow, what a skank. So she’ll sleep with anyone, huh?”

Look who’s talking, Queen Jezebel.

Stephanie tried her best to ignore the snobby gathering of rich sorority girls as they gossiped and giggled loudly behind her back in the gymnasium locker room, mingling and clinging onto the clear alpha’s authority. Hiding and huddling under a protective umbra, umbrella safety in numbers. …So much for college being better than high school when it came to cliques and bullying.

As they passed by her change station – all the adulating acolytes swarming around their leader like an amoeba – one appendage broke away from the buzzing cluster just far enough to bump blatantly into her bare shoulder.

“Whoops. Sorry.”

The drone drawled in an excessively sarcastic tone that didn’t sound sincere at all, to the observant master’s smug approval.

Really, just like high school.

As tempted as she was to make a snide remark on the obvious imbalanced power dynamics, Stephanie managed to swallow her pride and suppress retort. Biting her tongue until they were out of sight, upon which she stuck it out in an equally mature gesture in their wake.

“So like anyway, I hear this new gym opened up on the outskirts downtown. It’s kinda out of the way – like, by the boonies almost – but apparently the instructor there is really hot.”

Stephanie couldn’t catch the statement that ensued, as the distance between them had already advanced to the point their fading words were muffled by rows of metal. There was a shrill burst of shrieking laughter before they exited though, harpy peals mixed with a round of half-appalled gasps, rebounding and resounding raucously off steel. Odd, she could’ve sworn she heard something about pirates…?

She sighed and shrugged as she got dressed, wiping the workout sweat from her face with a towel and pulling her sweatshirt over her sports bra. She didn’t much mind being lumped in with the outcast crowd; frankly she was used to being looked down upon by others by now, but the derisive comments still stung her self-esteem – especially when she was already having a bad day, due in part to being so bluntly turned down by the public pariah she was supposedly “associated” with.

Face it, girl, not even the “freak” is interested in you. What were you even thinking, blurting out something stupid like that. It must’ve come off as totally desperate; someone as smart as him probably doesn’t want to bother spending time with some dumb blonde chick who can’t even find her way around campus anyway.

She had come here to blow off some steam after being grilled on her grades in addition to the above gaffe, but now thanks to those sickening sycophants she was sorely reminded of her own poor social – and subsequently intellectual – standing. Missing culture and class (in all senses) often made her an easy scapegoat, much as she endeavored to rise above those who stooped to such low level of insult in order to make themselves appear somehow more “sophisticated”. She couldn’t help being a bit ruffled though, bile riling spitefully in her stomach as self-doubt simultaneously rolled about her conscience.

I mean come on, who are you even kidding? All you’re really good at is PE and pretending to be from a decent background instead of another broken dysfunctional family. Doesn’t matter what his type is, he’s way out of your league.

While she normally tried to cover up lack of conviction with clever wit, this was just the newest in a long series of successive failures (though it certainly didn’t top the ultimate blunder she’d made once). Chalk another one up to the slew of screw-ups and setbacks that plagued throughout her past, piling up to the point she may as well be called the Leaning Tower of “Please Kick Me”. Despite exertions to deny at least one side of her upbringing, the dominoes were stacked against her since birth. Any psychoanalyst worth his salt (assuming she could even afford one) would point to a mess of complications stemming from childhood, starting with “daddy dearest”. Freud would likely have a field day with her “father figure” fixation – in the more negative than positive association. While both parental “role models” had problems with neglect in the past, it was the paternal ones that particularly persisted. Thanks to her poor excuse for a pop, she’d suffered her share of blows (both emotional and physical) that defeated and deflated a daughter’s dignity, culminating in a personal vendetta against crime and clueless adults who can’t even properly take care of their kids. (Which in itself was one of the reasons she sadly but firmly determined in the end to give her own offspring up for adoption.)

Objectively, it was no wonder she had terrible luck – if not taste – with men, chasing endlessly after a string of doomed relationships (and consequently consecutive rejections), sought as a self-diagnosed surrogate to replace the male attention and affection she never received growing up. …So she idly acknowledged the full irony of the situation when, in order to distract from her dejection, she considered the inadvertent advertisement mentioned earlier as a potential solace.

Maybe I’ll go ogle some eyecandy for peace of mind.

She had promised her mom she’d come home for the weekend after all. She could stop by on her way, scope the – ahem – place out a bit. From the sound of the discussion, it was located fairly close to the suburbs, and establishing affiliation with an exercise facility near her neighborhood would be pretty convenient during vacations, compared to commuting back and forth like she did in high school. (Having a certified hunk for a fitness instructor as well would just be a nice bonus, icing on the cake. Given her strict regimen, surely she deserved to treat herself to some confectionary “consolation” on the side.)

…When she stepped off the bus in the middle of Gotham’s busiest shopping district though, she realized she probably should’ve done more research into its exact whereabouts first.

Dear Diary, remind me to print out directions next time. Or at least a map.

As she wandered hopelessly through the streets, now without the benefit of a guide or even a destination address to go by, eventually probing enough passersby bore fruit. By the time she arrived there though (out of breath as if she had already run a marathon), the sun was starting to set. Craning her neck to gaze up at the building sign towering above her, she snorted slightly at the lofty title.

“Out of the Nest Aerial” – what a weird name.

