The lack of understanding and empathy for cult survivors is really alienating. Because the same people that (rightfully) get upset hearing domestic violence jokes or rape jokes will make jokes about starting a cult.

Another contribution for the One Piece Bingo organized by @op-pirate-fleet: a short story from Doflamingo’s point of view based on the “heroic gesture” prompt of my card. If you’ll enjoy this fanfic or find anything to fix please comment! ^^

The Untangled Puppeteer Donquixote Doflamingo didn’t like heroes nor believed in good endings.   Life wasn’t fair. When someone won, someone else lost (a loved one, freedom, a place to belong—the list could go on and on), and the ending that felt “perfect” to some might be unsatisfying to others.   Doflamingo smirked even if his head still hurt as the result of his opponent's “heroism”. Usually, people root for the protagonist—the “hero” of a story—and the people of Dressrosa had rooted for that stupid monkey. They had even called him their “saviour”. How naïve of them! They were not safe nor free when they still had to pay a gold tribute to those other monkeys sitting on their opulent thrones. But they will fall too, one day.   Soon.   Dressrosa's people had got excited for the fighting more than they ever had for the half-hearted colosseum skirmishes. They had wanted to see the "good guys" prevail against the "bad guys". In the end, while some betrayed him (as usual), some others remained faithful. Maybe, his “family” had a real meaning after all. Doflamingo smiled. He could claim that victory at least.   That Monkey D Luffy was interesting. While acting like a “hero”, he didn't consider himself one. He was different from most people: not after revenge like he and Law, but just a crazy free bullet that had only seen him as an obstacle to overcome. Sure, he had fought for Viola’s niece and the other people once he had discovered his plan, but Doflamingo couldn’t blame him: even if he had had his own rightfully reasons, he had still literally caged him and his friends. He had never seen someone fighting so fiercely to get his freedom back. Voices told the truth: Monkey D Luffy wanted to become the freest person in the world.   The Pirate King.   Doflamingo wasn’t surprised he hadn’t become a revolutionary instead. The Revolutionary Army fought for freedom, but its members were not free; they were too bond to their “liberty” ideal to pursue it for themselves. Pirates, instead, weren’t bound to responsibilities. Yet, that brat’s answer to his provocation (what’s the point of acting like a hero?) had still surprised him. If you cannot save everyone, why even bother? What good will bring an imperfect justice? His brother had acted upon “justice” too, but still a flawed one: he had “saved” a single child leaving the rest back with him.   Maybe, it wasn’t a matter of justice but hope. However, Doflamingo had learned as a child that there couldn't be real hope in an unjust world where the winners—the “heroes”—decided what “justice” was for everyone else. Doflamingo's bitter laughter startled the guards, and he savoured the worried glances they threw at him. So-called “heroic gestures” were just the result of egoism: a “good” one for some, but still egoism.   In the end, it’s just a matter of point of views.   Doflamingo wondered if Monkey D Luffy, too, had felt angry, lost, or lonely as a child. Sometimes, he might have feared for his life or someone else's (nobody wants to remain alone). He must have cried—all children do—even if some only cry in secret, when nobody can see them, and people end up thinking they are fearless monsters (Doflamingo still remembered the fire, the screams, his angry tears).   Why didn’t you understand, Roci?   He imagined his brother smiling light-heartedly, joking, making plans for the future together with Law.   Without me, your older brother.   He had loved Roci so much he had killed him to forgive him. For breaking free of his cage without permission. For putting his morals as a marine—as if they weren’t assassins too, and of the worst kind!—over love for his family. For leaving him behind. Doflamingo felt irritated with Rocinante for even giving up his goal—stopping him—to stay together with Law.   Someone so similar to me, not the less.   Law knowing that made it slightly more tolerable, but in the end, he too became free from his past.   But I won’t let it go.   Victims turned into executioners had condemned him and his brother when they were just innocent children. He could not accept such injustice—such “justice” of the masses—and had fought back with his Conqueror's Haki. After that, he had tried to protect his family: he had helped Roci surviving in the streets, brought food to their ill mother. He had tried everything, unlike their inept father.   Why wasting time asking for help from the same people who abandoned us in this hell?   His disgustingly good-hearted, foolish father! He had betrayed all of them to follow his impossible ideals, so he had killed him. He had done it for Roci, too. To save him from a terrible life. But it had been useless: the Celestial Dragons had never admitted them back to Mary Geoise, and his brother had run away.   His brother lost, Doflamingo still cared for his found family. He had mourned the death of Monet and then Vergo. He even felt remorse when they died for him, but that had been necessary in his ultimate goal to destroy the world: a world full of hate and discriminations, of prejudices and ignorance. People called him “Heavenly Demon”, and yet he had accepted in his family individuals no one wanted around. He did feel superior to the others, but he knew that they were all humans in the end, no matter how some still called themselves “gods”. No matter how he played along and claimed to be one too sometimes: it was just a game, an act. Doflamingo knew very well that his Conqueror's Haki wasn’t proof of some no-existing "birthrights". He deemed himself worthy of reigning over others only because he had earned that for himself.   Despite all of that and his unshakable will to survive, though, he had lost. Now, he had no right to choose how to die anymore nor decide what “justice” was; winners did that. Yet, he still had his curiosity. What would the Riku family do from now on? Did they expect peace on Dressrosa? He laughed again, amused this time. He could see hordes of pirates invading it since the very day he had fallen. What would Law do? He hadn’t killed him in the end, so maybe he felt empty, his revenge unfulfilled? Or did he find something or someone else filling the void in his existence?   And what about me?   Despite lying chained on the cold floor of a cell, he didn’t feel so bad. Had his (spare) glasses shattering at the end of the fight been a catharsis? At least, he deserved punishment this time around. He could live with that. It felt strange to think that his confrontation with that crazy monkey might have been the best thing ever happening to him. Even if in a way he had not predicted, that event had broken the spiral of deceiving and violence that had entangled him ever since he was a child.   For the moment, at least.   He still had plans, cards to play. Maybe, one day he would also find hope again—no, better leave such useless things to guys like Fujitora (apparently, the Marine admiral had become a fan of Monkey D Luffy). He would rather keep his prudent stance, the protection of his glasses up again against that shitty world: he didn’t care if, from the outside, that may look like a last desperate tentative to keep control over his life.   Probably, one day I’ll take them off myself.   As much as he didn’t believe in heroes, to see the world unfiltered and not through rose-coloured glasses would be a heroic gesture by itself.   How ironic!   In any case, he believed that his role hadn’t ended yet. Maybe, his defeat had been a necessary step before a new beginning. He would find a way to free himself and the remaining members of his family. He would probably find new people worth his attention and time, too. He would be even more careful from now on (he would still ignore the remorse that sometimes bit him). He was still alive, meaning that he had a second chance. At worst, he would even help the revolutionaries if that meant finally seeing the World Nobles’ demise. He knew firsthand the pain they caused to people, so he may connect with the revolutionaries—or maybe not. Not on a deep level, at least. He liked to have people around but couldn’t let his guard down, ever. Unlike his stupid father, though, he wouldn't waste his potential and hide away from his fate. He would take things into his own hands.   Not like a hero, but like a man.   Even if nobody ever really treated him like a human being. So, why should he act like one? Abused for being a (fallen) Celestial Dragon or supported as a king by his new family, there was no middle ground. His found family had recognised his worth but eventually used him as much as he used them. Probably, only that crazy monkey had ever treated him as equal. Despite fighting Monkey D Luffy had made him relive his past trauma with parallels worth of a well-written story, it had also made him somewhat free.   I can’t believe this just crossed my mind.   Was that a “side effect” of his opponent’s “heroism”? After all, Doflamingo had been the one making the cage, but he had still been at the centre of it, caged himself, as he pulled strings and controlled others.   But now, my threads have been cut.   He could start anew.

hey everyone, i’m elle! i’m in the est timezone. i’m nonbinary and i use she/her pronouns. i’m very bad at doing short intro posts but i’m gonna try to keep these short and sweet. so now let’s talk about my boy chan. he is my oldest oc - i've been writing him since 2014. 

[ alex fitzalan, cis man, 22, he/him ] did you see who just walked in? it was that SENIOR, the ╳ + ASSIDUOUS AND  - GUARDED ╳  one? you know, the one who lives OFF CAMPUS, CHANDLER LINWOOD! i heard they are majoring in BUSINESS and they can’t wait to get out of here to FIGURE OUT WHAT HE WANTS TO DO.  crap! stop staring, here they come! 

name. james chandler linwood // when chandler was five, he found out about middle names at school. after asking his dad what his was, he immediately decided that chandler was a way cooler name than james, and has gone by his middle name ever since. one of his pet peeves is people referring to him as james.  hometown. wayzata, mn // suburb of minneapolis major. business // chandler has no clue what he wants to do with his life. he’s been doing some photography gigs on the side since his freshman year of college, so he decided it wouldn’t hurt to get a degree in business so he could run his own shit better. he knows he doesn’t want to do photography as a career long-term, though. birthday. february 11th, 1999 // twenty two years old.  gender. cis man orientation. biromantic asexual // chan is completely out as ‘bi’. most people assume that means he’s bisexual and he doesn’t correct that idea. he’s a lot quieter about being asexual. a lot of people don’t understand what it is, and ask invasive questions, and he’s a naturally private person who wants to avoid all of that entirely.  hobbies. photography, cooking, video games phobias. acrophobia // fear of heights allergy. bee venom

[ BIO ] [tw. abuse/neglect, alcoholism, drug addiction, self harm, depression]

chandler is the only child of john and susan linwood. susan is a doctor while john works for an advertising company. susan has always been a bit ‘out there’, with no brain-to-mouth filter and some very problematic viewpoints and opinions. john started drinking when chan was eight. actually, he relapsed into drinking again, but chandler doesn’t know he had an alcohol problem before that. chandler knew his parents loved him; one of their better parenting traits was making sure he didn’t forget that. but they weren’t mentally present enough to be very good parents. gradually his dad became angry and violent while he was drinking and that, coupled with chandler’s rebellious teenage years, made the linwood home a less and less safe place for chandler.

