Eggman is a villain. Remember when Eggman dominating the world was a thing in Sonic Forces? Pretty sure many suffered for that. He's really a menace like he had Sonic as a prisioner and didn't bother to unalive him IN THAT MOMENT just because he enjoyed more the idea of making others lose hope via him? Or the time he didn't care that Infinite dissapeared and instead get full mecha not giving a damn about his "indestructible invention". I don't think he even saw Infinite as nothing more than a weapon this is why I believe he was actually a sentimental creature with his memory completely erased, similar to Surge and Kit but this is more of a headcanon than a fact lol. Whatever the true is this only shows what you have said earlier about Eggman, that all his inventions are disposable no matter what

To know this isn't the worst he has done is something that shouldn't be ignored lol

YEAH Forces got it so right... It got absolutely everything right about Eggman and its only flaw is for such an important and significant role to the plot. He deserved way more screentime to see the full extent of his actions and plan on screen and spotlight in his temporary glorious victory and progress in taking over- but his characterization was perfect.

Forces is an example that Eggman is smart and capable and despite his massive ego, he has very real reasons to be as proud and confident as he is with his real 300 IQ genius and skills. It also shows that he has a reason to be so determined to win because he CAN in fact accomplish his goals, he just can't keep it as long as Sonic is around but it counts.

But I also like how he kept Sonic alive and imprisoned for six months so he could finish and show off his completed empire to him and break his last bit of hope and fully prove his victory and superiority over him before "banishing him" (definitely killing him lol) because it would've been much more satisfying to him than just killing him immediately.

Also while only present in English and people have their different opinions, I like the idea Sonic was tortured and that it's said to be Eggman specifically and not Infinite. I'd like to believe he would be delighted to toy with him in a few ways once he gets his hands on him, primarily psychologically. Love to imagine him having his fun with him.

He only saw Infinite as a tool and a weapon he'd use up for all he's worth and drop the moment he no longer needed him because he doesn't share, or failed him before. Proven by how he didn't care he was gone even despite his loyalty, he said victory would be sweeter to defeat Sonic himself and was delighted to surpass Infinite in power with the ruby.

Everyone has always been vessels for Eggman to manipulate and use for selfish gain and later discard like they're nothing, while others are enemies and obstacles to be destroyed, and everyone else is so worthless and insignificant to him that all they should be are mindless slaves to the empire. Everything is his to use and destroy as he pleases.

I adore how Infinite is yet another example, even despite his loyalty to him the whole time. It never makes Eggman see them as anything more, doesn't make them any more worthy, and still don't deserve a fraction of his power in ruling the world in the end because everyone and everything is beneath him and disposable no matter what.

That's a cool idea for Infinite! What also works is him being heavily manipulated by Eggman after discovering their shared desires through the phantom ruby, and maybe the Jackal Squad's doom and his hatred to Shadow was yet another way to take his devotion to the empire further and allow him to use the phantom ruby on him.

And even despite his lack of genuine long term respect and value of any of his lackeys and how they'll always be temporary and worth nothing more than what they can do for him no matter how badly they get hurt is bad enough, it is indeed not even the worst thing he's done and that's why he's a magnificent evil bastard through and through! 💜🥰

Hi, hi, how are you? How's school? I feel like we haven't talked in a long time lol, I just saw you're reading The Secret History, what are you thinking? I read some time ago and honestly I liked it but it left me very confused, my friend kind of explained it to me but still, well hope you're doing okay!

Hiii!! Ikr, we haven't talked in so long!!!!!!!!

I'm okay - school is very hard at the moment, I'm always late on studies and there are endless lists of exercises to do😭😭 But honestly I've never understood the subject better, so I think maybe piling us with homework and stress is just their strategy lmao

I'm liking the secret history a lot!!! I just started the second part, but I gotta be honest - I've already looked up how it ends kahskshsk. I just can't handle suspense.

Plus I've seen a lot of discussions on whether Donna Tartt is making satire out of the characters, and I think she kind of is?? Although I would say it's more of a cautionary tale than satire (at least that's what it seems like up until the half of the book, I can't argue for what I haven't yet read). Like, Richard literally says his fatal flaw is always longing for the picturesque above all things. The Greek Class isolated themselves, genuinely thought they were better than everyone else, and lived for the ✨aesthetics✨ and academic elitism. Of course they're bad, and killing people is bad, and etc

So yeah qkhsksh I do believe the book isn't endorsing their lifestyle, I'm just hesitant to say that it's somehow mocking them, since it admits that their perspectives are thrilling and seducing to some level. Again, to me, it's more of a cautionary tale than anything else

And youuu? How are you? What did you think about the book (and what confused you about it)?? How's school?? I hope you're good too❤️❤️❤️❤️💕💕💕💕

8. book

I decided to start writing a book. A novel, it’s going to be fiction. It’s a big project. I dread big projects. I don’t feel as if I am ever able to complete them. It’s going to be left unfinished, why do I even bother? So many projects that I’ve started and never finished. I get an idea, then I can’t make myself do the actual work to make it a reality. Why do I think I can write a book when I can barely read books without becoming distracted and doing something else instead? I give up too easily. But, then again, do I really have it in me to produce something that is good? That people would want to read? Insecurity creeps in, telling me that I will fail. I fear failure. Of course I do, who doesn’t? Whenever people say that their greatest fear is failure, all I wonder is who out there is not afraid of failure? Is there someone out there with so much confidence that they absolutely do not in any way fear failure? Even narcissists technically fear failure, it is what leads them to such ridiculous overcompensation, putting on the facade of bravado to mask their actual dire sense of insecurity. Do not fall for the scams, no person is truly without self-doubt. (Well, I guess maybe psychopaths, but there’s a whole lot of things amiss with them.)

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve entertained myself by coming up with stories, fictional universes that I would populate with characters of my own invention. When I was a kid, what I really wanted was to become a comic book writer and artist. Well, in between other gigs I imagined would suit me, including at one point wanting to be a “singing farmer,” as I put it. Still, I’ve always returned to fiction and storytelling. There’s something about creating a world that lets you so fully distract yourself from all the stressful daily hullabaloo that goes on around you. Escapism, it’s fun, it’s therapeutic, I think. There’s a reason why humans have been telling each other stories for millennia, since even before we lived in houses. Back when we were all huddled around the fire, wearing our best comfortable animal furs, sharing tales of the hunt. Your uncle who once took part in killing a mammoth, the impressive beast nearly gorging him with its big tusks. How clever he was when he noticed that the mammoth had one leg weaker than the others, and used that to his advantage. How the entire hunting party banded together to bring the behemoth down, getting all that meat to feed their families with for months! Stories make you feel good. Like as if you have something to celebrate, even when you might be starving due to the more recent hunts not having gone as well. Damn that saber-tooth tiger that killed your uncle…

Storytelling is linked to acting. Both with acting and with storytelling you have to commit. Whatever you are doing, whatever role you are performing, you have to sell it. You may be on stage talking about that time you went scuba diving with your future wife, and how you encountered an oyster with the most magnificent pearl inside, and how you made a ring for the pearl and used it when you proposed to her. You have to sell it. You have to get the audience laughing, gasping, crying, going “aww,” feeling as if they were there with you that day. Of course, they don’t know it is all just lies. You made it up. It’s all fiction. But you committed, so they won’t ever know. Storytelling is a gift to others, people will appreciate you if you tell good stories, but you’re also kinda deviant. Even if it’s technically based on a true story, you’ve certainly added your embellishments. You’re a trickster, a devious individual. No wonder actors have historically been seen as dubious folks. They come into town, romances all the young women and men, telling them big tales of their lives on the road, and they can’t possibly know if you are telling the truth or not. You may just be lying. You probably are lying. Let’s be honest, you’ve probably not told a single true thing in your life.

I am bad at the hustle. No, I can talk quite well, and I can keep people’s attention for a long while. But I can’t be a huckster. Going out there, putting myself on the line hoping people will swallow my bullshit. I can’t really avoid speaking from my heart when I do speak. Or when I write, as I happen to be doing now. This blog has so far been thoroughly candid in places, in such a way I may come across like I’m at a confessional. Not that I have much evil to confess, but I can’t help but be transparent. I can’t flip into different kinds of personalities, each with its own schemes and plots, being some master manipulator, someone who you can never figure out what they're truly up to, or what they truly want. No, what I am is clearly written on my face. I’ve got one self, and it is the one before you. He’s hairy, and tall, and a bit of a dork. I am happy to talk to you, to engage with you, but I won’t be anyone but myself. I am me. I hope that’ll do.

Of course you are familiar with all those pick-up artists that plagues the internet. Or well, not just the internet. Go into any old-fashioned bookstore (where they store books on paper, not in digital code,) and you are bound to find some sleazy book written by a sleazy guy about how to sleazily seduce women. Those books don’t want you acting like me. According to them, seduction is all about manipulation. To figure out the very right thing to say to get women to fawn all over you. They don’t want you to be sincere, telling the truth as you see it. Nah, you gotta keep that stuff bottled up, deep down inside your soul, because most likely, your true self is ugly. It’s interesting how you can get little details from these pick-up artists depending on the sort of things they say, the tips they provide. The fact that all of them seem to harbour this festering misogyny is no big surprise, but every so often, you get these little glimpses of these people’s true worldview, one where power is everything, true love is a fallacy, and happiness is a lie manufactured by Hollywood to make us all into docile consumers. No wonder the “red-pill” so often leads to people taking the “black-pill.” First hucksters will lure you in, telling you that they’ve got the secret as to how to be a success, then when they’ve got you isolated, they reveal to you how truly misanthropic and bleak their actual beliefs are.

I am fascinated with cults, for much of the same reason why I am fascinated with storytelling. What is a cult leader if not just a great storyteller? They’re something like the modern day shaman, capable of spellbinding people with their weird idiosyncratic way of speaking. High-functioning people with autism are often said to have an idiosyncratic way of speaking. No, I am not suggesting that cult leaders are all somewhere on the spectrum, though it wouldn’t surprise me if some famous cult leaders did turn out to have been on the spectrum. However, for an autistic person to become a cult leader, I think they would have to be a true believer, and not some fraud just looking to scam others. Ultimately, no autistic person would want to surround themselves with people unless they truly do believe it is essential, to like, save mankind from damnation or something. It’s the difference between sincerity and insincerity. It is difficult for autistic people to be insincere, as insincerity requires a lot of social skills that autistic people struggle with. Having to juggle all these balls in the air, making sure you keep the big lie going, that you remember to change your behaviour depending on who you are speaking to in order to keep them from figuring out that you’re a bullshitter. Hollow people are great at being insincere. People like L. Ron Hubbard, the founder of the highly profitable cult that is Scientology, was at his core a hollow individual. He had no problems twisting the minds of the people around him, because he never felt a need to be sincere. If an autistic person were to become a cult leader, I can guarantee you that it wouldn’t be a profitable cult. Nah, autistic people aren’t in it for the money, we’re all about keeping it real.

Being a sincere person, surely I should be able to write a novel and make it feel earnest. Like it was delivered with passion, because I wouldn’t be able to write anything that wasn’t true to myself. Well, I do hope so. Having something I’ve made be referred to as genuine is something I see as a great compliment. I’m a student of art history, I’ve made some “serious” art before, I know how terrible art can be when it is not delivered with good faith. Sure, some art is cynical, or ironic, but even then, it tends to come from a real place. Good artists, even when they’re fully armed with the dada mindset, must believe in what they are doing. Whether they are doing it for a laugh or not, that’s irrelevant. Even if all you wish is to be silly and make something that is comical, you have to believe in what you are creating. Or else people won’t bother engaging with it. Why look at a painting by someone who is just interested in making money? Insincere artists do exist, and they can end up becoming quite successful, but ultimately, history won’t be kind to them. Damien Hirst comes to mind, heard he's into NFTs now.