A bell chimed as she entered, alerting a man who was bent over some boxes in the back of the lobby (which smelled of fresh paint and renovation), apparently busy packing away some materials. He must’ve been surprised by a customer at this late hour, as she caught a cursory lift of his (lean yet muscular) arm to glance at a wristwatch. Still, he called pleasantly over his shoulder:

“Be right with you in a moment.”

Eyeing the robust frame of his behind, she assured:

“Ah, take your time.”

donotstareathisbuttdonotstareathisbuttdonotstareathisbutt

Damn, those gals seriously weren’t kidding about the view. …As the ass-umed target of their talk turned around though, she realized what they must have been chatting about that set off such a funny fit, following screeches with shushes. Steph felt her own face flush as she admonished herself for inappropriately zoning in from one conspicuous feature to another.

donotstareathiseyedonotstareathiseyedonotstareathiseye

Despite the discernible… “deficiency” in the other’s visual department, the defect didn’t detract from his overall attractiveness, magnetic movie star looks unmarred by partial eclipse. One shining moon’s force of gravity was sufficient enough to draw her into its depths. …If anything the shadow blocking the opposite sun’s reflection only enhanced his handsome appeal by augmenting an alluring air of mystique and intrigue – a Mr. Tall, Dark, and Mysterious if she ever saw one. Hell, the rest of his heavenly body’s figure was practically flawless, revealing the results of what must’ve amounted to years of intense physical training. Aside from deducing self-discipline as part of his personality, he carried himself with the convivial charisma of a cheerful showman presenting some grand performance (which she vaguely recollected from her father’s former game show hosting days). A voguish comportment vaguely cobbled from the kinds of classy male caricatures generally seen strutting on red carpet catwalks, peacocks fanning their feathers for their – in this case – drabber female counterparts (fans who would squeal and fall over themselves with glee if given a chance to even get within vicinity, let alone dare to lay claim of victory). Suave and stylish – if slightly synthetic. All preened plumage and perfect poses, placid and practiced. Like plastic roses, permanently planted for all to adore – parading proud and prominent down a promenade. Whose upbeat character’s charm was hardly diminished as he grinned gregariously in greeting, the gorgeousness of such a stunning smile more than making up for any handicap. …Although she noted the guy’s gait seemed somewhat rigid for somebody of his stature, walking with a minor limp towards her. Her blush deepened as he approached, exuding a masculine musk as his powerful paw extended to shake.

“Welcome. How can I help you, miss…?”

“Brown. Stephanie Brown.” She babbled rapidly, tongue tying again as she tripped over her response. “Nice booty- I mean, nice butt- I mean, nice to meet you. …You know what, I’m so sorry, I’m just gonna go.”

Fortunately, he seemed to take the semi-suggestive (if perhaps politically incorrect) comment in stride, simply chuckling aloud with unalloyed aplomb.

“Trust me, I’ve heard it all. Richard Grayson, at your service.” The dreamboat flourished a forgiving bow, adding with a flirtatious smirk: “You can call me Dick though, all the ladies do.”

ohmygod please stop

“Um, I was wondering if I could check you out-” She hastily checked herself again. “Er, check out your equipment?” God, why did that still sound so embarrassing to say. “I was thinking of signing up to join if you’ve got memberships available.”

“Sure, although we usually close around this time. Was just about to lock up soon actually. I’ll make an exception for such a lovely little lady though.”

Red crept further onto her cheeks. “Thanks, I’ll just take a quick peek.”

He nodded. “Feel free to look around, most of our stuff’s upstairs. Would you like me to give you a special tour?”

“N-no, that’s okay.”

She squeaked, subduing an internal squee.

“All right. Let me know if you need anything.”

She skipped swiftly up the steps, heart skipping beats. Today was turning out to be a pretty good day after all.

When she reached the upper floor though, she stopped short to see someone was unexpectedly there before her: the very person she had intentionally come to forget about.

What’s he doing here?

He didn’t seem to notice her presence, focused intently on a pair of uneven horizontal bars before him. Muttering something to himself under his breath, clenching his fists and flexing a few times. After the limbering stretch, he inhaled deeply before charging at his opponent, clearing the first hurdle with ease by using it as a springboard. He appeared to have some trouble latching onto the second, but managed to rectify his grip in time, righting himself as he swung up and over in a circle. Adjusting his center of weight, he settled into a handstand, still facing away from her. Gradually, he removed one palm from the pipe, impressively relying on a single limb’s strength to maintain balance.

A memory pricked in the back of her mind. Gotham High. After dusk. An empty gymnasium. She had forgotten her homework at school after practice, so she hopped on her scooter and raced back. As she neared the gym though, she heard a groaning crash within, followed by an angry curse. Poking her head cautiously through the door crack, she spotted someone lying prostrate on the floormat beneath the parallel beams (which were presumably set up again by said individual after having already been put away prior), alarmingly appearing unconscious. At first she panicked, and was about to run and call for an ambulance when the comatose corpse stirred, sluggishly staggering to its feet. Despite dragging them a little, he wobbled over to take previous position at the end of the pad. Stabilizing himself, he waited a minute for dizziness to dwindle before tumbling and backflipping across the entire expanse, vaulting high into the air to land – almost, but not quite – on the mark.