in high school, he was known for hanging out with the “wrong crowd”. he partied a lot, trying to mentally escape from his home life and normal teen angst stuff. he often mouthed off to teachers and got in trouble on a regular basis. but he also worked really hard in school, taking mostly AP classes while managing As and Bs. not many people knew what to make of that, and acted like he was just a troublemaker that was naturally gifted. but in reality he was juggling challenging school work, a busy social life, and doing all of the cooking and cleaning at home. 

another thing chan had a reputation for was quickly rotating through girlfriends (and boyfriends, but there weren’t anywhere near as many guys to date at his suburban high school). but it wasn’t the situation everyone thought it was. as relationships became more physically intimate, he became more uncomfortable. as soon as sex was suggested, he would end the relationship. in hindsight, this wasn’t the best way to approach dating. but at the time, he had no idea asexuality was a thing and that he didn’t owe anyone sex just because they were in a relationship.

his longest high school relationship was madison. they had mutual friends and started hanging out. madison had a fairly obvious drug problem, but that didn’t bother chandler. a part of him was more attracted to her because of it, although he’d never admit that to anyone. plus she was asexual. this not only was how he found out that was a sexual orientation, but it also took a lot of anxiety out of the idea of dating and chandler fell hard. 

madison easily grew jealous. she was biphobic, hated sharing chandler with anyone, and was often bossy and controlling. yet chandler noticed none of the red flags until it was too late. by the time he started trying to untangle himself from her, he couldn’t. he was scared what she would do to herself if he ended things, and as she became physically violent he was scared of what she would do to him as well. since he couldn’t get out of the situation, and had never learned healthy ways of coping with the stress and trauma in his life, he turned to binge drinking and self harm.

his way out came in the form of an acceptance letter from suffolk university. as soon as he graduated high school, he left for boston and never looked back. 

while he had a great inner drive in high school, that came to a screeching halt once he started college. his motivation had always been to get out of wayzata. but now that he was finally free, he had no idea what to do. at the same time, he was dealing with the aftermath of both his dad and his ex-girlfriend’s abuse towards him. 

while he continued pushing forward, he never found that motivation to really care about school or his future again. he’s in his final year of college and still hasn’t figured out what he wants to do with his life. he feels stuck and frustrated.

most people don’t know about his parents, or his struggles with mental health and self harm. he’s in total denial that he has a problem with alcohol. he simply doesn’t open up easily, preferring to surround himself with a shell that can become spiky if he feels uncomfortable. but he’s always cracking jokes and acting like he doesn’t take anything seriously, putting up a front so nobody looks too closely at the cracks.

[ HEADCANONS ] 

while chandler is shit at taking care of his own needs, he’s amazing at taking care of other people. he will hold your hair back at a party while you throw up, make sure you drink enough water and electrolytes, then make you breakfast in the morning. he’s definitely a bit of a ‘mom friend’, although he doesn’t think he is.

he may act apathetic, but he cares. a lot. he’s a rather empathetic person. unfortunately he has the emotional intelligence of a spoon, so this isn’t always a good thing

sometimes when he’s drunk, chandler starts rambling about video game and/or cartoon conspiracy theories

his yearbook quote was “would you woohoo me in sims yes or no”

also he really likes cooking for other people so if he asks to cook for you please just humor him and say yes

[ WANTED CONNECTION ]

some sort of family member // he’s an only child, so probably a cousin. they don’t have to be from minnesota.

exes // guys, girls, nonbinary people....doesn’t matter. 

fake relationship // for some reason, these two pretend they’re dating. maybe more happens, maybe not.

restaurant service // they can’t cook, so they’re always coming over and eating what chandler makes.

roommate // they could be the best of friends or hate each others guts. lots of room to find the right dynamic

best friend // one of the only people chan trusts, and they know everything about him

classmate // self explanatory

[ DISCLAIMERS ]

i know some people get really touchy about aces being portrayed as sex repulsed so often. asexuality is a lack of sexual attraction, that’s it. some aces like sex. however, chandler does not and that’s okay too!

also i know he has some heavy topics in his writing. i will tag any post that involve these topics accordingly, and always do my absolute best to handle this kind of material in a respectful and empathetic way. 

[ FINAL NOTES ]

so yeah that’s chandler. so much for making this short, but i actually left a lot of small details out. please like this post or send me a message to start plotting with my son.

Shine On, Bright: Chapter Twenty-Four

Table of Contents

Present

How does one mentally prepare themselves for a family get together? Ainsley runs her own news story in her own head. There has to be answers to such a question then again it sounds closer to Buzzfeed clickbait for the regular family, not the Whitly family. It’s a question for people who needed to wrestle with the fact their uncle is a racist or their grandma has too much pent up internalized misogyny.

How does one mentally prepare themselves for a family get together after you interview your serial killer father despite your mother’s wishes? You come bearing gifts and pray to the heavens you can survive a night of consistent passive-aggressiveness.

Reporters crowd the front door as if there’s story to share. She pries her way past them, steps up to the door, and looks out over them. Everybody there comes closer ready to eat her alive. Jokes on them. Her fears are none, it’s what happens when you’re a young girl who befriends ghost kids and never really gets to know her dad because he killed people.

All of the reporters act as if she’ll throw them a bone and let them know the truth, a truth about the Junkyard Killer and The Surgeon. Instead, she looms above them with a smirk and a prepared comment in her mind.

“Any breaking news about my family is mine to report, thank you.”

The gall of them to think she’d answer a single question other than the words that just fell out of her mouth. Please. This is her life, this is her story, she herself is a reporter and it's her narrative to tell.

The reporters call after her begging for more but she whisks herself away into the house. There are bigger sharks to battle. Her mother being the main villain of the day. Her and all her disappointment locked up inside her castle.

Piano music plays, it adds to the play-acting of a happy holiday. Maybe for somebody who eats up nostalgia, they’d be happy to hear it in the air. Christmas lights decorating note one tree, but two. The first being smaller and near the doors where Jessica stands looking at ornaments. None of which were really dedicated to their lives because what was there to say about the lives of the Whitlys?

Each would have a different answer.

Malcolm would say their past haunts them.

Jessica would say she half remembers laughter in barbiturate induced sleep.

Nobody was going to ask Martin.

And Ainsley also did not have an answer.

“Hello?” Ainsley calls out as she enters their not so humble abode. Her fingers are crossed that Malcolm beat her there. Please let Malcolm already be there.

Jessica turns to face Ainsley armed with her trademark smile (if she were so allowed to file for on). She acts as if she isn’t lost in some thought. To be honest, Malcolm’s the only one who’s right: Their past still haunts them. Either way, Ainsley reaches out her gift of wine pretending nothing’s wrong. It’s a regular family about to have a regular family Christmas dinner! A game they both could play all day and night if she so chose. Jessica says no greeting but an Ah as she continues her charade of a smile. For most families, charades is a game where you have a partner and guess what the other is acting out. For them, it’s “What the hell is on [insert Whitly in Question]’s mind?”

Taking the wine bottle she looks at it and by look, it really is a glance. “You. . .brought a twist-off.”

Still no hello, Hi, There you are!, Malcolm’s on his way, or Glad you could make it.

Jessica is the first to lose at their game of charades, sarcasm enters her chuckling as she pulls the wine away leaving Ainsley there holding onto nothing but air and not ready for this, not any of this.

Jessica: 0 Ainsley: 1 Malcolm: TBD

She should’ve taken her advice to mentally prepare for this night. And where the hell is Malcolm? He needs to be around, right there at the moment, but no, he’s probably too far gone obsessing over murder forgetting his family remains in the land of the living.

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Ainsley grumbles, looking at the pristine tree.

There were little white birds perched on branches. The only current statement of Malcolm in the house. How odd something like that is what lasted in their decorations. A not so bad Whitly past, Malcolm loved birds for whatever reason. Then again only a child like him could be obsessed with ornithology and forensic psychology or whatever it was he loved.

Ainsley fumbles with her hands and turns to watch her mother drop the bottle of wine off with snow globes and other miscellaneous Christmas decorations, each and every one curated to look the best as if people wanted to visit their murder abode.

For someone so careful about spearheading the correct questions, Ainsley slips. Her hands slip free from one another as if she can casually grab onto some parental approval. Somehow the words just happen to fall from her mouth, “Did you watch it?”

Really? Really? She had to ask her mother that? Today was not going to end well.

Jessica faces Ainsley with such an exasperated sigh. “No comment.”

Again with the slipping, all of the slipping. Somehow something knocks something loose and Ainsley needs her mother and her brother and needs them to be there for her. She wants their support, she wants their compliments, she wants instant gratification and for a chance to not let a past haunt any of them.

“Can’t you at least try and be happy for me?”

It’s another wrong question to ask and so obvious by the way Jessica stares at her. Charades no more.

####

Malcolm fidgets with a present in his hand. He’s picking at the edges of the bow on the box knowing it’ll mess it up but he can’t stop. His other hand starts a beat on the edge, he scans the area around him. Making sure he’s safe. Tries to convince himself he’s safe as his brain protests: Danger, danger.

It’d be great if danger actually lurked behind corners. Instead, there’s people walking by him, lost in fits of giggles or chuckles as holiday spirit does its best to eat them all up inside. There’s a part of his brain that for some reason doesn’t accurately compute situations right leaving his brain to protest again and again: Danger, danger.

He grips the present a little too hard but doesn’t want to ruin it. Somehow this gift needs to survive its journey to his mother’s, but he can maybe spare some time to purchase something new if tragedy befalls. Only she’s expecting him soon. But anxiety rings in his brain, it swells up with its warning: Danger, danger.