Sure, I don’t like insincere people. Does that make me a bigot? Like, it’s not as if they can help themselves. It’s just who they are, spineless maggots with no soul. It doesn’t mean we have to hate them. No, no, no... I am just generalising. Don’t go thinking there’s just two kinds of people in the world, the sincere and the insincere. It’s not a binary. Most people are both, just like with introverts and extroverts, humans are complex. But there are definitely those that decide to feed into their insincere side, realising that it is often the key to success. Through insincerity, you learn to let go of self-doubt, you stop worrying so much about what others think of you, because you are never truly yourself. If they hate you, then so what? They don’t actually hate you, they just hate a role that you are playing. So what if you seduced that woman, made her feel as if you were the perfect match, then you ghosted her and completely forgot about her? It’s her fault for falling for your tricks. You were clearly just playing the game, being a super-seducer, she should have known better. By embracing insincerity, it’s like gaining a superpower. No longer do you have to care about the impact you have on others, no longer do you have to worry about what it means to be a social human being making choices that affect the others around you. Because you’re not the person they think you are. Actually, you’re not quite sure you’re the person you think you are… Who are you?

I’ve got the plot all laid out in my head for the novel. It’s going to be based in the fantasy world that I’ve been working on for the last few years. I’ve been working on this world for almost half a decade now, come to think of it. Why do I keep feeling as if I am never able to keep to a project, when I’ve clearly been working on a massive project all this time? Sure, it’s all just in my head, but it’s not as if most people have the kind of patience to keep going back to a single big project, even if it is just in their head. Not once, while thinking about my fantasy world have I been distracted and started thinking about cute puppies, instead. And you know how difficult that is. Maybe I am too hard on myself. Maybe I will finish this book, and maybe people will want to read it. Maybe it will even get a minimal number of angry reviews, like, I may get a book published without some folks trying to harass me into committing suicide for daring to think I can write. Some people may even be enthusiastic, blowing up my ego with great praise. Maybe someone will come along and tell me that they want to buy the rights to make my book into a movie or a television series. Maybe I will get rich? Maybe I will get famous! Woo! Success here I come!

Well, no, here I go being insincere. That’s not what it’s about. I should be writing this book because I want to write it. Because I want to prove to myself that I am able to write it. Sure, it’s not as if there’s not a little brain goblin inside my mind whispering sweet nothings about how one day I might turn out a real respected author. One with real fans that gets to do big book tours talking about how brilliant I am, how brilliant my work is, and how brilliant things are going for me. I am not going to pretend I don’t have the same aspirations for success that others have. Inside of me you will find the same greedy piglet of an ego hungry for more adoration and more validation that you will find in any person. Humans don’t know when to quit, we always want more. But I am at least safe knowing that I will never debase myself, descending to the same depths as those inhabited by soulless grifters who go through life abusing the trust of others in order to get by. I’m sincere, in the end. I always turn out sincere, in the end. I am a good boy.

And I am also really sexy. I don’t think I’ve mentioned this before on this blog, but I am really, REALLY, sexy. Like, you wouldn’t believe it. Oh, I am so hot. And if you follow and subscribe and hit that bell, I will teach you how you can be just as sexy as I am! And buy my book! And my merch! And my new single! And of course, my new cryptocurrency, by the name of “autism-coin.” It’s going to be a real success on 4chan, let me tell ya!

Plato-nic Love (Part I)

I sadly didn’t finish the whole story in time but this is part one of Seren and Plato’s epic love story for the ages XD

Illustrations were done by the wonderful @sigeel​ 😍😍😍

So this submission is by the two of us!

Plato-nic Love

Seren poured a libation of wine and started working on the grapevine that had been growing in the family garden for a while. At first, her mother had tried to get rid of it but it had proven the essence of indestructable life and so they had accepted its presence much like Seren had come to accept the presence of its patron god. She was about to cut off a branch to use for making a crown later on when she heard a familiar voice. "How is my favourite bacchae?" She sighed. It had been about a year since she had agreed to become his faithful follower and needless to say she was still the only one. "Do you know what day it is?" Seren started frantically going through all the calendars she had studied, from the reconstructed Attic calendar to the Roman calendar before and after the Julian reform -what moon phase were they in again? "You always think we don't care about these things but I have a sursprise for you." Dionysos flashed her a bright smile. "What?" she said flatly. A surprise from a god couldn't possibly mean anything good.

"I SAID: I have a SURPRISE for you!" Confetti and flower petals started raining down on them and from above sounded a rustic melody played on pan pipes. Seren looked up to see Hermes sitting on a treebranch, grinning as he played the instrument his son invented. "Ha ha, very funny, Hermes." Dionysos took Seren by the shoulders. "He was supposed to play the Time Warp. Because it's exactly ONE YEAR TODAY that you became my bacchae and do I have a surprise for you!" "Yeah, you said so. But maybe it would be better if-" "Nonsense! As your patron god I am exceedingly generous. You see, I have noticed your infatuation with Plato." "You don't say." "Yes. Anyway, Hermes was so nice to pay grandfather Kronos a visit and relieve him of a little artef- well, details, it doesn't matter! What is important is that you will get to meet Plato!" "Really?!" There was a nagging voice in Seren's head that told her to be careful but Dionysos had just told her she'd get to meet Plato! "Really. All you have to do is take my hand. But I have another gift for you. Hermes, come down here!" The messenger god swung himself lazily from the tree and floated down until his winged sandals touched the ground. "My brother pointed out that you might have difficulties speaking ancient Greek fluently so he will grant you the ability to speak it like a native for as long as you give up your native English." Seren gaped. "That... is surprisingly thoughtful of you." "Hermes, do it! And no nonsense like giving her a lisp or a foreign accent!" "Of course not. Why would I do that?" Hermes grinned at Seren. "I'd not even be there to see it." "What? Now? Wait!" Seren cried out as divine magic rearranged the synapses in her speech centre. "I did not agree-" "She'll speak fluently once you arrive in Greece," Hermes said, "Once you return, the magic wears off." Dionysos gave his brother a suspicious look. Then he beamed. "Perfect!" Dionysos clapped enthusiastically. "Hold on tight!" He pulled her into his embrace and Seren instinctively hugged him. The world around them began to blur and the heavens seemed to turn back as they sped through time and space. There was a sudden jolt and the world was clear once again. Only, it looked strange. But not strange enough for Seren not to recognise her patron god had spoken the truth. This was ancient Athens! She felt a nasty queasiness but she was much too excited to care about that just now. She had known about polychromy but the sheer explosion of colours in the city made her heart sing. The reconstructions were mere shadows of the vibrant paint on the statues, buildings, and clothes. And the Akropolis! It looked majestic even now but the ruins were nothing compared to the magnificence of colour and architecture. Seren stood in awe, even though they were miles away down in a sidestreet. Potters had laid out their painted vases and other works as they created new ones. Seren couldn't decide what to see first, jumping this way and that until the unsavoury sound of regurgitation briefly diverted her attention. Dionysos leaned against the mudbrick wall of a house and puked his guts out. "How can you be so chipper?" Dionysos groaned, wiping his mouth. "You're mortal!" We travelled both time AND space. You should be barfing like a youth at his first symposion." But Seren just ignored him in her euphoria. "It's Athens!" she cried. "ANCIENT Athens!" "That fleet-foorted son of a-" "What? What is it?!" "Nothing, nothing. Everything is fine. I just..." Dionysos leaned against the mudbrick house. "Hermes could have said something about the inconvenience of travelling." Seren shrugged. Who cared, they were already there. "I want to see EVERYTHING!!! The sculptures! The pottery! The architecture! The clothes..." "Speaking of which..." Dionysos grinned. "We should get you something less 2020. If you want to meet Plato, we need a certain disguise. And you want to look your best for him, right?" Seren screwed up her face. "Plato isn't about looks. He's about the beauty of the soul." "Well, if you want to go dressed in that tasteless pink sweater and leggings combination. But let me tell you, nothing looks better on a woman than a finely woven chiton." "Yeah, you're not at all biased." "It's one of the few things even Apollo and I agree on, so it must be true." Seren would have been happy just roaming the streets of ancient Athens for a couple of days. Or for however long this time thingy would allow. The prospect of meeting Plato both exhilarated and terrified her.

Dionysos bought her an elegant chiton in the extremely crowded agora. Seren hardly suppressed a squeal when he paid with real ancient drachmae. Only they didn't look ancient at all. "Why is nobody staring?" she asked, as another group of people walked past them without paying them any mind. "Did you put glamour over my modern clothes?" Dionysos laughed. "No need, honeybee. This is Athens. At a time like this they get tourists from all over the world. One strange, foreign costume is not going to turn any heads." He pulled her away from the merchants and splendour of the agora into the entrance of a seemingly abandoned house. "Put it on," he said, handing her the chiton. "Don't peek!" she reminded him before she changed into her new garment. It felt cool and pleasant on her skin and the quality of the linen was indeed fantastic. Despite the loose fit the fabric was so delicate it hugged her figure in an almost revealing way, making her feel exposed. "Is this really acceptable dress?" she asked. "Only with this worn over it." Dionysos came up behind her, closing another layer of cloth over her shoulders with simple dress pins. "You look great, honeybee," he said sincerely. "Plato can consider himself lucky. You got the brains, you got the looks, and even that austere, joyless personality to match." "I get the impression you don't like Plato much." Dionysos slung the belt around her waist and fastened it. "What gave it away? My graffiti, my groaning everytime you bring him up, or the charming way I speak about him?" "The graffiti was a pretty obvious hint." "I hope you appreciate my gift all the more, honeybee." "I do." She smiled. "But I don't think I could appreciate it any more than I already do. This is a dream come true. The most exciting day of my life. More exciting even than Delphi." "Be careful not to tell Apollo," Dionysos warned but he looked pleased. "Sure. If I ever run into him I'll remember it." As they stepped outside, the streets were empty. "Where is everybody?" "Oh, it must be time to crown the victors." "Victors? Of what? It's too cold to be July, isn't it?" "Not the Panathenaic Games." Dionysos smiled broadly. "It's not an athletic contest. Today..." He made a dramatic pause. "Is the last day of the Great Dionysia!" "Oh." Seren was disappointed. "So we can't go and watch any of the plays?" "I'm afraid it is too late for that. But I can show you my theatre and the temple with my cult image if you want."

Seren politely admired the simple wooden log that was supposed to be a representation of Dionysos and genuinely marvelled at the masks that had been dedicated below it. She patiently listened to Dionysos as he recounted the story of the very first Dionysia in Athens and how he used to mingle among the crowd every year to watch what the people of Athens had put on the stage in his honour. Once they arrived at the theatre it was already empty but it was a stunning sight all the same. Seeing everything intact and in its full glory filled Seren with unknown joy. The decorations, both permanent and temporary, were as colourful and flamboyant as the god they honoured. When they made it back to the streets of Athens, there were already groups of shouty drunk people roaming about. "Victory parties," Dionysos explained when he saw Seren's face. "In fact, we are about to attend one too. But first..." A purple mist shrouded the god's body and when it dispelled, his simple chiton had given way to a slutty ankle-length skirt that hung low enough to expose part of his bum cheeks, his arms, wrists, and ankles adorned with golden jewellery. "I know you practiced with the aulos. You're gonna be a flute girl." Seren startled. "What? No! I'm not nearly good enough!" Dionysos shrugged, making his golden bracelets clink. "I don't think I need to tell you that other kinds of women are not allowed at symposia. Unless you want to play the role of a hetaira..." "F-Flute girl is fine."