While she winced in his place, he merely picked himself up and gave it another go, repeating the routine over and over, for what felt like hours. She stood there and watched with silent marvel, gaping in spellbound, slackjawed awe at each graceful arc and twist, utterly mesmerized by this bizarre boy’s sheer determination to get it all precisely right – nearly bordering on desperate, if not suicidal. No matter how many times he tried though (nevermind shocking disregard for the quantity of bruises gained in the process), each attempt produced little improvement. Even if he managed to successfully pull off the whole maneuver, his hands shook so much upon descent that he still slipped off the perch – almost as if some part of his subconscious were involuntarily compelling himself to hold back. Finally, he kicked the dual poles over in frustration, storming off towards the outlet. She hurriedly ducked around a corner, but was able to get a good glimpse at his visage before he vanished.

She knew his name straightaway from face alone; everyone did. She’d seen him around in the halls, heard the whispered rumors, but had never spoken to him before. Most people strove to avoid interacting with the “world class weirdo” if they could help it, and his raging outburst at the end was admittedly a bit disturbing. …But the bitter expression of disappointment he wore as he glumly gave up became burned into her brain, ingraining irritation on his behalf. He evidently possessed extraordinary talent, yet still wasn’t satisfied with himself. (Her own signature moves paled in comparison, and not even the most senior members on the team could come close to the caliber of coordination and dexterity – let alone stamina – required to execute the intricacy of the initial sequence.) No one else seemed to recognize his raw skills either; or rather, he didn’t allow anyone to witness them for whatever reason. When he showed up to class the next day sporting so many injuries, everyone speculated how the infamous “delinquent” must have gotten into some kind of brawl outside of school, and steered clear even further. He didn’t say anything in his defense, but she found herself privately lamenting the misunderstood look of loneliness in his eyes – that in a way felt so achingly familiar from when she’d spend her mornings carefully concealing her “loving” dad’s last night beatings with makeup in the mirror.

Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to openly express sympathetic sentiment. She had her own pressing business to attend to, as shortly after that she discovered she was pregnant. Her louse of a boyfriend had already long broken up with her, dumped and ditched to fend for herself as soon as the quake of ’09 hit, fleeing like a coward while she stayed to try and help other survivors. Not only that, he completely skipped town in the aftermath – coincidentally for the entire duration of her gestation period – only coming back when chaos died down and the coast was clear, in all contexts. After she gave birth, he actually had the gall to try and get back together with her, but she kicked him hard in a certain place and then punched him in the face – twice – when he wouldn’t stay down. (Okay, so admittedly she was taking out more aggravation at herself; maybe he didn’t thoroughly deserve the brunt of such brutal treatment, but she hadn’t had the best experience with guys who refused to take “no” for an answer either.)

While the calamity exposed some awful realities about human nature, she wasn’t the only one who chose to remain behind to aid relief efforts. Among the scattered, smattering handful of Samaritan citizens left, she had observed another teen around her age (maybe a little younger, if his size was anything to go by). Although for an excruciating amount of time, he seemed frozen absolute, suspended animation amidst the burning wreckage. Glazed pupils in a trance, as if unable to process surroundings – before snapping out of stunned stupor into action. Festinating, fighting frantically through the frightened crowd, urgently racing to rescue as many as he could from the rubble. At one point he even recklessly risked his own life to dive under a crumbling, unstable column, reacting on impulse in order to save a small child from the structure as it collapsed. He almost looked more terrified than the toddler afterwards, whole mass trembling (and not just from the aftershock tremors), but he held the crying kid close and soothingly promised it would be okay, that they’d find his parents, that they were okay. He was okay. Everything was going to be okay.

She didn’t learn who he was until later, when she and the majority of the refugee student body were relocated to Gotham Heights High nearby, since their own cheap institution was devastated beyond immediate repair. (Eventually it would be rebuilt and renamed, dedicated in honor of the late Mayor Hamilton Hill, who perished during the upheaval.) The noble sacrifice that stranger demonstrated on that day seemed a stark contrast to his cold reputation, and she admired wonderingly from afar, confused as to how someone could portray two totally different impressions in such a short span. Deep down, she was sure the brave hero she saw emerge back then was but a flicker of the real self buried underneath frigid fortress’s exterior, convinced that a closed off heart was far kinder and more courageous than the owner let on.

At any rate, she had enough concerns on her own plate for the time being, dealing with the “reminder” her ex had left her of their time spent together. While she tried to keep the matter discreet, there was no way she could hide such a (literally) huge secret forever – from her mom or from faculty. When the truth came out, some of her (idiot) friends thought it was cool she was having a baby, envying the attention and constant excused absences. Others displayed their disdainful opinions on the affair, albeit in a more “indirect” manner. Maybe they were also jealous, or more likely her teammates were mad at her for having missed so many meetings under the pretense of “not feeling well” – only to announce she was officially taking an extended leave right before the big tournament, forcing them to scramble to redo the group floor routine. (They were already reluctant to let a transfer “rival” join, even though she had easily wowed their coach during tryouts.) Either way, she arrived one day to find her temp hallway locker coated in graffiti, resentful remarks ranging from “slacker” to “slut”. There were worse labels as the list went on, effectively exhausting the devil’s dictionary:

Bitch.

Bimbo.

Tramp.

Trollop.

Hussy.

Harlot.

Whore.

Dreg.

Some of the comments were so harsh and hurtful she couldn’t – didn’t want to believe they came from anybody she knew. Given the setting’s free access and availability, anyone could’ve written (and read) those things. So rather than instantly alert authority, she resolved to stake out between breaks to see if any vandals returned to the scene of the crime. …By the end of the day though, no one had come forward to gloat or claim responsibility. She was about to resign herself to letting the culprit(s) go when he of all people suddenly turned up in the vacant corridor – carrying a spraycan. Crushed by the thought he could’ve been involved – that he was really no better than his hoodlum image – she nearly called him out then and there to give a piece of her mind… when she noticed he was also holding a rag in his other hand.