Danger grabs his shoulder, whirling him around with one loud grunt of a Hey. It’s Owen right there. Shoving his shoulder as he glares at him. Malcolm’s stuck in fight, flight, or freeze all over again at the sight of him. Whatever happens, he can’t fall back in time. It’ll let more danger sink in especially with Owen snarling at him right before so many people casually moving around on all sides. Not that anybody looks up and away from their holiday cheer.

“Malcolm Whitly,” Owen spits out at him. His boozy breath is stale, he’s not drunk but he’d been drinking for some time that day. So much anger is built up in those words, his name. Malcolm Whitly. “I always knew that you were a liar.”

Anger is seething through Owen’s brain, it’s coursing through his veins. It’s as if somebody created him from the raw emotion itself. Even with being in the open and the world ready for Malcolm to run, he feels as if he’s stuck in a corner or stuck in a room like so many years ago, trapped. Trapped, trapped, trapped. He’s trapped in his tracks all over again with Owen sizing him up, volcanic and without any chance for cheer.

“And I didn’t recognize you till I saw your hand.”

Malcolm looks down, his handshakes. He covers his movement as if he doesn’t quake.

“You can change your name, but you can’t change who you are.”

The words slice straight through him. It’s enough of a push to start the slow fall, him falling out of the present and into the past. Then again, the past and present are always happening at once, two timelines wrapped up with one another, both of which he can’t escape, not at all. Trauma can turn anyone into a time traveler, but if only it were half as romantic as it sounded.

Malcolm clenches his teeth letting pain break apart his thoughts, Don’t fall, don’t fall back, don’t fall, don’t fall out of time again. . .

Except there’s two of him and two of Owen. A Young Malcolm stuck inside the Overlook again and again, it’s like he picks up the phone daily to make the call, all after the hotel got to him, his father that is so there’s him making the call about his father after he wants to hurt Gil then the local police showing up.

Not that Colorado is halfway across the world, but it seems like it really does even with Young Malcolm there and here in New York City with Younger Owen who is all fury, more so then Now Owen.

Younger Owen with Young Malcolm inside a room with so many memories of his father moving at his fingertips across the table while Younger Owen demands: Tell me the truth. Tell me what you did. Are you Daddy’s little helper? You Know more than you are saying. His words sped up, full of fire, nonstop. Tellmehowhedidit. TELLME!

Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut, his jaw is cracking under such pressure as his headache grows. The ringing in his ears block all the cacophony New York. Younger Owen and Young Malcolm may be gone but he still has Owen to worry about in the present as he teeters off balance. Maybe he can fall into a car and let it break him away from the situation thanks to a necessary ride to the ER.

A small voice reminds him.

Inhaaaaale. . .

One.

Two.

Three.

He doesn’t even make it to four out of the five seconds he needs and looks straight at Owen who’s keeping a close eye on him. But something about Owen has changed. The ringing’s too loud for Malcolm to parse through any of his thoughts. Maybe it’s for the better. He doesn’t want to really go there.

“I’m not my father,” Malcolm informs him, he shakes his head like it’ll get the ringing to start. It hurts, hurts his brain and his jaw clicks as he speaks.

Owen doesn’t laugh out loud but Malcolm can still hear it, his thoughts becoming either clearer or louder. Either way, there’s laughter. Owen points at himself, “Are you trying to convince me?” Then he points at Malcolm. “Or are you trying to convince yourself?”

Malcolm hangs tight to the present letting it weigh him down in the present where he belongs. His jaw pops, pops, pops while Owen won’t shut up. He looks at the way the ribbon frays feeling the urge to pick it apart again.

“‘Cause if you’re trying to convince me, save your breath!” The last word Owen shouts, spittle sprays with each letter b-r-e-a-t-h. Each covered with the stale alcohol of Owen’s morning. He grabs Malcolm’s coat and Malcolm continues to hang there. His jaw pop, pop, popping in an attempt to breath. “‘Cause I was right.” Owen’s fingers dig into his chest. Feels as if bruises are already blooming there. Malcolm kind of, sort of, looks up at him while still avoiding eye contact with Owen to watch the fraying ribbon of his present. “There was someone else.”

There was someone else.

There was someone else.

There was someone else.

“But you always knew that,” Young Malcolm says while he’s standing off to the side, one step off the curb and watching the scene unfold. Malcolm glances at him, it’s more or less of an accident because Owen might be mad if he looks anywhere else. “You always knew there was someone else.”

Malcolm returns his focus to Owen finding words for the present. “I know why you’re angry. You dedicated your life to The Surgeon’s case.” He pauses allowing a moment to survey any change in Owen’s expression. “You were right.”

He hesitates again even though Owen’s not really registered yet what’s been said for Malcolm to read. “I did know something. At the Overlook, my father had-had a person. . .who stayed with us and I forgot about him, but I have reason to believe he was or he is The Junkyard Killer.”

Some reason Malcolm keeps closing the space between them. His jaw is popping and his hand is quaking. It’s a lot, so much. “All I have are-are fragments of a memory.”

11/08: Woke up in library. Thought I went to bed.

The past is back, intertwined with the present. Young Malcolm with a knife as he runs through the hedge maze sinking deep into snow with madness chasing after him. My boy! Come on and take your medicine!

11/08: Woke up in library. Thought I went to bed.

Him trying his best to journal and to remember as he keeps falling through time and waking up, waking up, waking up in strange places. Yet with so many stories about death at his fingertips and ghosts whispering all about him. A woman who threw her children off the roof and hanged herself in the basement. A girl last seen in the elevators only to go missing. Mob violence as shooters took out a hit on somebody in a room. A man who lost it and annihilated his entire family because the hotel told him it’d be better for all of them. There was a man stuck inside a bear suit, he died of asphyxiation. A woman who slit her wrists in her bathtub and then another woman without a story who he found in a tub in Room 217. (Maybe he could’ve saved the woman he found in Room 217.)

11/09: Woke up in ballroom (?). Remember going to bed. Mother said something about taking a pill to sleep better. Don’t remember falling asleep.

Owen is hanging onto each and every single one of Malcolm’s words. This is what he’s known and waited for all his life. It’s bouncing all around him as exclamation marks, Malcolm tries to ground himself into the present still letting his Christmas present weight him down.

11/10: Is it possible to not remember falling asleep but waking up? Feels like haven’t slept for days. Ask somebody about it.

“Only The Surgeon and Paul Lazar know what happened. . .” The words are coming so fast. He can’t stop any of them now. They’re falling right in the open for anybody to collect but especially for Owen to piece through.

11/11: Woke up in bar, heard music, heard voices. Father found me, we talked, said to talk to him, didn’t hear all the noise. Ask him about it later?

Malcolm’s practically shouting at Owen. “. . .But my father is in solitary and when I tried to find Paul, the FBI kicked me off the case for being too. . .”

Before Malcolm can finish his own words, Owen butts in finishing his sentence for him. He knows, he knows, he knows. “Obsessed?”

11/12: ????

Malcolm stares at him at such a loss. There’s nothing else to say because Owen said it all and he’s still saying it. He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.

“Unhinged? Making it personal?” All the anger of Owen has since peeled away, his hands dig deep into his pockets as empathy becomes him. Malcolm nods. “I kind of know the feeling.” They stop talking for a split second. Owen looks him up and down with a new emotion crossing his face, one Malcolm can’t quite read. There’s a softness to him. “Where are you in the Turner case?”

11/13: Woke up in bed. Last thing I remember, boiler room. Looking at newspapers. Then nothing. Is there something wrong with me?

Malcolm sighs unable to make eye contact again. “We think the killer has something to do with one of his old cases, but we haven’t found anything yet.” Words that probably should have stayed locked up in his mind and not out in the open as puzzle pieces for Owen to play around with. But he knows, he knows, he knows.

Owen kind of smiles, it's a brief thought, a memory that’s just out of reach for him. Good thing he explains out loud though, Turner had a-a place where he kept everything that he didn’t want to release to official case files. I can take you there.”

He means it, too. Malcolm doesn’t even know how to emote because Owen really means it, too. His brain is working its way already across the city to this location, ready to dig into some research to help Turner out, not Malcolm, but Turner. He huffs out a Come on, which is so easy to miss. Maybe Malcolm imagined it or heard it in Owen’s thoughts because he’s already walking away forcing Malcolm to half walk-half run after him to discover the secrets Turner hid.

11/14: Woke up in the bathroom. Don’t remember falling asleep there, but I tracked mud all across the floor. There were leaves in my hair. I was able to hide my notes before mother found me in the bathroom. She was furious asking me where I had been and didn’t like that I kept telling her: I don’t know. Because I don’t, I don’t know where I was or where I went and I don’t know what’s happening to me.

Brooklyn’s Sweetheart Chapter 9: A Little Game

Pairing: Stucky x Reader

Chapter Summary: Every game needs rules, but nobody ever said anything about playing fair. 

Word Count: 4,668

Warnings: Language, drinking, smut (dubcon, fingering in public, teasing)

Masterlist / AO3

After they all cleaned up, Bucky made them breakfast in bed and they watched movies in her bedroom as the dog curled up on the floor next to them. Y/N was quiet while they ate, and afterwards she dozed off for a nap, Bucky following quickly afterwards, wrapping himself around her like the grown man koala bear that he is. Steve, who was still a little hungover from his night of binge drinking, was in and out of sleep, but for the most part he was content to watch his lovers nap.

Truthfully, he had never felt more content. Despite her reluctance and fear, he knew this was the right place for her—between him and Bucky, just like it had always been growing up. They could protect her, they would do right by her, and Steve knew she would come around eventually.