They arrived at a house that obviously belonged to someone well-to-do. "A group of revellers is about to show up here any minute. We'll join them to enter the symposion. Trust me, they're too drunk to realise we don't belong." Seren nodded nervously. "Now would be the time to ditch that respectable dress." Reluctantly, Seren freed herself of the protective extra layer of clothing and received the aulos flutes Dionysos handed her. The revellers did indeed show up. Loud and obnoxious, it was impossible not to notice them. A man in his late 20s or early 30s led the group. Half-naked and well into his cups, crowned with a wreath of ivy and violets, he was all but carried by two sturdy lads who looked like they were half-naked professionally. "Come!" Dionysos tugged on her arm and they danced along, she awkwardly, he with a grace and confidence she envied. The leader of the group pounded against the door and yelled for "Agathon". Seren's heart skipped a beat. "Is that... Alkibiades?!" she whispered to Dionysos. "The very same." "We are at THAT Symposium?!!" "We most certainly are." Seren gaped at the man who would eventually be the ruin of Athens by defecting to Sparta and then to Persia. He rattled the door, shouting "Agathon!" and dropped his single piece of clothing in the process, quickly picked up by his lads. Seren shrieked when the man suddenly leaned heavily on her, his arms reeling for support. Dionysos was quick to jump to his other side, taking most of the load off his bacchae. "AGATHON!" Alkibiades yelled once more, in the manner drunks yelled on their way home from the pub after closing hours. He kept demanding to see Agathon with a heavy tongue until a servant boy finally opened up and led them to the andron. Alkibiades managed to stand on his own, stumbling towards the host of the party while announcing how completely and utterly wasted he was. "Let's bring the bacchic spirit to this lame party!" Dionysos cheered. Seren gazed around with stars in her eyes. The room was bright with torches and the klinai were populated by men both young and old but all shirtless and all with crowns of ivy on their heads. She looked more closely at the guests while Alkibiades spoke to Agathon, probably congratulating him for his victory. But none of the symposiasts looked like any of the artworks she had seen of Plato. They were most likely created after his death anyway. "Soooo..." She leaned on Dionysos' shoulder. "Where is Plato?" Dionysos gestured at the kline at the very end of the room, occupied by two young men. "The dark-haired one."

"THAT is Plato?! I thought he'd be at least in his 30s!" Dionysos grinned a smug grin. "He wrote the Symposion in his late 30s. But this, honeybee, is the year the titular symposion actually took place. The first year of the 91st Olympiad. Or, as you would say, 416 BCE." Seren gaped at the young man seated on a couch with a blond youth. He had long, curly hair crowned with a wreath of ivy like all the symposiasts, young and old. A strong, Greek nose gave his face a distinct personality. Who would have thought the man Seren knew only from his words and artwork showing him as an old man could be so... hot. The blonde guy leaned over, whispering something to him. Maybe they were flirting. It wasn't anything unusual back in the day, Seren knew that. But they seemed to be about the same age. Shouldn't- "Play, flute girl," Dionysos nudged her with his elbow, "I'll clear the kline for you."

Seren watched him shimmy over to the pair and tried to remember how to play the aulos. She had practiced so much but right now it felt as if she knew nothing at all. Her idol, Plato, might be listening! Her cheeks burned as she blew into the wooden instrument, the tune an embarrassing version of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star". Despite playing the role of a dancer, Dionysos sat down with the two no doubt aristocratic young men in his usual impudent manner. The blond youth's face turned sour. "What is the meaning of this?" "I came for the entertainment." "We are very well entertained by each other's company, thank you." Dionysos gave the blonde guy a cheeky grin. "Does your company agree?" He crawled on the kline until he basically sat on Plato's lap, prompting the young philosopher to blush. How cute! "Some people can be such a dull affair, talking about nothing but themselves all the time." The angry blond yanked Dionysos off Plato. "This was a philosophical symposion before you arrived!" "Yes. And to shame! You are celebrating a victory at the Dionysia. Where is the revelry?" "There are countless symposia all over Athens. Why did you have to come and ruin this one?" "You know exactly that I didn't ruin anything. But please, if you have any grievances take it up with my master. Alkibiades." "You know what? I will!" The blond aristocrat got up from the kline and grabbed Dionysos by the wrist, effectively pulling him off the kline. He dragged the god behind him as he made for the door, leaving Plato all alone on his bed of colourful cushions. Dionysos winked at her as they passed and it was at that moment that Seren noticed that his "friend" was the only one wearing laurel instead of ivy. Did they just... cock-block Apollon? But not all is lost, she reasoned, if Plato likes Apollon, he likes blondes, right? Right?

Shyly, Seren sat down next to the man whose teachings she still hadn't figured out. And maybe neither did he. He was so young and handsome. She was close enough to smell his heavy perfume and either oil or sweat or both made his chest gleam in the firelight. It really was quite hot in here. He didn't fit the stereotype of the philosopher at all, being so young and handsome and quite brawny. But no matter how hot he was, his physical appearance was dwarfed by the beauty of his brain and thoughts. His intelligence was that much hotter. That being said, Seren liked to think she would be less flustered if the man were old enough to be her father. But he was not. He must be about her own age. "We got rid of the other flute girl." "Wa-What?" "You must know there were already celebrations with heavy drinking last night. Surely you played at Alkibiades' place or some other house?" Seren nodded timidly. "So Pausanias suggested we refrain from drinking tonight and we ended up sending away the flute girl as well. A shame, because before you came in, it was all boring speeches of the old men assembled here. I enjoy the delightful harmony of music much, much more." "You don't like philosophy?" "Of course I do, but not at a drinking party celebrating the Dionysia. You're not from here, are you?" "Ahm, no?" "I don't think I've met a Spartan flute girl. Most of them come from Peiraieús." Seren laughed nervously. What the fuck, Hermes?! "I hope it's not a problem?" she mumbled. "No, no. I'm just surprised. Do you have a name, dear?" "I... I am Seren." "Seiren? What a fitting nickname! My name is-" "I know who you are!" Seren gushed, "I-I-I admire you greatly, Plato!" "Oh?" To Seren's great relief he smiled. "So you have seen me compete?" "Uh, yes, of course!" Seren would be thrilled to see him at any competition, really. "It's just a silly name my wrestling coach gave me. To intimidate my rivals, he says." "I like it!" "You like my broad shoulders, Seiren?" Seren blushed. "No, that's not what I, uh..." "It's all right. Lots of women admire them." "Ahahaha." Was he flirting with her? Or just bragging? "You may be an outstanding athlete," she said, "But I admire your words even more." "My poetry?" Now it was his time to blush. "Did you play it?" "Not yet." Seren decided to be bold, "People want to hear the same songs, Sappho, Pindar and the like. But... But maybe you can teach me how to play yours?" "No I... I burned them all." "Why would you do that?" "I wanted to focus better on my studies. Maybe I made the wrong call. Mousaios, the guy who just left? He said music is like medicine and can create harmony between opposites, that a musical education is helpful in the study of philosophy. Ah, I don't know. I don't want to bore you, flute girl." "You're not boring me, Plato. Please, tell me your thoughts!" And then, all of a sudden, a large drunken group walked into the room and joined the party, Dionysos among them. There was noise everywhere, and Plato leaned in very close and asked: "What do you say, Seiren. Shall we make our excuses and leave?"

to be continued...

Ready for lift-off

Espionage thriller Summer of Rockets is the first screen work from acclaimed writer/director Stephen Poliakoff to draw on his own life, set in 1958 at the height of the Cold War. He and executive producer Helen Flint talk to DQ about merging fact and fiction.

As a writer and director for the screen over the past four decades, Stephen Poliakoff has been behind work that has amassed numerous Bafta, Emmy, Golden Globe and Peabody awards. The playwright, who learned his craft in the theatre, counts series and films such as Perfect Strangers, The Lost Prince, Friends & Crocodiles, Gideon’s Daughter, Joe’s Palace and Capturing Mary, as well as recent dramas Dancing on the Edge and Close to the Enemy, among his extensive credits.

Yet for all his fascination with the past – among many examples, Dancing on the Edge trails a black jazz group in 1930s London and Close to the Enemy is set in the aftermath of the Second World War – his latest series is the first to draw on his own family and life experiences.

Written and directed by Poliakoff, Summer of Rockets is a semi-autobiographical drama set during 1958, a year that marked the height of the Cold War as fear and suspicion clashed with the start of the mobile revolution and the Space Race. It was also the last time debutants were presented to the Queen at Buckingham Palace and the year of the Notting Hill riots in West London.

Stephen Poliakoff, writer and director of Summer of Rockets, pictured during filming

Poliakoff says the fact it is partly based on his own life marks Summer of Rockets out as “significantly different” from anything he’s done for the screen before.

“My first real memories are from this time – I was five in 1958 – so I could feel, even as a small child, the apprehension in the air, the feel of nuclear war,” he says. “The Russians were the enemy and yet I was half-Russian, so that made me feel an extraordinary sense isolation as a child. I was also sent to boarding school, as we see in the story, and was the only Jewish boy there. That was why I was drawn to this time.

“There’s a lot of resonance for us now, as Russia again seems to be our enemy and there is also unfortunately, tragically, anti-Semitism in Europe and it’s coming back to the UK. Well, it never goes away. But above all, it was a sense of the absolute epicentre of the Cold War; the fact nobody could be trusted, especially if they were foreigners.”

Another parallel between that period and today, he notes, is the “humiliation” of the Suez Crisis in 1958, which left Britain “a laughing stock” on the world stage. “Things have happened since I’ve written the piece and we’ve become a laughing stock for very different reasons, with people harking back to a sense of our past glories, which also plays a part in the story,” Poliakoff says. “This is not a story about Brexit or a metaphor for it, but nevertheless there are resonances in the piece.”

Toby Stephens (Black Sails) stars as Samuel Petrukhin, a Russian Jewish émigré modelled on Poliakoff’s father Alexander, an inventor and designer of hearing aids, whose clients include former UK prime minister Winston Churchill. The series also focuses on Samuel’s wife, Miriam (Lucy Cohu), and their children, Hannah (Lily Sacofsky) and Sasha (Toby Woolf). In the show, having developed a new paging system for hospitals, Samuel is is approached by the UK’s domestic intelligence agency MI5 to demonstrate his work.

Set in 1958, the series stars Toby Stephens as Samuel, who is based on Poliakoff’s father

However, it’s not his inventions the agency (led by Mark Bonnar’s mysterious Field) is interested in but his fledging friendship with MP Richard Shaw (Linus Roache) and his wife Kathleen (Keeley Hawes), who also introduce him to Lord Arthur Wellington (Timothy Spall). As Samuel’s life becomes intertwined with his mission, he is left to question how far he is willing to let things unravel for his cause and who he can trust.

It was Poliakoff’s discovery that his father had been suspected of bugging Churchill’s hearing aid, a revelation he first heard when a journalist contacted him about newly released government papers in 2007, that sparked the story behind Summer of Rockets,

“It took me a long time to think about writing it because it meant revisiting my youth and a very traumatic time at boarding school,” he says. “I also tend to write slightly away from my immediate family experience because I find it easier to invent like that. But, after quite a considerable while, because the story kept haunting me, I broached it to the BBC.”

His father’s work, he explains, is truthfully reflected in the story by his hearing aids business, the deaf workers he employs in the factory and his invention of the paging system, which he created for St Thomas’ Hospital in London.

“But I always saw that as a jumping-off point for Keeley’s side of the story,” Poliakoff continues. “My father was besotted with everything English; he was a real anglophile. He was a Russian Jew but he wanted to be an English gentleman, so there’s the story of him being involved in this English upper-class family who have their own darkness and trauma hidden away in a magnificent house. They have charm and grace, they entertain people, but this covers a deep unhappiness.

“My father would have loved to have been entertained in such a house, so that was what led me from that jumping-off point for the fictitious side of the story, but it’s based on the sort of things my father loved and was attracted to by English life and aspired to. The story curve shows Samuel learning that he doesn’t want to be the perfect English gentleman.”

Bodyguard and The Durrells star Keeley Hawes plays Samuel’s wife,  Miriam Richard’s wife, Kathleen

Through the first episode, the story is laid bare against the backdrop of rockets being launched and rising anxiety over what might lie ahead, coupled with the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder that stem from the still-raw fallout of the Second World War. Samuel’s technological achievements also shine a light on how industry was set to move forward rapidly over the next decade.

“When you have six hours of television drama, it’s a big canvas. The joy of longform is that you can build a complex world and you can delve deeper into character than you can in a two-hour movie,” Poliakoff says. “It’s great to try to be ambitious when you’re given that length of screen time.”

Helen Flint, MD of Little Island Productions and Poliakoff’s long-time producing partner, admits the writer’s outlines need very little development as they are often fully formed, “very detailed and very ambitious” by the time she becomes involved.

“The thing is to identify where and how you’re actually going to make it happen,” she says. “Both of us have been around far too long. Therefore, between us and the heads of department, we can work out how to put this on the screen, which is our craft.”

With all of Poliakoff’s work filmed on location, the first task on Summer of Rockets was to find the house belonging to Richard and Kathleen Shaw, which is a constant presence during all six episodes. They eventually settled on Benington Lordship, a grand setting close to Stevenage, 35 miles north of London, which is notable for the Norman keep adjoining the 17th century house and expansive gardens.