He had brought cleaning supplies.

Quickly and quietly, he set to work, applying solvent and scrubbing away all the abusive slurs, leaving the cubby sparkling new. He promptly departed without a word, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. She didn’t know quite what to make of this random act; lending assistance in a crisis was one thing, but for someone to go out of his way to do her a favor when they weren’t even acquaintances went well above and beyond altruism in its own merit. (It was possible he was erasing evidence out of remorse, but somehow she doubted that.)

She never did get a chance to ask him about it – or to thank him – as her mother marched straight into the administration office upon hearing of the incident and pulled her out for the remainder of the semester, insisting on homeschooling – at least until the fetus finished its own term. Steph had never seen her looking so strong as in that moment. The scathing, scolding speech and matronly outline she sharply cut were striking, if somewhat startling. Their relationship had always been rather rocky, what with the pill addiction and alcoholism and all-around abandonment, but almost losing one’s daughter in a nigh-apocalyptic event tends to put things in perspective. Maybe she felt guilty for not fully being there for her up through adolescence, blaming herself for any shortcomings. She took the catastrophe itself as a sign of self-punishment, almost as if it were own fault rather than Mother Nature’s.

Whatever the motive, she really tried after that to make up for lost contact, God bless her. She got clean – for good this time – started working double shifts at the hospital to pay for damages to the house, all the while singly supporting Stephanie through the labor and adoption proceedings. Even went on a diet and lost some weight, though they still made sure to set aside time to eat waffles together every morning. Steph wasn’t sure why the woman specifically chose something that only offered empty carbs as their “healthy” bonding agent (she supposed since it was a warm, go-to comfort food; personally she was partial to mashed potatoes herself), but it became tradition, and it stuck – as did their adherence to each other, nonartificial sweetness strengthened with syrup.

When she returned to school, she was mildly more anxious to face friends than foes; to that end, she wasn’t even sure where on the spectrum “that person” lay. (Incidentally, she gathered he’d also spent some time “away” in the interim, which didn’t do much to dispel his shameful status.) At this forgone stage, she was uncertain how to broach topics long past to someone she’d still never even had a conversation with. Plus he always seemed so… difficult to approach, exuding an overwhelmingly daunting lone wolf aura. Finding courage or commonality to confront him was a bold challenge, and she always awkwardly lost her nerve whenever she came close.

Despite his history of misconduct, he was perceptibly bright – brilliant even – when it came to academics. His high exam scores earned him enrollment in accelerated classes in their senior year (although even then it seemed like he was still withholding some superior source of knowledge, moderating only enough surface energy to scrape by), and the advanced placement ahead of her only broadened the unattainable distance between them, no matter how hard she struggled to catch up… Which made it all the more astonishing that, in the end, he’d willingly accepted a spot in the same local state college rather than a private university. One might then cynically accuse her of seizing opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak, but it was purely by chance she happened to secure a practical arrangement that put them in rough proximity. Ostensibly though, the only other times their paths managed to fleetingly cross outside of lecture hall took place behind separate, if adjacent bookshelves – until today’s accidental encounter, that is.

As she retrospectively looked on, it seemed he couldn’t sustain the stance for long, dropping posture to hang upside-down for a moment before dismounting. Again, some kind of subliminal instinct seemed to kick in before he hit the ground, and he stumbled with a heated swear. She clapped politely in appreciation though, and he jolted at the noise. Swerving, he snapped without warning:

“Damnit, will you quit bugging me?!”

Her hands halted, shocked by the sudden shout. He blinked as he registered the spectator, growing more mortified as he became aware of his error.

“Shit. Sorry, I- thought you were someone else.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He gulped and shuffled uneasily, steadying respiration before attempting to start over.

“So. It’s you again, huh.”

Hello to you too.

“Hey. Fancy meeting you here. We just keep running into each other today, don’t we?” She ventured what she hoped came off as a friendly jibe to defuse tension, though there was some genuine suspicion behind it. “You wouldn’t be secretly stalking me, would you?”

He didn’t fall for it. Rather than take the bait, he instead reached casually for a water bottle on the bench beside his bookbag, relatively unfazed by the half-serious allegation.

“That’s my line.” His tone was almost eerily calm compared to before, as he unscrewed the cap and nonchalantly took a swig. “I could inquire the same of you, I’ve got a legitimate reason to be here.”

“Oh really. And what would that be?”

He jerked his head towards the staircase, jabbing a thumb for emphasis. “The guy downstairs? He’s my older brother.”

She squinted, distinguishing some physical resemblance now that he brought it up. “You two are related?”

That… explains a lot actually.

“Not by blood,” he clarified. “He was also adopted by Mr. Wayne at one point, so technically that makes us step-siblings.”

There was a pronounced privation of fondness in the terse, formal way he delicately articulated their former guardian’s designation, tongue tart and taut as a tightrope. She hazily recalled reading about the second sensation in the tabloids at the time (alongside an exposé detailing the new ward’s scandalous criminal record).

“Oh right, I saw a, um, documentary on T.V. about that. …Wait, you mean he’s Grayson as in ‘The Flying Graysons’? The famous circus act?”

“You didn’t see all the posters in the lobby?”

He pointed over her shoulder at a giant flyer pasted over partition, the enormous wall scroll unambiguously inflating the centerpiece’s ego.