The more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t fathom letting her go once they were back in the city. Her father would never allow her to date Steve or Bucky, he was far too protective. But if Steve could get on Stane’s good side, perhaps a marriage could be arranged—

Steve stopped himself, shaken. Was he really thinking about marriage with her, so soon? As he looked down at her, the way her long eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks in her sleep, the lush pout of her lips, he knew that he would never be able to stand by and watch her marry anybody else.

His feelings had been building for years before he even realized it, long before he had even kissed her. And now those feelings were all at the surface and Steve was overwhelmed with emotion, with affection for her, more so than he had ever been before with any other girl he dated. Since he had a taste of her now, he could feel himself growing more obsessed, more possessive, and he wasn’t planning on letting her go.

He would have to figure something out with her father. 

“Mmm,” she lifted her face a little from where it had been smothered in the pillow. She slowly blinked awake and then looked at him, almost like she could hear his thoughts. “Steve?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he asked, stroking a hand through her hair.

“W’time s’it?” she slurred, burrowing her face into Steve’s chest. He felt a rush of warmth for her.

He checked the alarm clock, “Almost dinnertime. Wanna wake up?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“’m cold.”

“Aww, baby,” he cooed, securing her tighter in his arms and pulling the blanket up around her from where Bucky had kicked it off. “There you go, how’s that?”

“Good.”

She was silent for a few more minutes, drifting off to sleep again. Steve relished the feeling of her in his arms, took in the floral scent of her shampoo and conditioner, the sweet smell of her body lotion. Just as he was starting to fall back asleep, she shifted in his arms and looked at him, blinking sleepily.

“Hi.”

“Hey, baby,” he smiled fondly, then leaned down to kiss her. Although she tried to pull away at first, she gave in as he anchored her against his chest, too weak with sleep to put up any fight. The kiss was sweet, and soft, and when he pulled away, she was smiling, her cheeks flushed.

“That’s a good girl,” he whispered, brushing hair back from her temples. “I love kissing you,” he told her, voice sweeter and gentler than she had ever heard it. It made her blush more, and she tried to bury her face in his neck again to hide her smile, making a little “hmph” sound. He kept her still with a hand in her hair. “Gimme another kiss, darling.”

She hesitated a moment before tilting her head up, but instead of kissing his lips like he meant, she turned her face and pressed her lips to his cheek. When she pulled back, he could see her suppressing a smile.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you, doll?” In his sleepy stupor, he was amused whereas if he were more awake, he might not tolerate her sass or disobedience. But he was feeling softer, more subdued, calmed knowing that Y/N and Bucky were both by his side. Everything he cared about was safe for now, and he could relax. 

“Well, you never laugh at my jokes, so I know you don’t think I’m funny,” she quipped at him. “It’s okay, though. Some people just have a bad sense of humor.”

“Was that supposed to be a joke?” he deadpanned.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be silly.”

“Is it silly to let a guy get some sleep?” came Bucky’s disgruntled mutter from her other side. She giggled at the tickle of his voice vibrating along her spine.

Steve scoffed. “You’ve been sleeping all day, Buck. Time to get up, we need to get our girl some dinner. We slept through lunch.”

“There’s not much food around here,” Bucky said, placing a few gentle kisses on her shoulder blade. “Haven’t gotten the chance to go grocery shopping these past few days.”

“Too busy corrupting our little doll here?” Steve teased with a flick to Bucky’s shoulder.

Y/N spoke up, “Actually, he was on the phone for the past three days straight. I’ve barely seen him since the day you left.”

Steve cocked an eyebrow, sobering a little at this news. “Why is that? The stuff with Loki shouldn’t have kept you on call that much.”

Bucky shrugged one shoulder. “Shit with Nat. You know how she is. And the Maximoff girl.”

“What about Wanda?” Y/N asked, turning to look at him with curious eyes.

“Nothing for you to concern yourself about,” Bucky said, petting her head.

She had a concerned frown on her face. “Please tell me, Wanda’s my friend.” 

“Darling,” Steve said, a warning in his tone. “Drop it.” She huffed but acquiesced, leaning back into Steve’s embrace as he tugged her towards him. “Good girl,” he praised her, dropping a kiss on her forehead. 

A warm feeling spread through her chest when he praised her, and she knew it was totally wrong, but she couldn’t help a small part of herself that wanted to give into him and Bucky. Despite the trauma of that morning, Steve forcibly taking her virginity, she had to admit that she enjoyed it in the end. The experience had been strangely surreal, incredible. It made her feel lax and glowing once they were finished with her, along with the peaceful contentedness that she felt when they took care of her afterwards.

Still, she had doubts. Did she genuinely like Bucky and Steve? Or did she just give into their insistence on defiling her body, too scared to fight back any more? They had forced her hand, forced her pleasure, forced her into every single thing they had done to her. She wondered if she had the choice, would she choose to like them, their actions? But she pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind. She clearly didn’t have a choice. Steve and Bucky had both made that clear, and she shouldn’t entertain the idea of one. 

That wasn’t that foreign to her, though. When had she ever been given a real, meaningful choice in life? Her father has dictated every moment of it—until now. She was sure he wouldn’t approve of Steve and Bucky activities with her—but for some reason that thrilled her even more, the idea of disobeying her overbearing father. 

Then again, Steve and Bucky were overbearing in much the same way. Often she had wondered what would happen to her once her father was no longer around, and it seemed that Steve and Bucky would potentially fill that role in her life. At least she wouldn’t be lost, alone, with no one to look after her, even if she truly had no free will.

Maybe she could give into them for now—giving in would be easier, after all, the path of least resistance. Even if she had no idea where they would go from here. Was it sustainable to be in a sexual relationship with both of them? And was it purely sexual? This cuddling in bed all day certainly wasn’t sexual, but she didn’t exactly know what constituted being in a real relationship. Additionally, she had no idea if it was proper or not to be with both of them at the same time—but they acted like it was completely normal.

Regardless of what she meant to Steve and Bucky, she had lost her virginity. She didn’t know exactly how to feel about it—she had been expecting a big difference, a life-changing event like that. But she felt the same as she always did, if not maybe more confused. Maybe that’s what sex was supposed to be like—confusing and wonderful all at the same time, and while it felt great, maybe it didn’t really change anything?

Her mind was a mess of thoughts, and nothing really made sense, but she tried to bring herself back to the present and ignore her inner turmoil.

Bucky and Steve were talking about going out for dinner. “I think that seafood place in Edgartown is the best choice,” Bucky was saying.

“Ooh, yes please,” she agreed, perking up in Steve’s arms.

“But we have to go all the way in town,” Steve grumbled, tightening his arms around her waist.

“But they have good lobster rolls,” she pointed out.

“I don’t think so, not tonight.”

An idea sprung to her mind—maybe she could use their affection for her to her advantage. So she tilted her head up and placed a gentle kiss on his jaw, then another on his jugular. “Please, Stevie?” she asked, looking up at him with pleading eyes and a hopeful smile.

When he didn’t answer at first, only surveyed her with hooded eyes, she pressed another kiss to his lips. It was soft and sweet again, and even though he wanted to deepen it, shove his tongue in her mouth, pin her down on the bed and take her there—that would be too easy. Plus, the restaurant closed in an hour, so they didn’t have the time.

Steve took only a moment to indulge before pulling back, eyes glinting. “You’re playin’ a dangerous game, darling.”

A smile broke across her face. “Does that mean we can go to Edgartown?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but we have to leave soon if we wanna make it on time.”

She squealed and clapped her hands together. “Yes! I’m gonna get 4 lobster rolls!”

“You’ll throw up if you eat 4 lobster rolls,” Bucky said.

“You only say that because you can’t eat 4 lobster rolls.”

He scoffed, clutching his chest in offense. “Who do you think you’re dealing with, sugar?” Well, now they would be playing the game of who could eat the most lobster rolls. Lovely.

She was about to argue more, but then Bucky and Steve slipped out of bed at the same time. Her mind was suddenly overloaded—while she had seen their bodies before, she had never taken the time to appreciate them. Now in the dying light of the evening, she could see every line of their hard bodies, every tattoo on their skin, their soft cocks unimposing against strong thighs. 

She realized they were beautiful, and her mind flickered to when the nuns took them on a field trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. When the class wandered into the Greek and Roman Art exhibit, the nuns adamantly steered them away from all of the beautiful statues of naked people. The glimpses that she saw before Sister Alice reprimanded her for sinning were marvelous, and she couldn’t help but be reminded of those statues now. While it seemed like such a cliché to compare them to Greek gods, that’s how she felt—like some dull girl amongst immortal, inhuman beings, yearning for their attention, if only to bask in their glory for a little bit.

Maybe they had awakened something sexually in her, but she not only wanted to keep staring at them, but also run her hands along those hard muscles, touch them everywhere that they were beautiful to try and capture it. She wondered how it would feel to run her tongue along the “BROOKLYN” tattoo on Steve’s lower abdomen, to feel Bucky’s chest hair on her as he rubbed against her.

Almost as soon as these thoughts crossed her mind, she chastised herself (in the name of Jesus, of course). She shouldn’t be thinking these things! The nuns taught her better—and she was not a desperate whore. Having them force her into those depraved acts (and practically forcing her to enjoy them) was one thing, but actively wanting them—that was something else. Something much worse. God wouldn’t forgive her for that.

She didn’t realize she was blushing in her shame, but the men had seen how she looked at them, they saw how red her face was, her worried expression as she quickly looked away from their bodies. Steve and Bucky shared a smirk, and Bucky winked at him.

“Get dressed, baby,” Steve ordered her, pleased when she obeyed immediately. While Steve and Bucky went to their rooms, Y/N picked out a flirty floral skirt and a white tank top, then tied her hair back with the silk scarf Steve had bought her. 

“Come on, sweetie, let’s get a move on!” Bucky called from downstairs.

After rushing through a coat of mascara and lip gloss (and quickly thanking God that she didn’t have a bruise on her face from where Steve smacked her), she rushed down the stairs and met them at the bottom.