Catastrophe’s Mark Bonnar plays the head of MI5

“The other important thing was when to film it, because getting lucky with sunshine in this country is not a given – so the schedule is everything,” Flint says.

Finding London streets that could double for the time period also proved problematic, with the slums of Notting Hill in 1958 far removed from the affluent neighbourhood it is today. Another set piece saw a queue of 1950s cars lined up along The Mall, leading to Buckingham Palace, which was filmed early in the morning to avoid the crowds of tourists usually occupying the area.

“It takes a huge amount of work, more work than anybody would imagine, weeks and weeks, and then huge amounts in post-production just to paint out silly lines and stuff like that,” Flint says of filming in London. “After that, it’s all of the countryside, the driving [scenes] and the minutiae. But because we’ve got a cast that is working all the time, we have to try to jigsaw them all in, which is very complicated at certain points. Once you have those actors, the schedule is dictated by that. Then other problems come to the fore because if they’re not available, you can’t do the locations. London exteriors are the hardest, and then piecing it together is a massive jigsaw.”

In some cases, however, the reality on which some of the series is based was too extreme to be dramatised. Poliakoff decided to tone down scenes where Sasha is at boarding school, as his own experiences at school were too “draconian” to be depicted exactly as he remembered.

Summer of Rockets debuts on BBC2 tomorrow

“When I started writing it, I realised it had to be more interesting and more inventive than the actual thing I experienced, which in reality was relentlessly grim,” he says. “A little bit of that was fine, but I didn’t think an audience would stand for that being repeated in each scene. So, oddly enough, the bit that was closest to reality was the most difficult to write.”

The series sees Poliakoff reunited with Stephens, who starred in his 2001 family reunion drama Perfect Strangers, while this was his first time working with Hawes despite having known her since she was just 19. “She starred in my wife Sandy Welch’s adaptation of Our Mutual Friend 20 years ago,” he recalls of the actor, who has recently starred in Line of Duty, The Durrells and Bodyguard. “I’ve known her for some time and we’ve always wanted to work together. She’s phenomenal in her role, which is a really very juicy role, so I’m thrilled. I think she gives one of her greatest performances.”

Following Summer of Rockets’ launch on UK pubcaster BBC2 tomorrow, all six episodes will be made available on the pubcaster’s VoD platform iPlayer. The drama is distributed internationally by BBC Studios. “‘Bingeable’ is not the prettiest word but, actually, I think my work was born to be binged,” Poliakoff notes. “People over the years have always told me they’ve sat down to watch something like Perfect Strangers, which is only four hours long. They tend to watch the first part and then they’re there four hours later.

“So I very much hope the story has that effect. It does have quite a powerful story that gathers and evolves and changes. It’s great for people to watch it in a linear way or in an immersive way. Either way, I hope people will really get into it.” - Michael Pickard (Drama Quarterly)

♡

Real Beauty 

Jeankasa. Celebrity AU. 

6412 words. 

He’s always unsure whether if it’s good or bad news when he’s told to come into Mr. Smith’s office. While Jean’s sure his work is decent enough to prevent him from getting let go (or, you know, fired) from the company, there’s always something about the CEO’s office that makes him uncertain. The last time he had been called up it had been about his debut as the head photographer for Sina, the biggest beauty and lifestyle magazine in the entertainment business. He had received a pat on the back for his work and a rare smile from the enigmatic Mr. Smith, but that had been months ago and Jean’s not sure if his boss holds him in such high regard now.

“Sir? It’s Jean Kirstein from photography,” Jean says, knocking on the door with a quick rap of his knuckles.

The room is beautiful in an untouchably perfect way. Jean’s afraid of even breathing in here, but Mr. Smith tells him to come in and sit down across his desk.

Mr. Smith flips through an old edition of Sina, an unfathomable expression on his face. As Jean watches him, he thinks that it’s a shame that his boss had never become a model or some other sort of Hollywood star at some point in his life. He has the air of an old Hollywood god, someone who knew everyone and everything that went on in the entertainment business, and perhaps it’s because he does. Mr. Smith has an impeccable eye for what people want to see even before it’s a faint idea in their mind, and Jean admires him for it. At the same time, it scares the absolute shit out of him and he’s not sure how much longer he can sit in the same room as his boss before he cracks under the stress of not knowing.

“You said you wanted to see me, sir,” Jean says, resisting the urge to tug nervously at his sleeves.

Mr. Smith finally looks up as if he’s remembered that Jean is also in the room. He doesn’t look pleased, but he doesn’t look unhappy either. Instead, he closes the magazine he was reading and slides it across his desk so that Jean can see it.

“Do you know what that is?” he asks Jean.

Swallowing nervously, Jean leans over to look at the cover. A beautiful blonde starlet stares back at him, an infectious smile on her face as she gazes at the reader. He remembers seeing pictures of the same girl, her eyes dead and her face in a permanent frown. It was only after she had rejected her stage name Christa, the one she had since she was a child, and reinvented herself into her true self that she was able to smile like this. Everyone had believed she was going to flop after making her debut as a singer, tossing away her acting career as if it was nothing, but even Jean noticed that her smiles were more authentic in her paparazzi photos and her actions more genuine instead of planned and fabricated like they were when she was just an actress. He had been surprised when Mr. Smith called him in to take pictures for this girl in Sina’s next edition. He was even more surprised when he meets the girl as she extends her hand and introduces herself as Historia. Her smile was even more brilliant in person and it was during that first meeting that Jean knew she was going to be an even bigger star than she already was, and he was right.

Her first album sold one million physical copies within its first week, a feat that’s unheard of in this day and age. She’s currently going on her stadium tour and, the last time Jean checked, nearly all of the venues had sold out. Historia had sent him flowers just the other week to thank him for working with her on the Sina shoot, writing on the note that she couldn’t have gotten this sort of recognition without him. Jean’s never thought that his photos could ever make such an impact and he’s half sure that most of Historia’s success comes from her own hard work and talent, but he’s happy to be remembered by someone like her.

Clearing his throat, Jean replies, “Of course. Historia Reiss. My first piece as the head photographer. How could I forget? She was wonderful to work with.”

“Hm.” He’s never sure with Mr. Smith’s answers. Sometimes he’d rather have a negative response instead of all the ambiguously neutral reactions he’s received. “Many people were impressed with it, myself included. But one person in particular called and said they were interested in working with you after seeing Historia’s photos. An Ackerman. Mikasa Ackerman, to be precise. You know her, of course?”

Is there anyone who hasn’t heard the name “Ackerman” sometime in their life? The Ackerman family is a family of every type of celebrity anyone could ever imagine – models, singers, songwriters, actors, you name it. They were a big name when Jean was a child and they still are now. He’s sure stars were invented when the Ackerman family came into existence, but they’ve dimmed since their ascension. After multiple scandals – stories about cheating, lies, drugs, all the bad things that came with being a celebrity – began to plague them and the family began to fade out, disappearing from the public and only reminisced by older stars and fans like they were legends instead of people who were still living and breathing today.

One of the Ackermans is a girl named Mikasa, a rising starlet that was a model-turned-actress. Jean remembered many people admiring her beauty and quiet nature before they all turned on her unexpectedly for becoming involved with another star: Eren Jaeger, lead singer of band Wings of Freedom. Jean can’t recall if they were ever really involved or not, but he remembers the backlash she received from fans on social media. All her accounts were bombarded with messages harassing her to leave the musician alone, that she was no good for him, that she was a dirty slut for even thinking she could get near him.

That wasn’t even the worst of it though. It seemed to get worse every day. Despite being critically acclaimed in the few roles she had in movies, people would find a reason to despise her.

There were fake nudes leaked of her, accusations of incest with her cousin who happened to be another popular celebrity, and even death threats targeted at her and her family. The media was no better either, poking and prodding her for details about every scandalous affair she was accused of despite her obvious discomfort about talking about such topics. The paparazzi and news media outlets, hungry for anything that had to do with her, would chase her down, invading her privacy just to take a photo of her no matter how crappy it turned out. It was no wonder that she began to disappear from the media along with the rest of her family. There were jokes about her falling off the face of the earth, and sometimes Jean believed she might never have existed at all. But it seems she is still here.

“I know of her,” Jean says instead. He might know many things about her, but he can never say he knows her. He’s sure many of the rumors that swirl about her are fake anyhow.

Mr. Smith sits back in his chair, his fingers steepled. “She says she’s considering coming back into the spotlight after her long hiatus. She read Miss Reiss’ article in our magazine when it came out and said she enjoyed your work,” he tells Jean. “She thinks you’re talented, that you can capture a person’s true essence with your camera. Your work, she said, is ‘beautiful.’”

Beautiful. Jean mouths the word, not quite believing that Mikasa Ackerman had used it to describe his photos. He clears his throat. “And this is her first magazine interview since her hiatus?”

“Correct,” Mr. Smith says. There’s a rare smile on his face again. “It would be foolish of us not to work with her, especially since she’s the one who came to us. Wouldn’t you think so, Mr. Kirstein?”

“Absolutely, I’d love to work with her!” Jean says immediately. One would be a fool to disagree with Mr. Smith. There’s a reason why he’s been in this business for so long. “I won’t disappoint you, sir.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” Mr. Smith says, but he goes back to the paperwork on his desk, not even bothering to send Jean out on his way.

Jean mumbles a clumsy goodbye that he’s sure his boss doesn’t hear, scurrying out of the office as quickly as possible. It’s silly, but he breathes more easily once he’s out of that room.

Once he gets back into his own office, he scrolls through the internet for pictures of Mikasa Ackerman. As he remembers, she’s beautiful. It’s a shame that the world demanded that she hide herself away.

He’s a bundle of nerves the day of the shoot. He doesn’t know what to expect. In interviews and talk shows, Mikasa had always been very reserved, a perfect lady, but there are stars that act differently behind the scenes. He’s tried contacting other beauticians and photographers that worked with her in the past, but they don’t really say much about her besides the fact that she’s stunningly beautiful as if he can’t already see that for himself. It also doesn’t help that she’s flown under the radar for the past couple of years. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised though. She had wanted to disappear, and she had done a successful job of it.

He stumbles into the room, disgruntled because he didn’t get the chance to talk to the hairdresser or makeup artist that worked on Miss Ackerman. They had merely rushed into his room, told him that Mikasa was ready for him, and disappeared. He had tried calling their name, running after them, but they had told him that she wasn’t anything special and that he would probably need luck to get anything out of her because she sure as hell isn’t sociable.

So he pastes on his professional smile and gets ready to be as civil as he can be. He prepares himself for stilted conversations with a brick wall, but once he sets eyes on her, he forgets everything.

Mikasa Ackerman, one of the mysterious Hollywood legends that disappeared out of the blue, is suddenly there in his studio and she looks magnificent in this brilliant red dress with its billowing layers of skirts and sparkles that Jean would think too extravagant on anyone else, but it looks perfect on her. When she hears his footsteps coming towards him, she looks at him with a cautious expression, a little lost and a little confused as if she doesn’t know how she arrived in such a place, but she gets up, holding onto her skirts, and walks to him. No, she doesn’t walk. It’s like she’s floating all the way towards him, gliding across the floor to him, and she extends a hand out to him. Her hand is so white and pretty that he thinks it must be made of porcelain, but her grip tells him that she’s made of something much stronger.

“You’re Jean Kirstein?” she asks, looking up at him through her thick black lashes. Her gray eyes aren’t cold; they’re cool, careful, cautious, and it makes him wonder why she had come in the first place. “Your piece with Historia…it was very beautiful. I spoke with her after I saw that issue and she told me that you have a natural eye for beautiful things.”

It doesn’t seem quite real, him talking to her like this. He’s surprised that her voice is so soft, delicate, and can’t believe that she’s said his name with those lips. When he had begun working at Sina, he had understood that there’d be a chance he’d speak with big celebrities, but Mikasa Ackerman isn’t like any of the actresses or Hollywood stars he’s met. She’s ethereal, some type of heavenly entity than one from this world.

He manages to stammer, “Thank you, Miss Ackerman. It’s an honor to work with you.”