“…Ah. Guess I must’ve been, er, distracted.”

Irises rolled in exasperation, as if expecting such a reply. “He tends to have that effect on people.”

Curious concentration transferred from the glossy print back to him as he begrudgingly murmured this. Hard to think the two were connected to each other, if tangentially. Like day and night, they were. Tentatively, she tried to gear the dialogue in a different direction, nudging towards an encouraging compliment.

“So that’s how you picked up all the acrobatic stuff?”

“Uh- yeah. Something like that.” He winced and rubbed the back of his neck, still seeming uncomfortable with the subject.

“You’re really good at it. That was pretty amazing, what you did just now. You should consider joining the gymnastics team, the males’ division could probably use some support. I hear it’s in danger of being cut to provide more funding for contact sports.” She scoffed inwardly. Like those jocks need any more budget.

He simply shrugged. “I’m not that great. My brother’s better.” …It was pretty plain to see he had a heavily severe inferiority complex. Remarkably though, sourness seemed to subside as a reminiscent, reverent mist remotely shrouded his vision, looking longingly at the faded ruby and gold costume. “You know he’s the only person in the world who can perform a quadruple somersault?” There was a touch of envious excitement in his tenor as he placed a hand on the worn placard, smoothing over wrinkles in the parchment. “…Or he used to be anyway, before the- accident.”

“…Is that also how he lost his eye?”

The clouded veil instantaneously evaporated.

“Sorry. Was just wondering.”

A voice emanated from the stairwell:

“It’s all right. I don’t mind you asking.”

The two turned to see the proprietor poised at the top of stairs, leaning over the railing as he took in the picture with an inscrutable countenance.

“It happened during the quake. Was trying to help some victims trapped in a bus underneath the highway. Got hit by falling debris in an aftershock. …Pretty dumb, huh?”

“I wouldn’t say that. That was really heroic of you.”

Meanwhile, her other company said nothing, but shot a peculiar look at his brother, who merely beamed benignly back. There was a blank, stony sort of quality to both their semblances though. Impenetrable. Stephanie had the inexplicable feeling she was intruding on some mute, confidential exchange between the two, and decided now would probably be a good time to excuse herself.

“…Anyway, would you look at the time. Guess I should get going. It’s getting late, and my mom’s expecting me.”

“Of course. Thank you for stopping by, we hope to see you back again.”

“I’m sure you will. …Oh, one more question before I go: How do I get to Widowstone Creek from here?”

A brief description of bearings later, Stephanie strolled out the door, now confidently armed with coordinates. The manager waved with a sunny smile as she left – though it might’ve been her imagination, but the salutation seemed a tad subdued as opposed to earlier reception.

“Bye now! Take care.”

He subtly elbowed his younger sibling, who sullenly put up a lethargic hand as well.

“Bye.”

Really, could those two be any more different.

The sky had grown grim, but she was still able to navigate her way around well enough as she approached an area she was accustomed to. She had been right about the place being close to her house, it shouldn’t take her long to get there. …Although now that she knew where she was headed, she opted at the last minute to cut through a back alley to get to her block without further delay – which turned out to be a colossal, costly mistake.

“Well well, what have we here?”

Stephanie stiffened as she heard the thrum of throaty sniggers and motorbikes, headlights peering through the gloom as they illuminated a score of whitewashed faces, arrayed in garish garb; bright polka dot and patchwork patterns that were even more blinding (like looking through a psychedelic kaleidoscope, or experiencing a bad trip on some of her mom’s pills). She would’ve been amused by their gaudy guises, if not for the gleaming assortment of weapons they wielded: knives, chains, clubs, hammers, pipes, bats, and of all things – a spiked rubber chicken, which was the only thing that didn’t seem ridiculously out of place in this scenario. (Scratch that, they still looked ridiculous.) Brazenly brandishing rusted iron and brass to match their brash appearance, lurid and leering. She’d seen reports of their mischievous miscreant behavior on the news, but had never directly run into them before. Outlying residential regions weren’t typically their turf. …But of course today had to be the day they chose to terrorize her territory instead.

Dear Diary, remind me never to try taking a shortcut again. …Assuming I even make it out of this mess alive, that is.

She thought as she backed up slowly, finding herself fenced in by whooping hyenas, sneering and snickering as they encircled their prey. A gang of hellion hooligans, rebel riffraff risen up out of the ashes and anarchy following the cataclysm – even more enormous fashion disasters taking after their borrowed namesake:

Jokerz.

Clowns are here to let you know Where you let your senses go Clowns all around you It's a cross I need to bear

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almightytallestvoldy · 6 years

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Aaaaand it seems I didn’t upload Voldemort’s birthday picture from last year either.

“So here we are again. Another new year, and another New Year’s Eve spent celebrating Voldemort’s birthday for me. It’s one of three times in the year (now instead of two, but we’re yet to see the fruit of that labor) where I FORCE myself to make absolutely SURE that I do a piece of art. When I started thinking about what I wanted to do for this year’s picture, I remembered the one major Harry Potter (Voldemort specific, actually) event that took place this year; Harry Potter ALBUS POTTER and the Cursed Child.