Bucky smiled widely upon seeing her, an almost lecherous grin, while Steve smirked, a plan forming in his mind immediately. She didn’t notice the way either of them looked at her.

“You look lovely,” Bucky complimented, stepping in front of her. He towered above her as he used one finger to tilt her chin up before capturing her lips in a kiss. She sighed into it almost happily before he pulled back.

Steve took his place in front of her, running a hand through her hair, down her neck, the bare skin of her décolletage, before resting it on her waist. His pinky brushed back and forth over the ruffled waistband of her skirt. “This is pretty…”

Blushing, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you, Stevie.”

“Now, darling, we’re going to play a little game tonight while we’re out. How ‘bout it?”

“What kind of game?” she asked, her hands came up to rest on his chest, fingers digging into the front of his shirt, brushing over the soft cotton subconsciously. She felt apprehensive at the predatory look on his face.

“You’re gonna let us play with you and you’re gonna do what we say, no arguments. Do you think you can do that?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, a frown causing wrinkles on her forehead. He smoothed them out with his thumb.

“Let me show you.”

Before she could react, he had his hands bunched up under her skirt and was yanking down her panties, forcing her to step out of them before she could collect herself. When he stood back up, she was looking at him with anger sparking in her eyes.

“What are you doing, Steve?” she asked as he surveyed her underwear, silky and light pink. Perfect for their little doll, Steve thought, but unnecessary all the same. “Give them back!”

 “I don’t think so,” he said, stuffing them in his pocket. “I want easy access to you at all times. Panties just get in the way, but this little skirt is really just perfect for it. Well done.”

She bristled at his words, trying to ignore the way her belly fluttered at the praise. “We’ll be in public! Why would you need access to—to… there?”

Steve grinned—she was making his plan just too easy. His hand darted under her skirt again and buried itself in the cleft of her thighs, feeling her soft and warm. “So I can touch your pretty pussy any time I please, baby. That’s part of the game. You’re ours to do what we want with, and I want to be able to touch you all the time.”

They locked eyes for a moment, staring each other down, waiting to see who would break first, but then he pressed down hard on her clit and her body jolted against his, and she broke eye contact first.

“I don’t want to play.”

“You don’t have a choice.” Of course she didn’t. 

Bucky spoke then. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Sure, Buck,” Steve said amicably, still circling her clit. Her pussy was getting wetter with every touch, all against her will.

“I say we lose the bra, too.”

Steve’s smile widened, looking down at her. She wore a nude bra under the tank top, and one of the straps peeked out on her shoulder. “I agree. Go on, sweetheart, lose the bra.”

“What? No!” she cried. Then her nipples would show!

Bucky approached from behind, tracing the bra strap with his finger. “Do what he says, or else your punishment will be way worse than this. I can guarantee it.”

She glanced between them, huffing, but she knew she wouldn’t stand a chance against them. They looked at her predatorily, and she knew they would get what they wanted however they had to force her.

Slowly, she slid the straps down her arms and then unbuckled the strap in back before pulling it out from under her shirt. She rarely went braless, and she felt indecent now—no bra, no panties. Her nipples pebbled against the white tank top, and the material was just thin enough to see the outline of her areola if you looked hard enough.

Steve hadn’t stopped playing with her pussy, and suddenly he slid one finger into her. She was still a little sore from that morning, but the ice pack and Advil they had given her earlier helped a lot. Her cunt was soaking wet by now, which further eased the intrusion of his finger in her.

“Seems like the idea of this is getting you off, sweetheart,” Steve teased her, pumping his finger in and out, then pressing against that spot inside of her that made her fingers and toes feel fuzzy.

She whimpered and her legs buckled, but Steve and Bucky held her up. “It’s—” she gasped when he did it again. “It’s not that—it’s—you keep touching me—that’s—”

“Aw, you broke her brain, baby,” Bucky cooed, kissing her shoulder, sliding the strap of her tank down to bare the skin. “Can’t even put together a sentence.”

“Shut—up—” she growled between surges of pleasure, teeth gritted.

Steve laughed. “Mouthy, baby. Don’t get bratty now—I’ll have to punish you.”

“No, don’t,” she whimpered, sure that her next punishment would be far worse than this morning, based on how her cheek ached when she poked at it.

“Then play the game with us and you won’t get a punishment,” Steve said. “If you’re a good girl tonight, you get to come. That’s how you win the game.”

As Steve’s hand quickened on her pussy, now fucking her with two fingers and circling her clit with his thumb, her breathing quickened along with it. Once she started moving her hips against his hand, he knew it was time to stop.

She whined when he pulled his hand away, watched wide eyed and blushing as he reached over her head for Bucky to lick his fingers clean.

“Mmm,” Bucky moaned once he was finished, “You taste so delicious, baby. But I’ve got the appetite for a lobster roll, so let’s get a move on.”

“Wait, that’s it? But I was good!” she exclaimed, indignant, as they moved her towards the front door. Her skin buzzed with pleasure, and she was so uncomfortably wet between her legs. If she sat down she might soak through her skirt—at least the busy floral print would hide a wet spot.

“Can’t finish the game so soon, sugar.” Steve practically steered her out of the house and into the back seat of the car, buckling her in and running his hands over her body again to tease her. He groped her breasts, pinched her nipples, then teased her up and down her legs, ignoring her aching pussy completely. She whimpered at his touch and reached for him, but then he was pulling back and shutting the door in her face.

She pouted the entire drive until Steve threatened to take her over his lap if she kept being a brat about it.

“You’ll get yours later,” he promised, “I won’t leave you hanging forever—if you’re a good girl, that is.”

“Steve just wants you wet and wanting for him all the time,” Bucky explained. “Wants you begging for it by the end of the night. That’s how he wins the game.”

Well, she most certainly wasn’t going to beg for anything—that just wasn’t ladylike. 

And she definitely didn’t feel ladylike without any undergarments. As they walked through the docks, even the gentlest winds had her yanking her skirt down, praying that nobody saw what was (or wasn’t) underneath.

Steve’s or Bucky’s hands would occasionally slip underneath, squeezing her ass, brushing along the inside of her thighs, and she thought she might explode. Despite how nervous she was, her wetness hadn’t dried up. It dripped down her thighs, and she was so slick she thought she would leave a puddle wherever she sat—and wouldn’t that be embarrassing.

It wasn’t until they sat down at a booth in the restaurant and ordered their meals did she really understand the problem. Each boy beside her rested a hand on one of her thighs, innocuously at first, but she noticed them slipping higher and higher. 

Steve and Bucky were talking about something pointless—the Knicks’ newest point guard and how the Nets had been doing last season—she didn’t know. How could she care about basketball when all of a sudden Bucky’s fingers were on her pussy and then ohmygod they were inside of her and they were in public!!!!

She whined, sure that her face was as flushed as a tomato.

“Quiet, baby,” Steve chastised her, “We’re talking here.”

“But Steve—”

“Shhh.” He pulled his hand away from her thigh to wrap his arm around her shoulders instead, pulling her against him as she slumped down. He stroked her hair, her neck, her shoulder, while his other hand drifted over to rest on her thigh instead. “If anyone catches onto our little game,” he murmured in her ear, lips brushing against her earlobe, “Then you lose.”

“Be good, let us play with you,” Bucky whispered to her, the scent of his woody aftershave washing over her when he got close.

It was too many things to focus on at once. She let out a shuddering breath as Bucky steadily pumped his fingers in and out of her, occasionally pulling out and flicking or pinching her clit. Her eyes drifted closed and the din of the restaurant dimmed, her mind focusing solely on the pleasure she was receiving.

Steve’s hand came down to cup her breast, fondling it briefly before he slipped his fingers underneath the hem and took her breast fully in his hand. While she was apprehensive about his groping her so obviously in public, that was at the back of her mind, and she was quickly becoming disinhibited as Bucky brought her closer to release. She moaned at the feeling of his warm hands on her, and both men shushed her instantly.

“Gotta keep quiet, baby,” Bucky crooned, crowding his body around her so nobody would catch Steve with his hand down her shirt. “Can’t let anyone know what we’re doing to you.”

“Please,” she whimpered when Steve pinched her nipple. 

Her noise only caused him to pinch it harder, digging his short nails in. “We told you to be quiet, darling,” he reprimanded her. “Don’t make me punish you right here.” The stern tone of his voice along with the pain in her nipple only heightened her senses, pushing her closer to the edge.

Bucky hummed in her ear at the feeling of her pussy fluttering on his fingers. “You like it when Steve talks to you like that, don’t you, sugar? When he plays with you in public like this? You act all sweet, but really you’re just a dirty little girl.”

She was practically on the verge of her orgasm, but then suddenly Steve’s hand was back on her shoulder and Bucky’s fingers had stilled but remained inside of her. When she opened her eyes, she saw their waiter approaching from far away.

“Did he see anything?” she gasped.

“You’d better hope not,” Steve growled in her ear, giving her shoulder a tight squeeze. 

“Here, we’ve got the lobster rolls, crab cakes, smoked scallops…” She drowned out the sound of their waiter’s voice as he set down plate after plate of delicious food, food that she would normally be salivating over, but now she could only focus on the way her body yearned to be touched. As the waiter set down the last plate, he caught sight of her flushed face, his eyes flickering down to her breasts, her hard nipples. “Everything okay here?”

“Everything’s fine,” Steve said firmly. The hand on her shoulder caged her in possessively—a signal to the waiter that she was taken. He turned to her and smiled. “Right baby?” 

She nodded, trying to smile, but maybe grimacing instead. The waiter frowned but left them with their entrees. 

“This food looks delicious,” Bucky said, finally pulling his hand away from her center. He discreetly wiped his hands on his napkin before digging into his first lobster roll.