She flashes him a wary smile, one he recognizes. It’s so different from the one she wore early in her career – beautiful, vibrant, genuine. This one is brief, forced, and polite. It’s the smile he’s seen in all the photos she’s been in before she completely disappeared, and he wonders if she even remembers the last time she smiled, really smiled.

Realizing that he’s been shaking her hand for a while, Jean clears his throat and guides her to the set where the lights are blinding. He hovers around her nervously, not quite sure how to speak with her. “This is where we’ll be working today. I’ll be taking a couple of shots – it’ll probably last until late this afternoon depending on whether or not you like the photos – but I understand you want this done in a day –“

“Will I have to look at the camera?” she asks him suddenly. Her eyes are cast downward, avoiding the bright light. Gone is the smile and it has been replaced with a frown. It worries him for a second before he sees that it is not one of displeasure, but one filled with worry. He’s sure that she’s done many shoots like this in the past, but perhaps she’s forgotten what they were like or she had never gotten used to them because she’s chewing so nervously on her lip that he’s afraid she’ll ruin her lipstick. “I know it’s strange but…would it be alright if I didn’t look at the camera?”

He’s about to open his mouth, confused and wanting to ask her why she would agree to a photo shoot even though she was unwilling to look at the camera, but he realizes the question is insensitive.

She’s been surrounded by cameras her entire life. Before she had even stepped foot on the red carpet, made her debut as a star, before she could even walk, she had been followed and harassed by the media and paparazzi. She’s been stared at and hunted down like a rare animal. She’s probably had enough of cameras and the spotlight to last the rest of her life. She might be returning to that life, but he can see that she’s reluctant to do so, so he might as well make it as easy as possible for her.

“No, not at all,” he finally says. He looks at her again, already thinking about how he wants to position her for this particular shot, and stumbles backward towards his camera, nearly stumbling over a wire lying on the ground because he isn’t looking. He sees that Mikasa Ackerman is looking at him, startled, but he waves his hand to tell her that he’s fine. “It’s alright. I do that all the time. Just sit down on that white box over there and we’ll get started.”

“Okay,” she says hesitantly, but she does what she’s told. The way she sits on the white box is stiff, more like she’s a robot than an actual human being. He remembers this too from the last photoshoots she’s done – her blank stare at the camera, her empty smile, her mechanical poses. She wears that same fake smile that she had when she first greeted him, and he wonders if he’ll even be able to get one photo of her smiling genuinely.

He remembers not to frown. If this is difficult for her, he doesn’t want to agitate her any further by pointing out things she’s doing wrong. It’s not as if she’s doing this on purpose, he’s sure. So he looks up from the lens and tells her, “If you don’t want to smile, don’t. You don’t even have to face the camera if you don’t want to.”

“Won’t that be strange?” she asks, but she turns away from the camera, looking to the right where the interns are flitting about to grab donuts and coffee and other things that the beauticians and makeup artists on standby are demanding.

“Not at all,” he replies, returning to look at her through the lens.

She doesn’t look as mechanical as she did when she had first sat down. It was probably the fault of the camera all along. He doesn’t blame her. His looks particularly intimidating, all black with his large lens and loud shutter noise. Looking away seems to ease her nerves somewhat though, and he hopes that he’ll be able to capture her more natural expressions before the shoot ends.

“What’d you do during your time off, Miss Ackerman?” he asks, still looking through the lens. He’s probably not the best conversationalist around – and he gets the feeling that Mikasa doesn’t talk very much either – but he doesn’t know how else to get her to become more comfortable. “Did you travel anywhere? Perhaps take up a hobby like scuba diving or hiking?”

She doesn’t answer for a while, perhaps surprised that he’s trying to strike up a conversation with her. At first, he’s afraid that she’ll just ignore him, not wanting to talk to him at all, but she finally replies, “I went to Europe with my cousin for a bit. It was very beautiful although the weather was dreary. I traveled to Japan as well to visit family members and stayed there for quite a while. The atmosphere there can be quite peaceful, and it made me feel at home.”

Talking seems to be working, so Jean decides to forget about his shoot, wanting to talk to her enough so that she feels comfortable taking pictures. Maybe he won’t get her to look at the camera, but perhaps he’ll get shots where she’s more relaxed and willing. Leaning against the camera, something he’s not supposed to do because the equipment is expensive but something he does anyway because the tripod it balances on is rather sturdy, Jean asks, “Japan, huh? I’ve never been there before, but I hear it’s beautiful in the spring. Do your folks live in the countryside?”

“They live in the Kyoto Prefecture,” Mikasa answers. She looks as if she’s remembering something pleasant. It’s not quite a smile on her face, but it’s a hint of one. “It’s magnificent in the spring when the cherry blossoms bloom. You should go visit if you ever have the time. If not Kyoto, then perhaps some other place in Japan. Tokyo or Osaka, maybe.”

“Maybe,” laughs Jean. Ah, if his work schedule ever allowed for it, although he could look into working for one of Sina’s other divisions if he really wanted a change of setting. “Would I like the food there?”

She sits still as a statue, and he thinks now would be a good time to snap a photo, but he doesn’t want her to stop talking. She’s lifted one of her eyebrows up. “Are you a picky eater?”

“A bit,” he admits, a sheepish grin on his face. “Is that bad?”

She shrugs. “There’s quite a bit of seafood, but there’s a lot of other things too. I’m sure you’ll be fine if you ever decide to go. I think you’d like it there since you like beautiful things.”

There’s the smile that he’s been looking for – an incomplete smile but the closest he’s gotten so far to her real smile. It’s similar to her old one – the bright and smiling one that she had when she had first started out before the world began to turn on her. Did she manage to find it after all this time?

He wants to run to his camera right now and snap the photo quickly before it disappears, but he finds that his finger hovers just above the button. It stays there for a while, but he finds he cannot bring himself to take the picture.

Lifting his head once more from the lens, he asks, “Would it be alright if I took the picture now? You can just stay as you are – you don’t even have to move – and I could just take it if, er, that would be fine with you.”

Mikasa stays there, unmoving, before finally saying, “Please take the photo then.”

He’s afraid that her smile would have faltered by the time the shutter clicks, but he reviews the photo and it’s still there. He can’t quite believe it – how perfectly her hair falls into place, how hesitant but beautiful her smile is, or how elegant she looks as she gazes off into space – and he looks up at her, opening his mouth to ask her another question, this time about how settling back in Shiganshina was for her.

That’s what they do for the majority of the shoot – he asks her questions and she answers, letting her guard down slowly and becoming more natural, and he asks every time before he takes a photo. It takes a much longer time than normal. Most of the interns and those standing around leave despite their earlier excitement at seeing one of the elusive Ackermans. Jean doesn’t mind taking a long time if that’s what it takes. Besides, talking to her is actually quite pleasant. She’s kinder than he thought she would be and very interesting, telling him about all the places she’s traveled and the things she’s seen during her time off. Before he knows it, he has dozens of photos of her to pick and choose from.

Jean looks them over while Mikasa is in the changing room, flipping through them one by one. She doesn’t look at the camera in any of them, but she’s beautiful all the same. He’s seen shoots with celebrities in extravagant dresses or suits, smiling with their pasted-on smiles and empty beauty. Mikasa isn’t like that in any of these photos.

A picture is worth a thousand words, yes, but there aren’t enough words in the world to describe her ineffable beauty. To capture her in a frame, to freeze her, should be a crime because it does not allow the viewer to see the elegance with which she holds up her head or the angelic atmosphere about her. True, it’s easy to see her wide cheekbones, her sculpted brows, and the effortless way that her hair falls to shape her face, but it’s still not enough if the viewer cannot witness her careful, cautious gaze as her eyes look across the room or even the grace she has in even the smallest of movements. It makes him want to delete all these photos at once because, while they’re stunning, they’re not enough.

“Are you alright?” a voice asks, and he looks up to see Mikasa looking down at him. She’s finally out of the fancy designer dresses she was made to wear for the shoot, clad in a simple dress with a black top and colorful patterned skirt instead. It’s much simpler and more casual than anything he thought she’d wear, but it’s a good look for her. It’s a nice change from the overly formal things he’s seen her wear on the red carpet. “Are we going to pick the photos now?”

“It’s fine. It’s better if we take a break from all this. We’ve been taking these photos for hours after all,” he says. Jean stands up, turning the camera off quickly so that she can’t look at it. In truth, he doesn’t want her to look at them. He doesn’t want her to be disappointed that the photos aren’t perfect; they’re as perfect as he can make them, but it’s still not good enough to satisfy him and he’s afraid she’ll feel the same way. It’s not a lie that he thinks they should take a break though. While he knows Mikasa’s a professional, she’s been away from doing photo shoots and other things typical of her career, so he’s sure she’s tired after all this. “Want to go out to the balcony? The city looks pretty amazing around this time.”

There’s that smile again. Each time she smiles, it looks a little more brilliant than the last. He’d snap a picture right now if he hadn’t already turned off his camera.

“I’d love to see it,” she says.

He leads her to the balcony that overlooks the city. While he sometimes tires of living in the bustling city and its cramped quarters, working in a towering skyscraper is one of the perks of living in a big city. He sometimes takes a breather here after particularly bad shoots with moody starlets who believe they’ve already made it big or grumpy actors who aren’t quite happy with how their photos came out. It’s high enough up to make everyone in the city look like ants as they drive away in their toy vehicles through the crowded streets. Mikasa seems to like the view too because she has such a serene smile on her face.

And it’s that one, Jean realizes as he stares at her wide-eyed. It’s that smile that he’s been chasing all day, the smile he hasn’t managed to see until now. Fumbling for his phone, he curses as he almost drops it, but he taps in his password before looking at her desperately, breathlessly.

“Can I take a photo of you right now?” he asks. He’s already tapped on the camera app, opening it up, but he forces himself to point the phone downwards until she gives her consent. “It’s not for the shoot, but you just look so perfect right now. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to say yes, but I just want you to see it. You don’t even have to look at the camera either. You can just look somewhere else if you want.”

“Yes.”

He’s babbling so hard that he almost doesn’t hear her. Pausing for a second, sure that he’s just imagining it in his crazed desperation, he asks, “What did you say?”

She purses her lips a little bit, amused, but the smile returns to her face. “I said yes,” she says again. The wind is blowing her hair every which way, so she tucks a lock of it behind her ear so that it doesn’t fly into her face. “I’d like to see it afterward.”

Blinking because he still can’t quite believe his ears, Jean shakes his head to snap out of it and raises his phone, not wanting to lose this moment. It only takes a second to snap the photo, and he shows it to her immediately afterward. He lets her hold his phone in her hands, looking at her carefully as she inspects the picture.

Looking at it over her shoulder, he knows that this picture is a lot messier than the ones he had shot in the studio. Her hair is in disarray and her clothes are so much plainer than the ones she had worn for the shoot. Still, he thinks it’s the best shot they’ve taken today because none of those photos has this smile. It’s not the one he had seen in the earlier days of her career. This smile is not as wide or carefree, but it has another sort of happiness to it. A fearless happiness, a brave smile that dared to exist even though the rest of the world tried to take it away.

She’s silent for a moment as she observes the photo, touching her own face as if she can’t believe that she’s the same person in the photo. At first, he thinks she hates it because she doesn’t say a word, but Mikasa turns to him suddenly, thrusting the phone back into his hands and asking, “Would it be okay if you sent it to me?”

“Sent it to you?” Jean asks, startled. He clumsily taps away at the keys, opening up his e-mail so that he can compose a swift letter to her agent with the attached photo. He’s tapping on all the wrong keys though and he curses under his breath. “I’ll send it to your agent if that’s okay. If not, I can send it to your e-mail too-“

“No,” she interrupts him, putting a hand on his wrist. She looks at him, biting her lip again in that nervous way she has. “You can just send it to me. I’ll give you my phone number. I just…I didn’t know I could look like that.”

He never thought he’d ever head the photoshoot for an Ackerman. Getting the phone number of one just makes this seem like it’s all a dream, but he gives her his phone so she can tap in her phone number and hit “send” so she can see what she really looks like.

“Thank you,” she says, beaming at her phone once she receives the photo. There’s that same brilliant smile on her face. He can only hope that it doesn’t fade away when she finally makes her return.