(Skip the Italics rant to get on to the art description)

While I have no idea if the general populous even accepts that entry as canon, particularly because of some literally IMPOSSIBLE things in it, and I myself found a great deal of anger and disappointment in the installment, there were a few shining points of wonder and glory, one of those being, imo, our new addition, Delphini Diggory RIDDLE. This is one of those things I’m referring to. There is NO WAY she could exist, at least as stated. No one was aware of her existence, despite the fact that she was apparently born in Draco Malfoy’s house and to his aunt Bellatrix. You’d think that’d have been a detail that would’ve been mentioned when Harry, Ron, and Hermione were captured and in the Malfoy Manor, or, you know, something Draco would’ve known about. So there is no way that’s a true thing. But one thing that definitely comes to mind is the fact that Delphi herself didn’t even know of her own heritage, and didn’t find out until Rudolphus Lestrange somehow managed to get the information to her. Personally I believe it was a final act of loyalty to Voldemort to make sure his child knew her background, and a final act of loyalty to his wife to make that child believe she was Bella’s. I have serious doubts that Voldemort would ever mix his genes with anyone so annoying or mentally unstable. I’d have to see some serious explanations and background of the build up or whatever before I’d buy that noise. But all the same, I love Delphi. I love her sooooooooo much. She, Albus, and Scorpius were the only good things about that toilet paper roll they called an official next installment. I love her for multiple reasons. First and foremost, she validates even the possibility of my own OC’s existence. Secondly, she’s almost an exact carbon copy of her. Delphi is certainly more unstable (which would be the only thing that would make me believe that she’s Bella’s), but that aside, their motivation and behavior are pretty much identical. Delphi’s speech towards the end of the book was almost word for word something that my Vivian had said in various RPs and fanfics. It’s hard not to love a character that I have both already gotten attached to through my own writings, and that puts egg on everyone’s face that ever made fun of me for my idea. Yeah, it’s still a pretty Mary-Sue-ish idea, but now it’s a CANONICAL Mary-Sue-ish idea. I’d like an apology from all those people that judged it so viciously, thank you very much. I’ll pass out numbers, and then you can all line up and I’ll call you to the desk.

ANYWAYS, my heart goes out to Delphi, almost as much as it does to Voldemort himself. She just wanted to know her father, who’s known no earthly love or affection that we’ve ever been privy to. She, too, has spent her life alone and neglected. She was raised in such a way that I know would absolutely enrage Voldemort. She never even went to Hogwarts! She was robbed of the experience he treasured above all others! Of social interaction! Of a standardized, varied education! It’s just the ongoing injustice of the Riddle family. And then they had to go and have her kill somebody and vilify her, too, when this could’ve been a chance for redemption after the massive negligence from virtually every character in the series. Seriously, I could argue a case for everyone, don’t get me started.

So basically now that I’ve got that off my chest, I’ll get back to the actual art. For a while, I considered doing a picture of just Voldemort and Delphi. I wanted to grant them both some respite from their cursed lives. Like, if in just one universe, somewhere out there (which is to say, my cathartic art), that they could be together, and on Voldemort’s birthday, I just thought that would be great. But why even stop there? If I’m talking about my own universe that I have created (now along with @blissomquisling as well), why not include my own OC, who just gained a sister? Or her mother for that matter? Well, the simple answer is that I could think of no reason why not. It seemed wholly appropriate for an updated family photo.

Without further ado:

Left: Delphi. I used the only picture of her that seems to exist for reference: https://goo.gl/images/6CTKAf I tried to make her seem very content at realizing her fondest ambition.

Top-Center: Vivian. Anyone who’s followed me closely for years will recognize my second oldest OC. She’s positively delighted for this influx of family that all love her father. It’d just been her and Nagini for so long. Obviously their ages don’t actually reflect well together. Delphi was apparently born some time in 1998, while (default) Vivian was born in 1980.

Center: I don’t think I really need to say who that is. He’s really having a hard time processing all of this positive attention. But HE was the one foolish enough to believe he could get away with sitting alone on a LOVEseat in a room full of people who LOVE him. Come on, tho, really … He kinda likes it.

Back: Nagaini, of course. You know, I never remember a very clear description of her, other than a massive snake. I wanted her to look real, but not plain, so … greyscale python? Yup. Sounds legit. She’s like the family dog. Everybody loves Nagini.

Right: Nova. This is the other that requires some explanation. As my friendship with @blissomquisling grew, so too did our interests together. Voldemort and the injustice he suffered has always been a great passion of mine, so eventually she started to participate as well. Her oldest OC, Vanessa, is a demi-goddess/the goddess/the embodiment of love itself. Back YEARS ago when FaceBook had that Sims Social game, I made Voldemort for my profile, and she made Vanessa. Through absolutely no bidding of ours, Voldemort was immediately attracted to her, which made perfect sense, as anyone who meets Vanessa falls in love with her as a side effect of being love incarnate. Over the years, it kind of just kept happening. We had them both in Sims 2, and they were drawn to each other. We had them both in Sims 3, and they were drawn to each other. We had them both in Tomodachi Life, and … they were drawn to each other. (They’re actually one of my happiest married couples now LOL). The explanation for this now is that Voldemort sought the power of love, as he claimed to Dumbledore in one of the memories in Halfblood Prince. He had stated that his search had been unsuccessful, and Dumbledore came back that he’d probably been looking in the wrong places. But in our canon, he had in fact located this goddess of love in his wide search of the world for rare magics and hidden powers. He couldn’t help but be attracted to her, but the clincher was that love, being like a force or even an actual, quantifiable thing like a gas or liquid, would be attracted to places where there is less (or none) of itself. That being said, she found this terrible blunder of human kindness, charity, and understanding (someone who had received virtually none of these) fascinating, as well as something that needed correcting. She told him that she would be born to a mortal body, and that they would meet again when she did and what signs to look for. She didn’t know when this would come to pass, however, and the high levels of emotion and endorphins and the like usually make encounters with her dreamlike. By the time Voldemort came to Dumbledore to request the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, he had come to believe that the encounter had not been real, and felt somehow more betrayed and abandoned than before. At least until sometime in the 1970’s when he met Nova on a trip to France.