Well, Y/N hardly had an appetite anymore. She stared at Bucky, betrayed and forlorn, needy, wanting, willing to do almost anything so they would stop teasing her. “Bucky,” she whined softly, tone a little reedy, “Please let me finish.”

“The only thing you’ll be finishing right now is your food,” he responded. “Game’s not over yet.”

“Eat your food, baby,” Steve commanded sternly before biting into a crab cake.

Her appetite gradually returned, and although she didn’t eat more lobster rolls than Bucky, she was glad they came all the way out here for food. Even if their treatment of her was embarrassing and anxiety inducing, the food here was almost so good that it was all worth it. 

Steve allowed her a few sips of his gin while Bucky let her to try his pale ale, which she thought was disgusting, and by the time they were done with their food, she felt a little looser, a little giggly. She would never admit it to them, but the alcohol had some kind of relaxing effect on her and it only enhanced her senses. Her arousal never really subsided, as evidenced by her increasingly slick thighs.

Rather than squirming in her seat and squeezing her thighs together, however, she tried to remain still so as not to alert them of her predicament. She couldn’t fathom what they would do if they found out how horny she suddenly was.

If only she noticed their predatory gazes directed at her all throughout dinner, then maybe she would have realized that she was not hiding her arousal nearly as well as she thought. Steve’s mind reeled with all of the ideas he had for her, and their bodies buzzed with anticipation for the night ahead. Truthfully, all three were excited for the rest of their little game, eager to see how it would conclude, and who would win by the end of the night.

Okay Shauni, since recently you have been talking about Veronica a lot this is a good time to tell you this. Are you for real when you say that you’ve been waiting to kill Veronica since the beginning? Because the strange thing here, isn’t your hate for her (we can hate who we want), it’s the fact you thought the possibility of her death was ever on the table. I don’t know if you noticed, but she is a kid. Not even the Nowi kind of kid, just a literal child. IS can’t even put a kid in a silly dress without provoking a massive sh*tstorm, what do you think will happen if they show the death of a kid on-screen, even letting US kill her? The consequences would be grave, very grave, and for once I would be complaining too. This is a NINTENDO game, this game is played even by young children, and they CANNOT make the “good guys” kill a kid and make players think killing children can be the right thing to do in any situation. Even before we discovered she is being influenced by an evil dragon, even before the game came out, when we didn’t know her personality, it baffles me to think even a single person was expecting the heroes would kill her at the end, like all the previous evil rulers in FE (barring Gangrel I guess). Uhm… she is not like the previous evil rulers, she has the very major difference of being a kid. Imagine if Ashnard and Sanaki were swapped in PoR, with Ashnard being king of an allied nation and Sanaki the psycho Queen of Daein. Do you think Ike would have treated her the same way he treated Ashnard in canon? Heck no, they would have tried a lot harder to find some kind of alternative way of defeating her, and maybe investigate how it was possible that a 10 year old girl ended up becoming so rotten. After everything else failed, Ike would have killed her in the end because she had to die in order to save everyone, but that experience would have scarred him for life. He just killed a little girl even younger than his beloved sister. You don’t get over that kind of trauma. I could see him throw away Ragnell in the ocean and cripple himself in order to never wield a sword again, like his dad did. And anyway a game like that would never be made because you can’t release a game that let’s you kill children, even if it’s rated M. They never made a single underage NPC in GTA for that reason alone, because they are not stupid. I feel a little silly even having to explain this, and I’m sorry if I sound rude, or antagonistic, but this in my eyes is such an obvious truth… but I guess it isn’t as obvious as I thought. And some people are even worried about the Rite of Flame, like Veronica and Ylgr (the one with us is Loki, not Ylgr) may have died… guys they are not dead, they can’t die… children getting murdered in a NINTENDO game is just not possible, and even if it was possible I feel like a lot of people (including me) would quit FEH for good if that happened. I don’t care if it’s a bad guy that kills them, it’s still impossible and wrong on so many levels. Ganondorf is the king of all evil, and even he did not kill Link’s little sister in Wind Waker after capturing her. Why do you think Surtr killed Fjorm’s big sister and mother to show us how EEEEVULLLZZ he is, and not Fjorm’s little sister instead? That is even EVULLLERR but he didn’t do that, he just said he wants to do that. And that is enough to tell us he is a disgusting monster that needs to be killed. The work is done, they don’t need to show Surtr killing children to make us hate him even more, we already hate him enough, and doing that would only alienate the fanbase. I would stop hating Surtr and start hating Intelligent System for ruining the game for the sake of being dark and edgy beyond reason. So for the people worried about Ylgr and Veronica, don’t worry they are 100% safe.

But you scare me sometimes Shauni, I said eveyone is free to hate everyone, but hating is one thing, writing “I can’t wait to see her dead”, “I want to kill her so much, but it’s probably not gonna happen” and many others sentences like that is… I don’t know it just makes me uncomfortable. If you hate her, that’s fine but remember she is a child, so you have to bring your hate on the childish level, not drag her in the scary world of adults. Say you are gonna hide a giant spider somewhere in her bed, tell her nobody will come at her birthday party because she is ugly, and nobody wants to be her friend, call her nasty nicknames, anything, even mean spirited bully harassing stuff is better than “I hope you die”. I don’t know, maybe this is just black humor and I’m being a kill-joy, no-fun allowed kind of guy, and to be honest I would prefer that. It would mean it was all a stupid misunderstanding on my part because I don’t understand dark humor, which is way better than the alternative. If it is black humor, well I can’t tell you what kind of jokes to make, and I will still not like them everytime I read them, but I can tell myself that it’s just a joke atleast. If it’s not a joke and you are being serious… that is unfortunate, but can I ask you to tone it down a bit? As of right now the comments about Veronica’s death are the only contents in your Tumblr that make me sad, instead of happy or amused, and even if I can’t decide things for you, I can atleast voice my opinion. I’m half-worried that one day something really tragic is gonna happen to Veronica (like Xander or Bruno being burned alive to save her) and she starts crying and everything is awful and while I try to hold all of the feels for the next week, I stumble upon a post of you celebrating, and saying she deserved that. I think you can understand how awful I would feel. :( ;_;

by @dangerouseggwolfangel

--------

Okay, so first of all: thank you for taking the time to type all this ^^

Then, I must admit: it really never occured to me that Veronica was a child. Actually, how old is she? Do we know? Because I always assumed she was like 15, just like Elise... and since Elise was obviously not deathproofed in Birthright (and arguably Anthony in Revelation, even if his possessed nature doomed him from the start), I never thought Veronica had a Ino's veil that protected her from death. So yes, unfortunately, I really was expecting her to die; I never noticed she was, by default, very high on the sorting algorithm of mortality. My overanalyzing tendencies are selective, and most of the time I don't think twice about a character's situation. I literally never stopped to wonder if she really was a teen or rather a child and just automatically assumed she was a teen (and Bruno, her older brother, a young adult). 

If it sounds stupid of me to you, then it's probably because it is stupid of me, but that is the truth nonetheless. I'm afraid that is my only excuse. So let's just say I really am stupid, then I can properly apologize for upsetting you with my thoughtless words: I am sorry.

My dislike of Veronica as a character doesn't change, of course, but since my recent replies about her troubled you, I think it's best (for you, for everyone who likes her, for me) that I stop talking about her altogether. When we don't have anything nice to say, it's best to keep quiet, right? 

So from now on, I won't answer any asks about Veronica anymore, and everyone's dashboard will be peaceful.

Review: BLACK MIRROR Season 4 (Part I - Episodes 1 & 2)

New Post has been published on https://nofspodcast.com/review-black-mirror-season-4-part-episodes-1-2/

Review: BLACK MIRROR Season 4 (Part I - Episodes 1 & 2)

Black Mirror Season 4 dropped on December 29th, on Netflix.

SPOILER-FREE REVIEW:

Watch it. Oh my God, watch it. Now, then; Spoilers ahead.

EPISODE 1: USS CALLISTER

The aspect ratio of the opening sequence matches the aspect ratio of the old Star Trek television show. It’s little things like that keep my coffee hot and get me up in the morning.

“USS Callister” really tells two stories: the first is the tale of a loser computer programmer named Robert Daly, who’s created a groundbreaking Virtual-Reality-based game that lets people fly around the universe in spaceships, explore planets, battle each other trade, etcetera. The guy he started the company with is a dick who doesn’t appreciate his contributions to the company. His coworkers think he’s weird and awkward and kinda creepy sometimes.

The second story is that of a sadistic and cruel God named Robert Daly. Daly has created a parallel Virtual Reality that allows him to play out his fantasies of being a Hero in Charge, based on a retro science-fiction television show he loves. (Think Star Trek.)

The twist of the knife is that he has peopled this game with digital copies of coworkers he dislikes, generated by stolen samples of their DNA. They have all their memories and personalities from the real world. They are sentient, thinking and feeling as their real-world selves.

What “USS Callister” asks us is (among many other things), are they alive?

Not that episode one is all scowling and torment. Brooker mentioned that Black Mirror would ‘explore a little more comedy in this season’, and there is certainly a strong heartbeat of humor here. It’s the best kind of laughter, too, for the series: black humor. Hangman’s jokes. The dry British chuckle in the face of the abyss.

Watching the tortured, terrified digital clones of the USS Callister unwind while Daly is logged out of the game reminds one of London in the Blitz. Sure, there are bombs and blood and rubble everywhere, and things are pretty awful, but at least the bottles behind the bar survived.

When the newest digital clone, Cristin (played by Nanette Cole) finds out that nobody has genitals in Daly’s digital world, her battle cry is priceless:

Okay. Stealing my pussy is a red. Fucking. Line.

“USS Callister” is like a great Doctor Who episode that just happens to be Rated R.