They go back to the studio after that and pick out her photos. Out of the many dozens that he’s shot, she picks out ten, but he e-mails the rest of the photos to her agent in case she changes her mind. She isn’t smiling in any of them; the closest she comes to smiling is the ghost of a smile she had when talking about her trips to Japan and Europe. It’s certainly pretty, Jean thinks, but he thinks even those who pick up the next issue of Sina won’t fully appreciate her beauty. They didn’t before and there’s a part of him that worries that she’ll be taken for granted again, beaten down, and thrown away.

“Thank you again, Jean. It was lovely working with you,” Mikasa says, extending her hand before she leaves.

“Likewise. Take care, Miss Ackerman,” he says, and he takes her hand in hers.

When she grips his hand, shaking it firmly, he thinks that he shouldn’t worry at all. She’s stronger than anyone gives her credit for.

Jean doesn’t expect to be called to Mr. Smith’s office so soon after the photo shoot. The last time he had headed a photoshoot, he just sent in the photos to be touched up slightly, got them approved, and then received a copy of the magazine as soon as it was published. He had thought it would work the same way this time, but the call from Mr. Smith’s secretary said that his boss wanted to speak with him about something.

Like he did the last time he had come to Mr. Smith’s office, Jean rapped his knuckles on the door nervously and said, “Sir? Jean Kirstein from the photography department. You said you wanted to see me about something.”

“Come in.”

When Jean walks in, he sees Mr. Smith sitting at his desk. A manila folder sits on his desk, opened. The contents are in Mr. Smith’s hand – Mikasa Ackerman’s photos. His boss’ face is expressionless as it flips through the many photos, both the ones that were chosen and the ones that were rejected. After Jean had been seated for a while, Mr. Smith finally looked up, giving Jean his full attention.

“So, Jean,” Mr. Smith says, putting the photos down. Jean thinks he liked it better when Mr. Smith would only half pay attention to him. The intense stare of his cool blue eyes makes Jean want to fidget in his chair. “How did the shoot with Miss Ackerman go last week?”

“Er, it went well, I think,” Jean answers. He hates that he tacked on the “I think,” but talking to Mr. Smith always makes him feel so unsure about himself. “She was charming to work with and seemed pleased with how the photos came out.”

“Her agent called earlier this morning. They want to pull her out of this edition,” Mr. Smith says. He looks at Jean carefully.

“Excuse me?” Shocked isn’t even the right word for what Jean feels. It feels a little like betrayal, like she had come over and ripped his heart out even though he had known that her return to the spotlight was a tentative thing. Still, she had seemed so ready at the end of the day. She had helped him pick the photos, she had shaken his hand, she had told him that it was lovely working with him. Why then would she decide against being featured in the magazine after having done the photoshoot?

But Mr. Smith seems to already be done talking about it. He’s picking up the photos off his desk, stacking them up, and putting them back in the manila folder. “Her agent says that she’s given it more thought, and Miss Ackerman believes she isn’t ready just yet to return to the spotlight.”

“I see.” Jean numbly takes the folder that Mr. Smith hands him. It really was too good to be true – the photoshoot, those conversations between photos, that last picture on the balcony. In the end, all his work – his photos and his words – meant nothing.

Mr. Smith must have excused him at some point because Jean stands up to leave and is heading towards the door, his hand hovering on the doorknob, when his boss calls him one last time.

“Jean,” Mr. Smith says. When Jean turns around, Mr. Smith is looking right at him again with those piercing blue eyes. “You did great work. Those photos were incredible. The reason why she decided not to do this in the end had nothing to do with you, I’m sure. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Praise from his boss is rare, but it still doesn’t make him feel better. Still, Jean feigns a smile at Mr. Smith and mutters a quick “thank you” before disappearing to his office.

---

What had he done wrong? Was it letting her not look at the camera? Was it because he had been to personal in asking her questions? Or was it perhaps that last photo on the balcony? Jean doesn’t which it is, and he nearly drives himself mad thinking about all the possibilities that caused this to happen. He stares at the printed photos, scrutinizing them closely, but he doesn’t quite know what’s wrong with them.

It’s hurting his eyes to look at them for so long, so he drops them down on his desk and rubs his tired eyes.

After he thinks about it for a while, this was bound to happen. He’s far from experienced and the shoot with Historia Reiss was just a stroke of luck. To think he would find the same success with an Ackerman was pretentious of him. Of course, she would pretend to like them and then quickly change her mind as soon as she was far enough away. He would have done the same thing. If Mr. Smith ever allows him to stand behind a camera again, Jean would be lucky.

His phone rings and Jean picks it up without looking at the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Jean Kirstein?” says the person on the other end. It’s a female voice, soft and delicate. It sounds so familiar, but Jean doesn’t dare to think about who it might be. It would be too good to be true.

“This is he,” he says cautiously.

“This is Mikasa Ackerman,” the speaker says.

“Mikasa?”

He can hear her smiling on the other end, can imagine it without having to look at her, and he wishes he had a camera with him right now so he could run over and capture it.

“That’s the first time you’ve called me by my first name,” she laughs. Jean realizes that he’s never heard her laugh before. It’s a short laugh, like a burst of happiness, but it’s beautiful like the rest of her.

“Yeah, I just…I’m really surprised that you called,” he says, laughing himself. He’s still confused and hurt, but hearing her voice makes him feel better. Perhaps he had overthought it. Maybe it really does have nothing to do with him.

“It’s fine,” she assures him. There’s a pause on her end and she finally says, “I’m sorry I changed my mind after everything. The pictures were amazing. I showed them to my agent and he said they were the best he’s seen in a while.”

Jean wants to ask her but wonders if he should. He has a right to know though. After all, he had been the ones to take the pictures in the first place. He’s not even upset about his photos not being featured on the front page. She had just seemed so happy that day and he wants to know what changed her mind. So he asks.

“I guess it’s because…it’s been a while since anyone has ever really seen me, the real me,” Mikasa says. He wonders if she’s chewing her lip in that way she does when she’s nervous. “And I really want people to see me in the same way that you do, but I’m not sure I want them to just yet. For now…I think I’m just satisfied if you can see me that way.”

The way she says that, so earnestly, makes him blush even though he’s sure she’s just being kind. But her explanation makes perfect sense to him. After being hurt by the world before, it’s not like she could return so easily. The fact that she had even thought to return at all is amazing to him.

“Well,” Jean says, no longer feeling upset. Rather, he feels hopeful that this isn’t the end – for her, for him, and for the two of them both working together. “The world better be ready when they see the real you.”

She laughs again and he closes his eyes, soaking in the sound of her happiness. “Yeah…I look forward to working with you again soon, Jean.”

“Likewise…Mikasa.” He sets down his phone once the call has ended and leans back in his chair.

The world isn’t going to be ready when they meet her again. That’s fine, Jean thinks as he opens up the photo of her he had taken on his phone. She smiles brilliantly back him, radiant as the sun. They’ll be blown away when they see Mikasa next, her in all her real beauty.

10 Favorite Game/Anime/Movie Characters

Tagged by: @a-super-evil-cat-who-murders (thanks!!! It was fun!)

The Rules: Name your top 10 favorite characters from 10 different fandoms, then tag 10 different people.

Well I’ve already done a tag for FEMALE CHARACTERS so I’ll leave this in case you wanna check it. For not repeating myself, I’ll do this time just male characters.

I’ll tag: @luluvonv @luthienamell @adayka @hydraballista @anyathebloodshell @anentireamazon @jar-cup @kim-v-croft  @autumn-star93 @lady-trent

Of course don’t feel obliged to do this. And yes my characters come in not a particular order!

1. Haplo the Patryn - The Death Gate Cycle (book series)

Posting an amazing fanart by Melusaaste because there’s not an official art that shows him so close-up, and honestly, this is the most accurate depiction of him I’ve ever seen. 

Haplo is the anti-hero and main character of The Death Gate Cycle series written by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman. Personal childhood hero (despite being an antihero himself), husbando and whatnot, until today he’s one of my fav characters ever, because through him I learnt the most perfect character development, from a cruel, merciless and amoral villain, to... well, not a hero if you think so, but to redeemed human being. 

“A 'why' is a dangerous thing... It challenges old, comfortable ways, forces people to think about that they do instead of just mindlessly doing it.” - Haplo in Dragon Wing, the first volume of the series.

2. Johan Liebheart - Monster

You don’t know what’s a villain until you meet this bastard. I am not an otaku or very enthusiastic of anime series, but Monster by Naoki Urasawa are probably the best manga/anime series ever written. And his villain, Johan Liberheart, one of the most twisted fucks ever written by an author.

Tortured, mentally ill, twisted, cruel, amoral, there’s no way to explain Johan. He experiences no character development and he has not a single redeeming quality, yet you just can’t let him go. An unforgettable character, not recommended for the weak and vulnerable.

There's nothing special about being born. Not a thing. Most of the universe is just death, nothing more. In this universe of ours, the birth of a new life on some corner of our planet is nothing but a tiny, insignificant flash. Death is a normal thing. So why live?

3. Geralt of Rivia - The Witcher (book/videogame series)

I’m so sorry I met this amazing character through The Witcher videogame series, because he existed already in the book series of the same name written by  Andrzej Sapkowski, and I really feel like posting this video because it perfectly sums up the spirit of the character.

Geralt is a witcher, a mutant specialist in killing demons and monsters for coin. He’s shaped like an anti-hero and despised by his society because of his nature and his mercenary job, but despite having everything for being just a rogue scoundrel, he manages to become a very rich character. Full of redeeming qualities despite his grey morals, Geralt struggles in a cruel Middle-Ages world to keep something human for himself, when everyone surrounding him tries to turn him in the heartless freak he was trained to be.

“People," Geralt turned his head, "like to invent monsters and monstrosities. Then they seem less monstrous themselves. When they get blind-drunk, cheat, steal, beat their wives, starve an old woman, when they kill a trapped fox with an axe or riddle the last existing unicorn with arrows, they like to think that the Bane entering cottages at daybreak is more monstrous than they are. They feel better then. They find it easier to live.” ― Andrzej Sapkowski, The Last Wish

4. Raistlin Majere - The Dragonlace (book series)

Again, I’ve to go back to a character created by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman (man, this people CAN write characters I tell you), this time for the Dragonlance series. These books are less original and brilliant than The Death Gate Cycle, but more popular and beloved because they are easier to read. And Raistlin Majere is probably the best character written for these series, being saved among them because of being, probably, the less cliché and the more complex of them all.

And again, anti-hero at times, redeemed hero at other times, tortured, twisted, cynic and cruel, but also able to show kindness and a human heart at times. Raistlin was born weak and sick and sacrificed everything (including his own health) for one sake: magic. And power. His only life desire is what will lead him to his own destruction.

"Of course this means a lot to me, Caramon. It means everything! I have worked and studied almost my entire life for this chance. What would you have me do - cast it aside because it is dangerous? Life is dangerous, Caramon. Just stepping out that door is dangerous! You cannot hide me from danger. Death floats in the air, creeps through the window, comes in with the hand-shake of a stranger. If we stop living because we fear death we have already died."

5. Tyrion Lannister (A Song of Ice and Ice/Game of Thrones series)

This little amazing piece of awesomeness needs no presentation. I am again sorry I met through the Game Of Thrones TV series and not A Song Of Ice And Fire books, but it was totally worth it because it’s one of the most well-written characters I’ve had the pleasure to meet, and I must say Peter Dinklage was born to play him.

What can I say? Tyrion is one of those characters who are worth living. A dwarf, deformed, ugly, with no physical or war skills, relying only in his extreme intelligence and wisdom and his political talent to survive, he’s one of the most strong inspirations one can find. Definitely go check him.

6. Kurtis Trent (Tomb Raider: The Angel of Darkness videogame)

I included Lara Croft in my female characters list, it would be absolutely unfair to forget Kurtis as he’s the other character that got my heart in TR series. Not gonna rant long about him here, because you already know my opinion. He was amazing. He deserved better. Ex-legionnaire, demon hunter and Lux Veritatis warrior, I’ve devoted all my fanfics to develop him as there was no chance for Core Design to do it so.