While residing in the 70’s, she still won’t give up a lot of her 60’s trends, such as her gogo boots, and short bob. She was actually very young when she re-encountered the Dark Lord, but she was not intimidated by him, and immediately struck up friendly conversation. He found her so curious and charming that he kept visiting her. She loves him unconditionally, even if she doesn’t condone all of his actions.

Ugh. I wish I could go on about her forever. She is so delightfully quirky and bizarre. She is seriously one of the greatest characters I have ever had the pleasure of interacting with. But I’m sure by now pretty much everyone has lost interest by now. This is getting into the realm of being more for my own records than anything.

FINALLY

The Loveseat: The horrible 60’s - 70’s pattern is based off of “that couch everyone had.” Yes. You’ve had it. I'VE had it. We’ve all had it. Nova has it. So Voldemort has it, poor bloke.“

Original Posting: https://almightytallestvoldy.deviantart.com/art/Voldemort-s-90th-Birthday-Another-Family-Photo-654695329

#voldemort #delphi diggory #delphini diggory #delphi riddle #delphini riddle #vivian riddle #nagini #harry potter #harry potter and the cursed child #lord voldemort

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hellyes-tommccamus · 7 years

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Mutant X [TV] (2001-2004)

S01E16 “Interface”

[spoilers]

Sci-fi/action

Tom McCamus plays a main role in season 1

The episode opens with Emma fighting GS Agents in a shopping mall. Shalimar drops in to help and the two of them kick ass without losing any of their shopping. I initially thought this scene was filmed at The Eaton Centre but it is actually the Cineplex on the other side of Yonge Street.

The establishing shots for the safe house look like they were done at a TTC station. Brennan and Jesse are investigating after the GSA broke in and took some of the New Mutants who were staying there. They wonder why suddenly they are getting better at breaking into their safe houses.

Mason reprimands Mr Delay (Chris Owens), naturally his newest second in command, for the shopping centre debacle. He begins to congratulate him on the successful raids on safehouses, but Michelle Bigelow (Danielle Hampton) walks in and rightfully claims the credit for herself. Mason asks her what her career goals are, and she answers as any interview candidate wishes they could, that she wants his job. If we didn’t already expect guest stars to not last the episode, we would straight away know that she has no chance.

Emma checks the CCTV footage from the safehouse and sees that her old school friend Michelle is working for the GSA. Adam discusses Emma’s friend with Jesse. He says she is a psionic telecyber, who can interface directly with computers. Adam says he was involved in some experiments splicing DNA with computer chips. And we thought Adam claimed to have not been aware of being involved in anything dodgy at Genomex? Or has he given up being in denial by this point?

Emma goes looking on the internet for info on her old friend. Thankfully her school was super high tech for the time. I’m guessing Emma is supposed to be in her early twenties so would have graduated a couple of years ago. So her school had a website in 1999? I guess with the other technology we see in the show maybe it’s supposed to be set in the near future. Emma finds an old photo of her and Michelle and decides to go and meet her.

Michelle’s boss comes and tells her off for making his look stupid in front of his boss. Just when I was complaining during the last episode that there is no visible chain of command at Genomex! I guess nobody is surprised that they are slave drivers when Michelle mentions that she is working the evening. She demonstrates her power by diving into the computer. It’s definitely an interesting power. As technology evolves we are becoming closer to machines, and perhaps soon we will all have the power to directly control computers, either transferring our consciousness into them or allowing them into our minds.

Michelle is interrupted by an instant message from Emma. I must say I don’t recall using instant messaging when the show aired. It’s commonplace now, but back then it was all chatrooms and message boards and emails. Instant messaging apparently existed for a long time before this, and with both Mutant X and Genomex being far ahead of the curve, of course they would have it.

Emma is at an internet cafe, remember those? I always thought they were uber cool and modern, but never actually used one as I was lucky enough to have home access to the internet earlier than most people. Michelle seems happy to hear from Emma and invites her to webcam chat. And I have to mention that these were the days when webcams were poor quality, bulky cameras that we had to perch precariously on top of our old CRT monitors. Flat screens weren’t commonplace then.

Brennan laughs at the thought of connecting to a computer mentally, but Jesse likes the idea. But their conversation goes no further a GSA agent (Bradley James Allan) infiltrates the safehouse again. The martial artists/stunt people playing nameless GS Agents really deserve some kudos. The simulation dissolves and we find ourselves back in Sanctuary.

Emma is harassed by a complete stranger and tells him she isn’t alone but waiting for someone. She’s just about to leave when Michelle shows up onscreen. Michelle isn’t keen, but Emma convinces her to come and meet her.

Jesse complains to Adam about the simulations not preparing them for real life fights. Adam reveals something worrying: he has programmed the simulations with free will. Which is kinda neat, but is it morally right or safe? Adam guesses rather smugly that Jesse had trouble playing video games as a kid. Which is kinda surprising, I guess you expect computer whizzes to also be master gamers.