When the trailers for Season 4 dropped, the teaser for “USS Callister” left out the real world entirely. It was a move of twofold genius. First, it saves the surprise of our first, bleak glimpse of the real world. Our introduction to neurotic weirdo Daly (an absolutely stunning performance by Jesse Plemons) feels like a nihilistic sigh of relief. It doesn’t have to be full dark 24/7, but there’s something in the uncompromising, unblinking hardness of Black Mirror that has always set it apart. A certain bleak jouissance that no other show delivers.

Second, it works as a commentary on the episode itself. In our little taste of “USS Callister,” the real world isn’t there at all. The trailer promises pure sci-fi. Pure escapism. Fun. Adventure. There’s no trace of the sinister sadism of Daly, or the suffering of his comrades. There’s no sense of true tragedy or actual stakes.

Just like the immersive, next-gen VR in the episode.

“Callister” examines the more disturbing elements of the AI and VR booms we’re seeing right now. Ten years from now, if we have a bad day, put on our VR headsets, and kill a hundred digital people in Call of Duty online, what will that mean? In a world where code is ever-improving, at what point is a program as nuanced and multifaceted as us? We don’t feel anything drowning Sims or making them wet themselves…but should we? If not today, when? At what point does simulated suffering cease to be Catharsis and become Sadism?

With the advent of technology like CRISPR, perhaps we aren’t so far from Daly’s nightmare after all.

  EPISODE 2: ARKANGEL

The obvious big-gun episode of the season is “Arkangel.” There’re no scrubs in the directorial talent of Black Mirror, but Jodie Foster (four Oscar nominations, two wins, Silence of the Lambs, ‘nuff said) is clearly the Heavy Hitter.

She swung for the fences.

She knocked it out of the park.

I don’t even like baseball.

“Arkangel” tells the story of a mother and daughter. When her daughter Sara (Aniya Hodge, Sara Abbot, and Brenna Harding) goes missing, Marie (Rosemarie DeWitt, Cinderella Man, Mad Men) has a monitoring system implanted in Sara’s head. It’s called “Arkangel,” and gives Marie access to Sara’s location, biological vitals, and even a direct feed from her optic nerve. Marie can see what Sara sees.

But “Arkangel” isn’t really about the creepy sci-fi stuff. None of the best episodes of Black Mirror are, and this is one of the best in the series. No. “Arkangel” is about what happens as Sara grows up. It’s about the Helicopter Parents of the future. About how far Marie will go to keep her safe, and how much of herself she’ll compromise to do it.

And the inevitable price to be paid.

The brilliance of Foster’s episode is (to borrow from Blake), its fearful symmetry. Its balance. Each element dances with another, each character reflected darkly in the actions of others. Sara and the all-seeing eye in her head are like a weight in the center of the episode. On one side is Marie and her Orwellian baby monitor. On the other is Trick (a superb performance by Own Teague), the Cute Drug Dealer from the Wrong Side of the Tracks, and all the rebellion and danger he represents.

Every line, every interaction in the episode shifts that weight, tilts the precarious position of the scale. Structurally, it’s breathtakingly beautiful. There is no wasted moment.

I don’t know whether to give the nod to Brooker (who has sole writing credit on the episode) or Foster for the delicate dance of these threads. The interplay between the writing and directing style is an elegant pas de deux, each word and element circling the others, and pulling the weave ever tighter.

Brooker understands Irony in a way that few shows do, and utilizes it like the keen, heartrending edge that it can be. And he knows Tragedy. The Capital-T kind that the Greeks told us so much about, all those years ago. He knows it intimately. Knows that the key to Tragedy is Hamaratia: the Fatal Flaw.

There are several Fatal Flaws in “Arkangel.” They run (appropriately) in arcs through the episode. Tracing those threads back reveals the subtlety and nuance Foster and Brooker actually manage.

Almost everything Marie does throughout the episode is countered or echoed elsewhere: when she reactivates the Arkangel unit in Sara’s teens, she sees her having sex with Trick, the “Dangerous Bad Boy.” Yet, that same night, she met up with one of her patients from physical therapy: a devil-may-care biker who injured himself driving his motorcycle recklessly, and shows no signs of slowing down.

Marie sees Sara experimenting with cocaine in Trick’s van. The effect of the drug is that it raises Sara’s heart rate. A few days later, Marie grinds some drugs into Sara’s morning smoothie. The effect of drugging her daughter is the spontaneous abortion of a pregnancy Sara didn’t even know about.

It’s ironic that Marie should confront Trick, condemning him as “a junkie.” Throughout the episode, Marie treats the Arkangel parent unit as a junkie treats drugs. She hides the unit upstairs, laments over whether to use it or not. Okay, just this one more time. Uses it just a little. Just a few functions. Starts carrying it with her. It’s clear that she’s addicted to it.

There’s even a brilliant reversal of the classic “Parent finds drugs in the kid’s room” scene, where Sara rifles her mother’s room and discovers that she’s still using the Arkangel parent unit. Sara is horrified and tosses it down, the perfect picture of a parent discovering their child’s dangerous addiction.

Marie is the first victim of Arkangel, and in her victimhood, she stands for all of us. I don’t mean the program itself. I’m talking about the sentiment behind it. Beneath the eerie veneer of the invasive surveillance of tomorrow, “Arkangel” is quietly commenting on something we’re experiencing today.

Safety. In excess. In extremis.

The opening scene of the episode doesn’t just establish the characters and set the stage. It holds up a mirror. Marie is giving birth: after complications during natural birth, the doctor is performing a C-section. “Arkangel” opens with Marie looking away from the things that frighten her: the doctors, the nurse, the procedure she’s undergoing. When Sara is finally born, the doctors whisk her away to a table nearby. There is no sound. No cry. Other doctors gather, and Marie becomes afraid: afraid her baby is dead, that she’s lost her little girl, and is powerless to help.

“Tell me she’s alright,” she says.

The nurse holds her hand, tells her to calm down. Comforts her. Then Sara cries and is brought over, and she’s fine, and everything is fine. We get the sort of close-up maternal scene we’re accustomed to seeing when babies are born on television. Lots of nuzzling and happy tears and lifelong bonds being wound between mother and child.

And then, brilliantly, brutally, honestly, Foster shows us what we seldom see these days, too busy cooing over the microcosm and the close-up.

She shows us the big picture.

On one side of the curtain, Marie is bonding with her little girl. Her daughter is alive and well. Everything is fine. Nurses smile and nod and congratulate her. And on the other side of the curtain, her body is open and bloody. Doctors work quietly to stop the bleeding and make her whole again. Though a routine procedure, Marie has experienced massive trauma, could conceivably die if things go wrong…but she’ll never know. The sheet protects her. She doesn’t feel a thing: the doctors have numbed her to the trauma she’s experiencing. All that’s left is bliss.

(By the by, I’m not suggesting we force new mothers to watch surgeries performed on them without anesthetic. I’m not a monster. I am an observer of metaphors.)

The “parental control” of the Arkangel unit is obviously the darkest, most troubling of the sci-fi elements of the episode, but it raises some interesting questions about what safety might mean, in the long-term.

When Sara’s grandfather has a heart attack, she can’t see what’s happening to him, and can’t hear his pleas for her to get help. She’s shielded from the trauma by the unit. But there’s a parallel in our world, here: if we crumble in the face of fear and trauma, shutting down and closing it out, refusing to look, what are the consequences of that willful blind eye?

Later, as Marie grieves over her father’s grave, Sara can’t see her mother’s face. Grief is uncomfortable. It has been censored out.

Again, there are real considerations for us in the real world. If we turn our backs on grief and powerful, negative human emotions because they make us uncomfortable, what does that mean? The end of empathy? A society that must grieve alone and uncomforted, with no community to feel and grieve with us, no strength to be lent to us because we are, in our sadness, upsetting?

Just something to think about.

Sara’s grandfather speaks for some us, after Marie has the Arkangel implanted in Sara’s head:

“I remember when we used to open up the door and let the kids be.”

It provokes an interesting thought. The difference between opening a door and a locked one can be the difference between a home and a prison. Between a conversation and a censure is the difference between a parent and a warden.

And once you’ve escaped a prison, why would you ever go back?

  Overall

There’s a common thread between “USS Callister” and “Arkangel.”

Hope.

When Cristin and company break out of Daly’s digital world, they have a whole new universe to explore. They’re in charge of their own destinies again. They have free will, and the will to live.

Once Sara escapes her mother’s smothering safety, she has a whole world to explore. She’s free, finally, with her whole life ahead of her.

Watching these two episodes, I noticed something for the first time. In the opening credits of Black Mirror, just before the screen goes dark, and we stare into the black possibilities of the onrushing technological age…

The Black Mirror always cracks. The mirror Brooker holds up is not impervious. We can escape.

There’s always hope.

Review: BLACK MIRROR Season 4 (Part I - Episodes 1 & 2)

New Post has been published on https://nofspodcast.com/review-black-mirror-season-4-part-episodes-1-2/

Review: BLACK MIRROR Season 4 (Part I - Episodes 1 & 2)

Black Mirror Season 4 dropped on December 29th, on Netflix.

SPOILER-FREE REVIEW:

Watch it. Oh my God, watch it. Now, then; Spoilers ahead.

EPISODE 1: USS CALLISTER

The aspect ratio of the opening sequence matches the aspect ratio of the old Star Trek television show. It’s little things like that keep my coffee hot and get me up in the morning.

“USS Callister” really tells two stories: the first is the tale of a loser computer programmer named Robert Daly, who’s created a groundbreaking Virtual-Reality-based game that lets people fly around the universe in spaceships, explore planets, battle each other trade, etcetera. The guy he started the company with is a dick who doesn’t appreciate his contributions to the company. His coworkers think he’s weird and awkward and kinda creepy sometimes.

The second story is that of a sadistic and cruel God named Robert Daly. Daly has created a parallel Virtual Reality that allows him to play out his fantasies of being a Hero in Charge, based on a retro science-fiction television show he loves. (Think Star Trek.)