Fitting more in the role of a hero, I think he was also the perfect partner for Lara. His background is very well written and he had a lot of potential. The fact I will never see it doesn’t change anything. He deserves his place here.

"And I thought this would be one of my easy days." - Kurtis, The Sanitarium.

7. L Lawliet - Death Note (manga/anime series)

Again, I reinforce the statement that I’m not a fan of manga/anime series, but definitely Death Note is, together with Monster, one of those you should watch. And yes for everyone who loves Death Note, I’m a L fan. You always choose between L or Kira sides, and despite I’ve to recognize that Kira is a very complex, well written character, it’s L who gets my heart.

Supertalented, amoral, brilliant, extremely unpredictable and surprising, L is the first one of the agents that will try to catch Kira, the murderer who uses a Death Note to implant his particular justice world. L deserves your attention more than Kira, I presume. Or at least, it’s what I think.

“There are... many types of monsters in this world: Monsters who will not show themselves and who cause trouble; monsters who abduct children; monsters who devour dreams; monsters who suck blood, and... monsters who always tell lies. Lying monsters are a real nuisance. They are much more cunning than other monsters. They pose as humans even though they have no understanding of the human heart. They eat even though they've never experienced hunger. They study even though they have no interest in academics. They seek friendship even though they do not know how to love. If I were to encounter such a monster, I would likely be eaten by it. Because in truth, I am that monster.”

8. V - V for Vendetta (graphic novel/movie)

I know, easy to love him, right? Again I’m sad that I met this character through the movie and not the original graphic novel, though you can’t say a thing against Hugo Weaving’s magnificent delivery. I wish I could get my hands on the graphic novel, so I can know him better.

Anarchist, terrorist, idealist, V is the incarnation of the protest against dictatorship and opression in a dystopian England that has supressed all the rights and human freedom. If you don’tknow him, I strongly recommend at least the movie, for the inspiration this character delivers goes beyond that the mask that has trascended the movie itself to become a symbol of citizen fight.

9. Roger - American Dad (TV series)

Well technically he’s not a he, he’s rather an it, but whatever. Also he’s it’s a different trend in this post since I love him particularly because he’s funny and incarnates all the non-political correct you can expect from someone.

He also gives me, kinda, TR vibes. Roger is an alien who landed in Earth during Cold War and was rescued and sheltered at his home by Stan, a CIA agent who’s the main character of the series. Honestly I think Roger is the best of American Dad - a TV show which basically and mercilessly mocks every American value - because despite being an alien is absolutely, indecently human. I prefer him and this show much more than the overrated Family Guy.

10.  Dwight Schrute - The Office (TV series)

Last but not the least, the efficient, clever and adorable bastard hillbilly from The Office. I loved him from the very first moment he appeared. Yeah I know many people hate him or prefer the goofy boss of the handsome Jim but Dwight is really my spirit animal and speaks to me in so many levels. No more comment needed. He’s the best of the show to me.

Well this took forever, right? Sorry for the length of this post but now I’m free I wanted to give it some thought. I see again that I’ve a soft spot for grey morals, redeeming qualities, bad boys and complex characters. This is how it goes! ;)

Take the Fifth:

Summary:

After all that she's done for it, Quintessa will not allow Cybetron to be destroyed. Nor will she ever allow the great devourer to rise once more.

Even if the only way she sees that can ensure both of these things, requires the deaths of over 7 billion people

Link: AO3

Fic:

She made them.

She made them and was one of the first to be made.

The fifth.

Only a few like her even existed at the start. Those created by Primus himself, those who existed for a purpose: to ward off a great evil.

His brother. His opposite. The great devourer.

Unicron.

And they fulfilled that role.

One long, long battle filled with so much destruction left him decrepit. Not dead, not yet.

But defeated, left derelict and banished away for now.

It was then that she had time to think, as the rest of her siblings turned to their own ambitions.

During this battle against chaos himself, she'd witnessed so many civilisations as he'd been pushed back from one planet to the next.

People, not built for any purpose, but simply living their lives. Building their own civilisations and striving for greatness as one whole community.

So many wondrous civilisations like that.

So full of growing, thriving life.

And she wanted it.

She had nothing against any of her fellow Primes, not yet, not then, but they were so few.

Why did they have to be so few? They were powerful, they had a habitable planet in Cybertron that could house billions and yet they numbered only just over a dozen.

That could not stand. She would not let that stand.

Cybertronians would have their civilisation too.

She would not just be a Prime.

She would be the Prime of Life.

She would see her dream through.

First, it came time to practice. She would not let her own people be the test run.

A few words whispered in ears, Primes and aliens alike convinced that their own goals would be furthered by her own...just a few lies told.

Here and there.

It would be worth it in the end. When it was done.

They would thank her.

That's what she told herself as the first part of her plan came to fruition.

As she breathed life into a new race. Albeit one that was organic, not mechanical like her.

They named themselves and the planet they resided after her.

Her subjects.

It was then that her trouble started. Had she known then, been older then, wiser then, she might have been more careful.

But back then...well, back then she was Quintus Prime and everything was going perfectly in her mind. Why should she make any changes to her plan?

So she set about her task.

Leading Liege Maximo onto her side had been easy enough. Wouldn't like subjects to rule over, after all? Cybertronians were glorious, should they not take more steps to spread that glory? Wouldn't it be fun?

All he had to do, was to spread some half-truths here and forget to mention a few facts there, and it would be easy.

All he had to do, was exactly what he already did.

Alchemist and Solus were harder.

They did not have such lusts for power, anxious to be exploited.

But they did have one thing that could be used, in that they were far more like her than of their other siblings.

They loved to create too.

Craft magnificent inventions that would not be found anywhere else across the stars.

Would creating life not be another magnificent and yet also wholly benevolent challenge?

That appeal there, was what got her the Emberstone crafted.

An artefact that could breathe life into metal.

An artefact that, at some point, came to later be called the Allspark.

They questioned what she would do with it. Solus being especially insistent and Quintus knew that Alchemist would have been too, had he not spent so much time partying, overcharged, with aliens.

They knew that harvesting enough resources required to do what they wished could not be done to Cybertron, not without rendering it too barren to support the new life they aimed to create.

She told them not to worry. She had a solution and would sort the problem.

They called her too idealistic as she turned in private to her first creations.

They had been made by her and would obey her in this.

Would they not like mechanical subjects too, after all? Servants to help with tasks too dangerous for any organic to have to do.

Should they help her they will share in her power and rule alongside the Primes as was their right.

The deception was necessary.

While she may have created them, they were unruly.

They knew that as her progeny she had a soft spot for them, would not just wipe them out should they prove troublesome, and repeatedly they had tried to exploit that.

Should she let down her guard for even a moment they would gain the upper hand.

But again, she was a Prime and back then the idea of anyone gaining the upper-hand over her was preposterous.

So she had them set their best scientist into building the Seeds, away from the prying eyes of her people to help make her people. Then she sent of their best explorers to put them to use.

Not just any metal would do. She had a very specific ideal for how things should turn out.

Once her subjects had fulfilled their role and brought the desired metals to it, it was then a matter of making something of it.

A fraught process and also the specific point where they started unjustly turning against her.

Where did you get that metal Quintus?

That was none of any of their businesses. She didn't see any of them offering to help in retrieving it, so they had no right to ask of her now.

And besides, she hardly knew herself. Her subjects had been free to collect from wherever they saw fit. She didn't know the specifics and was as such hardly fit to answer whether any planets chosen were populated.

She was sure if there were, they'd recover eventually.

Life possessed a remarkable capacity to do just that.

But most of the Primes just weren't happy with that answer.

They still made use of the metal of course, worked away it and the Emberstone combined brought forth the first denizens of their new civilisation.

But they grumbled about it the whole time.

If we find evidence of something Quintus, you will suffer the consequences!

Hardly.

Liege stood to her defence. As did Megatronus.

Even Onyx took pity and advised against anything overtly harsh.

The rest knew they could not start something with her without causing a conflict.

A conflict they would not then risk having, for the results would surely be catastrophic.

And as far as they knew, this was then of it anyway.

They had their people, now it was time to govern.

Even then though, she would not risk being caught prepared, lest they change their minds.

She recruited her knights and in secret she also had her staff forged.

Knights to defend her, one for each prime, and the staff to stop everything she had built, everything that she had worked for and that she now deserved being ripped away.

Until it all was anyway.

Something she could scream and scream and scream about until that screaming caused her vocorder to shred.

If she just let herself, as would be so bitterly tempting were she weak.

It wasn't her fault, what she had banished for. It wasn't fair!

They may perhaps have been her subjects but she had not ordered the Quintessons to invade. She had not known they even planned to, or the devices they'd developed to turn her people into the drones she had once promised them.

They had been far, far cleverer than she had given them credit for.

She made them pay nonetheless. Used her staff and ripped away the world that she had once given them, using it to instead fuel and damage the wreckage that the Quintesson onslaught has wrought upon hers.

Quintessa for Cybertron.

And that, that act, had been the final straw.

It had been genocide, yes, there had been huge and indiscriminate casualties, yes, but the species were not all dead.

It had been but a warning.

A warning for the greater good.

A warning on exactly what would happen to those who tried to invade.

A warning against those who challenged a Prime's might.

A warning that she would issue as many times as it took until all enemies either learned or died.

For that, her own knights turned against her, taking her staff from her and running.

For that, before she'd been able to take any action against that treacherous waste of metal, her own family turned traitor on her for her alleged deceptions.

Her!

Banished her!

She refused to go down without a fight, but it was a fight that, in the end, she lost.

Was forced to leave the people and the home she loved so dearly for the crime of protecting it.

And later, when it was far, far too late she would find out the worse news she possibly could have.

Of how, in her absence...it fell.

First went down the Dynasty of Primes.

Betrayed much like she had been.

Those who had remained on Cybertron wiped out. Leaving only smatterings of offspring behind to carry forth their legacy.

A legacy which most of those smatterings did not even know what truly entailed.

And then...then it was the war.

The war which started and ended just about every other aspect of Cybertron that had survived the Dynasty's collapse.

From the civilisation to the very planet itself.

With it's last remnants still being thrown away over an over.

Thrown away, she would later find out, for Unicron.

She had finally found the location of the beast only to learn that Optimus Prime, progeny of Prima himself, was siding with saving him over Cybertron.

And so, for the first time in so many millennia after her banishment, she came home.

She came home, no longer baring the title Quintus Prime, but that of the planet which took it's name from it, before she left that place all but destroyed.

Baring it as a mark of both pride and a sign of what she was willing to do again.

She came home and she waited and she acted.

It seemed that while the Autobots were determined with their disgustingly single-minded pursuit to sacrifice all for evil incarnate, the Decepticons were much more agreeable to her goals.

They would help her stop him from ever getting the chance to wake up.

Then came the fabled Prime, and once he was under her control, back in line, it was just a matter of being able to retrieve her staff.

Then she could fix everything.

But the Autobots still refused to understand.

Refused in their stubbornness to sacrifice one planet, one, for the sake of not only their home, but so many others!

Should Unicron get the chance to fully wake up, should this "Earth" not be destroyed, then entire star systems would die before they even have the chance to realise what was happening.

Chances are, that they would not be able to stop him again.

He would kill everything!

And while she herself was not a stranger to genocide, when she did it, it was for a purpose.

Unicron did it simply to sate his own hunger.

How could the Autobots, knowing all that, still think it was her that needed to be stopped? Try slay her and not the beast?

Had she not teleported, she would have been dead and the rise of the great devourer rendered inevitable.

She was on his surface now, masked with the appearance of a human woman.

Alive and once again waiting.

If there was one thing her banishment had improved about her it was her patience.

He might know she was there now, might vaguely recognise her in his state of mostly-slumber, but for now he was still powerless to do anything about that.

She had time.

She would still have her way.

She knew how to kill him, after all.

The Autobots would not stop her.

And when they inevitably tried to, she would reek a great and terrible revenge upon them for what they have done.

For she would not allow Unicron or anyone who took his side to outlast the civilisation she'd fought to have even created.

For she would not allow Unicron or anyone who took his side to outlast Cybertron.

For she would not allow Unicron or anyone who took his side to outlast her.