The shocks keep coming. Our good girl Emma is actually a thieving manipulator. She meets with Michelle and they talk about how Emma used to use her powers to steal people’s coffee then Michelle would turn off the lights so they could escape. Apparently they did this all the time and didn’t get caught. And they do it when they meet up this time. It’s not particularly surprising that a couple of New Mutant teens would mess with people like that, but seeing her do it in the present is a bit out of character. Sure, Mutant X are far from being whiter than white, but petty theft seems just unnecessary. Then she has the nerve to look down on her friend for joining “the dark side”.

Brennan and Shalimar have a conversation about simulations. Brennan is reading a GSA training file on a device that looks like a modern cell phone in a flip case. It’s odd how with time science fiction technology moves into being part of normal life.

Michelle and Emma have an interesting conversation about the morality of Mutant X and the GSA. But then some more GS Agents show up and take Emma away.

Jesse and Adam talk about studying and tests. Adam reveals he went to college at 12. The fact that he was a child genius probably comes as a surprise to no-one, and with the ages of some of his test subjects, he would have had to start working at a Genomex at a very young age. Perhaps even before he graduated. I don’t believe he’s ever actually called doctor at any point, but I think we can assume he has at least one doctorate.

Shalimar and Brennan set off to rescue Emma. Adam makes a good point in telling them to find out where she is being held before they go in. Genomex is a large place, and too often we see them run in there and conveniently end up where they need to be. There is far less wandering down random corridors than there would be in reality. Meanwhile Adam is looking at Michelle’s DNA somehow. When exactly was he supposed to have taken a sample? And he says it is going through a shift - an emotional one. Sorry Adam, DNA doesn’t actually contain emotions. Those are definitely stored in the structure of the brain.

Michelle marches Emma through the corridors of Genomex while Emma tries to change her friend’s mind about working there. She suggests Michelle has a look at what is in the computers. As if she wouldn’t have already looked. If she’s quite happy to use her powers to steal, why would she not? I think they forgot to book extras for this shoot because the place is absolutely empty.

For some reason they have to actually sneak into Mason’s office for Michelle to get into the computer system. Couldn’t she do it remotely? Michelle mentions that Emma broke into the dean’s office and stole his furniture. So her past was as a kleptomaniac with no reason? For some reason Michelle has to unlock the door. It’s usually open. In a place you’d expect to have high security, it actually varies between none and some that is easily broken into. Mason’s touchscreen iMac was pure science fiction in those days, but again, would be considered ordinary now. I recall seeing being amazed at seeing demonstrations of touchscreens for the first time around the time this series first aired. Michelle sees something shocking on the computer, we don’t get to find out what.

The girls are spotted by a lab technician. Usually the corridors are full of them (for no good reason other than to make the place look extra sciencey, like the test tubes full of coloured liquids). Emma thinks they’re in trouble. Probably they would be fine. In a large company, most staff do not know or particularly care who is supposed to be where. Michelle deactivates Emma’s sub dermal governor, which is always accompanied by some sparks, and she makes the solitary lab tech think he has seen nothing. Which is more like casting an illusion than messing with emotions, but I think we’ve already been there.

Emma calls Adam. And as we’re on the topic of science fiction tech becoming ordinary, the commlink rings work in a similar manner to Bluetooth headsets or the Apple Watch. Surprise surprise, Mason appears as they try to leave. Actually accompanied by three security guards this time. They let themselves be taken away. Where to, we don’t know. There is so much seemingly pointless walking in Mutant X. Is it supposed to give the impression that the story is moving quickly? There’s seriously few scenes where people have a conversation while standing still. They use the same trick as in the coffee shop and disappear. The dialogue is quite embarrassingly bad in these scenes. It sounds like a first draft that they never rewrote to sound less like a bad comic book.

In the next scene we see Jesse and Adam having coffee. And the cups are obviously empty from the way they hold them. I find that quite funny as I now know from experience how easy it is to forget how to convincingly use everyday objects while on camera. Michelle arrives at Sanctuary. Adam is concerned that they may have been “tinkering with her DNA” at Genomex, despite the fact that that is what he did and continues to do. He makes a terrible social blunder in suggesting she may have emotional problems. I think that is about the worst, most insulting thing you can say to someone’s face. But she says that she has no emotions and is turning into a computer. Then she uses a new power we’ve never seen before to knock Adam off his feet. So many New Mutants seem to have whatever power plus extra bonus telekinesis!

Then in what is most definitely the worst example of CG in the show so far, she transforms into a computer woman. Emma fights her by mentally forcing emotions on her. They could have actually made this into a touching scene if they had Emma mentally remind Michelle of their friendship. But never mind. Somehow she loses her clothes in her transformation.

Mr Delay (whose first name we never learn) disturbs Mason who is having a nap at his desk. Well, who is going to tell him not to? He reports that they have lost contact with Michelle. Mason tells him he can keep his job for a little while longer. Wouldn’t that be his cue to run, now? Surely he must have heard that nobody is merely fired from the GSA?

Adam has done some nonspecific permanent fix to Michelle’s DNA and all is fine now. Emma makes up with the team and they all have sushi. I would have liked to see more of Michelle’s power. It seemed a bit of a waste to only see her using it to turn out lights and hack into computers.

#mutant x #tom mccamus #lauren lee smith #john shea #victor webster #forbes march #victoria pratt #chris owens #danielle hampton #science fiction #sci fi #tv #00s sci fi #tv science

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