The twist of the knife is that he has peopled this game with digital copies of coworkers he dislikes, generated by stolen samples of their DNA. They have all their memories and personalities from the real world. They are sentient, thinking and feeling as their real-world selves.

What “USS Callister” asks us is (among many other things), are they alive?

Not that episode one is all scowling and torment. Brooker mentioned that Black Mirror would ‘explore a little more comedy in this season’, and there is certainly a strong heartbeat of humor here. It’s the best kind of laughter, too, for the series: black humor. Hangman’s jokes. The dry British chuckle in the face of the abyss.

Watching the tortured, terrified digital clones of the USS Callister unwind while Daly is logged out of the game reminds one of London in the Blitz. Sure, there are bombs and blood and rubble everywhere, and things are pretty awful, but at least the bottles behind the bar survived.

When the newest digital clone, Nanette Cole (played by Cristin Milioti) finds out that nobody has genitals in Daly’s digital world, her battle cry is priceless:

Okay. Stealing my pussy is a red. Fucking. Line.

“USS Callister” is like a great Doctor Who episode that just happens to be Rated R.

When the trailers for Season 4 dropped, the teaser for “USS Callister” left out the real world entirely. It was a move of twofold genius. First, it saves the surprise of our first, bleak glimpse of the real world. Our introduction to neurotic weirdo Daly (an absolutely stunning performance by Jesse Plemons) feels like a nihilistic sigh of relief. It doesn’t have to be full dark 24/7, but there’s something in the uncompromising, unblinking hardness of Black Mirror that has always set it apart. A certain bleak jouissance that no other show delivers.

Second, it works as a commentary on the episode itself. In our little taste of “USS Callister,” the real world isn’t there at all. The trailer promises pure sci-fi. Pure escapism. Fun. Adventure. There’s no trace of the sinister sadism of Daly, or the suffering of his comrades. There’s no sense of true tragedy or actual stakes.

Just like the immersive, next-gen VR in the episode.

“Callister” examines the more disturbing elements of the AI and VR booms we’re seeing right now. Ten years from now, if we have a bad day, put on our VR headsets, and kill a hundred digital people in Call of Duty online, what will that mean? In a world where code is ever-improving, at what point is a program as nuanced and multifaceted as us? We don’t feel anything drowning Sims or making them wet themselves…but should we? If not today, when? At what point does simulated suffering cease to be Catharsis and become Sadism?

With the advent of technology like CRISPR, perhaps we aren’t so far from Daly’s nightmare after all.

  EPISODE 2: ARKANGEL

The obvious big-gun episode of the season is “Arkangel.” There’re no scrubs in the directorial talent of Black Mirror, but Jodie Foster (four Oscar nominations, two wins, Silence of the Lambs, ‘nuff said) is clearly the Heavy Hitter.

She swung for the fences.

She knocked it out of the park.

I don’t even like baseball.

“Arkangel” tells the story of a mother and daughter. When her daughter Sara (Aniya Hodge, Sara Abbot, and Brenna Harding) goes missing, Marie (Rosemarie DeWitt, Cinderella Man, Mad Men) has a monitoring system implanted in Sara’s head. It’s called “Arkangel,” and gives Marie access to Sara’s location, biological vitals, and even a direct feed from her optic nerve. Marie can see what Sara sees.

But “Arkangel” isn’t really about the creepy sci-fi stuff. None of the best episodes of Black Mirror are, and this is one of the best in the series. No. “Arkangel” is about what happens as Sara grows up. It’s about the Helicopter Parents of the future. About how far Marie will go to keep her safe, and how much of herself she’ll compromise to do it.

And the inevitable price to be paid.

The brilliance of Foster’s episode is (to borrow from Blake), its fearful symmetry. Its balance. Each element dances with another, each character reflected darkly in the actions of others. Sara and the all-seeing eye in her head are like a weight in the center of the episode. On one side is Marie and her Orwellian baby monitor. On the other is Trick (a superb performance by Own Teague), the Cute Drug Dealer from the Wrong Side of the Tracks, and all the rebellion and danger he represents.

Every line, every interaction in the episode shifts that weight, tilts the precarious position of the scale. Structurally, it’s breathtakingly beautiful. There is no wasted moment.

I don’t know whether to give the nod to Brooker (who has sole writing credit on the episode) or Foster for the delicate dance of these threads. The interplay between the writing and directing style is an elegant pas de deux, each word and element circling the others, and pulling the weave ever tighter.

Brooker understands Irony in a way that few shows do, and utilizes it like the keen, heartrending edge that it can be. And he knows Tragedy. The Capital-T kind that the Greeks told us so much about, all those years ago. He knows it intimately. Knows that the key to Tragedy is Hamaratia: the Fatal Flaw.

There are several Fatal Flaws in “Arkangel.” They run (appropriately) in arcs through the episode. Tracing those threads back reveals the subtlety and nuance Foster and Brooker actually manage.

Almost everything Marie does throughout the episode is countered or echoed elsewhere: when she reactivates the Arkangel unit in Sara’s teens, she sees her having sex with Trick, the “Dangerous Bad Boy.” Yet, that same night, she met up with one of her patients from physical therapy: a devil-may-care biker who injured himself driving his motorcycle recklessly, and shows no signs of slowing down.

Marie sees Sara experimenting with cocaine in Trick’s van. The effect of the drug is that it raises Sara’s heart rate. A few days later, Marie grinds some drugs into Sara’s morning smoothie. The effect of drugging her daughter is the spontaneous abortion of a pregnancy Sara didn’t even know about.

It’s ironic that Marie should confront Trick, condemning him as “a junkie.” Throughout the episode, Marie treats the Arkangel parent unit as a junkie treats drugs. She hides the unit upstairs, laments over whether to use it or not. Okay, just this one more time. Uses it just a little. Just a few functions. Starts carrying it with her. It’s clear that she’s addicted to it.

There’s even a brilliant reversal of the classic “Parent finds drugs in the kid’s room” scene, where Sara rifles her mother’s room and discovers that she’s still using the Arkangel parent unit. Sara is horrified and tosses it down, the perfect picture of a parent discovering their child’s dangerous addiction.

Marie is the first victim of Arkangel, and in her victimhood, she stands for all of us. I don’t mean the program itself. I’m talking about the sentiment behind it. Beneath the eerie veneer of the invasive surveillance of tomorrow, “Arkangel” is quietly commenting on something we’re experiencing today.

Safety. In excess. In extremis.

The opening scene of the episode doesn’t just establish the characters and set the stage. It holds up a mirror. Marie is giving birth: after complications during natural birth, the doctor is performing a C-section. “Arkangel” opens with Marie looking away from the things that frighten her: the doctors, the nurse, the procedure she’s undergoing. When Sara is finally born, the doctors whisk her away to a table nearby. There is no sound. No cry. Other doctors gather, and Marie becomes afraid: afraid her baby is dead, that she’s lost her little girl, and is powerless to help.

“Tell me she’s alright,” she says.

The nurse holds her hand, tells her to calm down. Comforts her. Then Sara cries and is brought over, and she’s fine, and everything is fine. We get the sort of close-up maternal scene we’re accustomed to seeing when babies are born on television. Lots of nuzzling and happy tears and lifelong bonds being wound between mother and child.

And then, brilliantly, brutally, honestly, Foster shows us what we seldom see these days, too busy cooing over the microcosm and the close-up.

She shows us the big picture.

On one side of the curtain, Marie is bonding with her little girl. Her daughter is alive and well. Everything is fine. Nurses smile and nod and congratulate her. And on the other side of the curtain, her body is open and bloody. Doctors work quietly to stop the bleeding and make her whole again. Though a routine procedure, Marie has experienced massive trauma, could conceivably die if things go wrong…but she’ll never know. The sheet protects her. She doesn’t feel a thing: the doctors have numbed her to the trauma she’s experiencing. All that’s left is bliss.

(By the by, I’m not suggesting we force new mothers to watch surgeries performed on them without anesthetic. I’m not a monster. I am an observer of metaphors.)

The “parental control” of the Arkangel unit is obviously the darkest, most troubling of the sci-fi elements of the episode, but it raises some interesting questions about what safety might mean, in the long-term.

When Sara’s grandfather has a heart attack, she can’t see what’s happening to him, and can’t hear his pleas for her to get help. She’s shielded from the trauma by the unit. But there’s a parallel in our world, here: if we crumble in the face of fear and trauma, shutting down and closing it out, refusing to look, what are the consequences of that willful blind eye?

Later, as Marie grieves over her father’s grave, Sara can’t see her mother’s face. Grief is uncomfortable. It has been censored out.

Again, there are real considerations for us in the real world. If we turn our backs on grief and powerful, negative human emotions because they make us uncomfortable, what does that mean? The end of empathy? A society that must grieve alone and uncomforted, with no community to feel and grieve with us, no strength to be lent to us because we are, in our sadness, upsetting?

Just something to think about.

Sara’s grandfather speaks for some us, after Marie has the Arkangel implanted in Sara’s head:

“I remember when we used to open up the door and let the kids be.”

It provokes an interesting thought. The difference between opening a door and a locked one can be the difference between a home and a prison. Between a conversation and a censure is the difference between a parent and a warden.

And once you’ve escaped a prison, why would you ever go back?

  Overall

There’s a common thread between “USS Callister” and “Arkangel.”

Hope.

When Cristin and company break out of Daly’s digital world, they have a whole new universe to explore. They’re in charge of their own destinies again. They have free will, and the will to live.

Once Sara escapes her mother’s smothering safety, she has a whole world to explore. She’s free, finally, with her whole life ahead of her.

Watching these two episodes, I noticed something for the first time. In the opening credits of Black Mirror, just before the screen goes dark, and we stare into the black possibilities of the onrushing technological age…

The Black Mirror always cracks. The mirror Brooker holds up is not impervious. We can escape.

There’s always hope.