“... there was never any doubt that he did not wish to see us in our entirety, or see us, in fact, in anything other than the magnificent roles he had invented for us: genis grains, corpore glabelliis, arte multiscius, et fortuna opulentus – smooth-cheeked, soft-skinned, well-educated, and rich.”

— Richard Papen (The Secret History)

Mereka beruntung sekali, pikirku seketika. Terkadang aku iri bukan main, berusaha menjauh sejauh-jauhnya sambil menutup mata rapat-rapat agar hatiku tidak begitu sakit dibuatnya. Bagaimana bisa aku tidak seperti mereka? Definisi paling tepat dari apa yang benakku sebut sebagai sosok sempurna. Bahkan dengan segala kekurangan sekalipun, mereka bagiku masihlah mempesona.

Mereka cantik sekali, pikirku selanjutnya. Terkadang aku begitu suka, berusaha mendekat sedekat-dekatnya sembari membuka mata lebar-lebar supaya barangkali kecantikannya dapat menular padaku meski sedikit saja. Cerah merekah kulitnya. Lembut bagai tuan putri suaranya. Cerdas luar biasa sorot matanya. Ah, andai saja.

Mereka tampan sekali, pikirku pada akhirnya. Terkadang aku dibuat jatuh cinta, mengagumi sedalam-dalamnya tanpa tahu dan peduli terhadap apa yang ada di bawah sana. Binar matanya kekanakan, bibirnya manis sekali tiap mengucap kata-kata. Rasanya aku betah berlama-lama mendengar celotehnya tentang semesta.

Dan kendati sebagian dari diriku terus saja berbisik, “Omong kosong! Coba lihat mereka seutuhnya, barulah kamu boleh berkomentar panjang lebar!”, aku tentu saja terang-terangan mengabaikannya. Waktuku terlalu berharga untuk mengamati dengan seksama masing-masing dari mereka. Egoku terlalu tinggi untuk berempati terhadap apa yang mereka klaim sebagai sepi dan duka. Kalaupun bisa, kurasa hanya kesedihan yang membuat mereka tampak makin indahlah yang akan kuberi secuil simpati terhadapnya.

Memang dasar manusia, suka-suka hatinya mau melihat orang lain bagaimana. Terserah pikirannya ingin mengimajinasikan orang lain seperti apa. Pada dasarnya kita hanya manusia biasa yang sok tahu akan segalanya tanpa benar-benar membuka mata, suka sekali menduga-duga.

What We Learned on the Set of Thor: Ragnarok: From Jack Kirby to Planet Hulk

[This post contains somewhat spoilery info, so if you don't want to know more than you already know, don't read below the cut!]

It was just about one year ago exactly that Fandango jetted out to Brisbane, Australia to tour the magnificent sets of Thor: Ragnarok, the third and possibly wildest standalone movie for the God of Thunder yet. You can read our guide to all the characters old and new here, but below is where we’ll answer some of the most pressing questions about the movie, its plot and production.

We last saw Thor (Chris Hemsworth) soaring off into the cosmos to investigate certain disturbances in the Force -- whoops, wrong Disney franchise. Actually, at the end of Avengers: Age of Ultron, he was going to try to find out why more of the Infinity Stones were suddenly surfacing and who was behind it. In Thor: Ragnarok, he’s been missing for two years and is imprisoned on Muspelheim, where he must fight the fire demon Surtur to escape.

He finds his way back to Asgard, where Loki (Tom Hiddleston) has been ruling in place of Odin (Anthony Hopkins), and through a series of events that somehow detour to New York City, Thor ends up on the planet Sakaar, where he’s forced into gladiatorial combat at the behest of an Elder known as the Grandmaster (Jeff Goldblum). Little does he know that the reigning champion is his old pal, the Hulk (Mark Ruffalo).

Meanwhile, the goddess of death, Hela (Cate Blanchett), has been unleashed and seeks to destroy Asgard -- not too difficult a task with Loki running things there. If Hela can bring about Ragnarok -- the “end of all things” -- what will that mean for Thor, Loki, the Earth and the rest of the Nine Realms?

Here are some of the things we learned in Brisbane:

Where in the timeline of the Marvel Cinematic Universe does Thor: Ragnarok fall?

The events of the movie will reportedly lay down even more groundwork for the arrival of Thanos in Avengers: Infinity War, so clearly it takes place before next year’s all-in showdown with the Mad Titan. “In the timeline of the MCU, things kind of happen on top of each other, especially now in Phase 3,” said producer Brad Winderbaum. “They're not as interlocked as they were in Phase 1…so (this) kind of happens maybe on top of Captain America: Civil War, maybe on top of Spider-Man: Homecoming. Somewhere in that ball park.”

The popular Planet Hulk storyline from the comics was heavily mined for material for the story.

The planet Sakaar, the gladiatorial battles presided over by a dictator-like character (the Red King in the comics, the Grandmaster in the movie), secondary characters like Korg, the Hulk getting transported to Sakaar through a wormhole and becoming a champion…all of those elements are from the 2006 Planet Hulk story in Marvel Comics, which fans have wanted to see in a movie for years. As with many of the Marvel movies, Thor: Ragnarok borrows from that story and weaves it into something new that echoes the comics without replicating them.

"In the earliest development of Thor: Ragnarok, we were looking at Planet Hulk as inspiration,” admits Winderbaum. “Maybe not even to integrate the Hulk into the franchise, but the idea of a planet where there's gladiatorial games as being a Thor predicament. It really was a cool idea to us. Somewhere in the early conversations, when it looked like it was going that way, it was like a no-brainer. It started off as, well, maybe we put Hulk in there too? And then as soon as that spark kind of ignited, it became kind of an idea machine and suddenly he was married to the plot."

Thor is a different person than he was in his earlier adventures.

“We find Thor in a drastically different place,” says Winderbaum. “He's now spent years on Earth living with the Avengers, hanging out with Tony Stark. He understands Earth’s sensibilities. He's got a really quick wit, a great sense of humor, he understands sarcasm in a way he didn't in the first film. And so from a character perspective, we're bringing all of that personality into space with him.”

The character also finds himself in a situation on Sakaar where he is no longer the physically dominant and powerful God of Thunder of the earlier films. “Removing Thor from his environment and his world where he dominated a lot of the fight scenes and so on, and putting him in a situation where all of sudden he’s fairly equal with everybody…was a smart thing for the writers to do,” says Chris Hemsworth. “He’s perhaps gonna use his brain more, or as much as, his brawn. He’s up against it the whole way through this and no step he takes is easy when he’s climbing this particular mountain.”

The relationship between Thor and Loki has evolved as well.

Hemsworth did not want a repeat of the Thor/Loki dynamic from the previous two Thor movies and the first Avengers. “In the first films, you know, a lot of the time you’re seeing Thor kind of going, ‘Come back, Loki…’” the actor says. “I think there’s a feeling from Thor now that’s just like, ‘You know what, kid, do what you want. You can’t hurt for trying. You’re a screw up, so whatever, do your thing.’ There’s a bit of that, which is fun, but also something we haven’t sort of played with as much.”

"I've said this about Loki before, but the opposite of love is not hate but indifference," says Tom Hiddleston. “The idea that Thor might be indifferent to Loki is troubling for him, because that's a defining feature of his character: I don't belong in the family; my brother doesn't love me; I hate my brother. And the idea his brother's like, yeah, whatever…it's an interesting development.”

There is a lot more comedy in this film, which also brings out a different side of Thor and Hemsworth.

“I think it's fantastic,” enthuses Hiddleston. “I think Chris is hilarious, and I've always known him as a hilarious man, even making the first film when we first met. So I love that his comedy chops are being flexed and I think it's great for the tone; it's great for the film.”

Both Hemsworth and Hiddleston loved that director Taika Waititi had them do a lot of improv on set: “I’ve never improvised so much with this character, which has been really exciting,” says Hemsworth. “Taika will just yell suggestions while rolling -- ‘Try this, try that,’ and so on. That has, I think, really come to change the game for myself or for the film.

“Taika is extraordinary in his invention,” agrees Hiddleston. “There are so many moving parts (on these big movie sets) and his quickness and the speed of his invention is really inspiring. Even with the sort of weight of this production, he's able to keep the atmosphere light and keep it feeling free and playful.”

At the same time, Cate Blanchett’s Hela may be Marvel’s greatest villain yet.

“Obviously we always think about the movies as standalones, even if they do set up a movie down the road or pay off something from a previous film,” says Winderbaum. “What we hope if we do our jobs right is that Hela is one of the best villains we've had -- maybe the best. Cate has been delivering an incredible performance. She's really scary and really charming.”

“It’s so far from anything I’ve seen before,” says Hemsworth about Blanchett’s work in the movie. “And as intimidating and scary as it is, you have an empathetic feeling toward her a lot of time from what she’s doing. You’re kind of like, ‘Ah, she’s got a point maybe.’ And then you’ve got to remind yourself that she’s trying to kill us all.”

Valkyrie is not exactly as you remember her from the comics.

The comic book Valkyrie was known as Brunnhilde, an Asgardian being and the leader of Odin’s army of female warriors, the Valkyrior. But the movie Valkyrie (Tessa Thompson) has put all that behind her in Thor: Ragnarok. She works now as a hunter for the Grandmaster…and in fact it is she who captures Thor to use as fodder for her employer’s gladiator games.

"We're not trying to create a one-to-one emulation of Brunnhilde from the comics,” says Winderbaum. “But certainly the idea of the Valkyrie and what they mean to Asgard and Odin is something that we're going to be leaning into a lot."

For Thompson, she was eager to dive headlong into her first major role in a film utilizing extensive visual effects. “It's a challenge that I was really wanting to take on, a year before this movie was even a conversation,” says the actress. “I kept saying to myself and anyone that would listen, I want to do something that's blue and green screen because I think working in the space of such imagination is such an interesting job. And then I just had no trouble asking my cohorts, ‘How do you do that?’ And they were like, ‘Oh yeah, it's weird. You just do it.’”

For the first time in a Thor film, we’ll get to see how the “common folk” in Asgard live.

Fandango also toured the outdoor set of an Asgardian village -- sort of a first for the Thor films, which have previously stayed relegated to Odin’s palace or the Bifrost for the most part. Not unlike something out of The Lord of the Rings or even resembling a place like Naboo a little, the village has a feel that’s both medieval and futuristic at the same time. It’s also where Hela will wreak havoc on the poor people of Asgard. “This is for the first time in a Thor movie that we’ve embraced this sort of human style of living quarters as opposed to the great big palace itself,” says production designer Dan Hannah. “We do spend some time in the palace, but we also spend quite a lot of time in different parts of the city…partly because of Hela, who as queen of death, needs some people to kill, as you would.”

Oh yeah -- the movie also visits Muspelheim, the realm of Surtur.

Dan Hannah: “Muspelheim is essentially a Dyson sphere, which is an enormous structure around a dying star. The premise is this has been here for a long time and it’s coated in residue of the dying star and drawing energy out of the dying star. It’s populated by demons and dragons and all sorts of amazing creatures who live on the energy that’s coming out of the star. It has internal spaces that are vast holes which are just really like being inside a bicycle frame. If you imagine a bicycle frame stretched around a star, some of Muspelheim is inside, some of it when Thor tries to get away is outside on the surface of the Dyson sphere.”

The design of the planet Sakaar is influenced by the groundbreaking art of the legendary Jack Kirby.

It’s only fitting that on the 100th anniversary of his birth, the work of the late Kirby (who invented the Marvel Universe with Stan Lee) should have a massive presence in the design of Thor: Ragnarok. Touring the outside of the gates that lead into the arena on Sakaar, the bold colors and weird geometric shapes signal the influence of the master. The streets surrounding the gates are also quite colorful and crazily configured, with sharp turns and unpredictable curves.

“Yes, Jack Kirby, 1960s Jack Kirby,” confirmed Hannah as we toured the crazily shifting streets of Sakaar. “That was our inspiration. I’ve read Jack Kirby comics since I was 15 years old. So for me it was fantastic…of course, it doesn’t look anything like Jack Kirby, but it does have the influence and it’s different from anything I’ve seen before.”

"The amazing thing about Jack Kirby is his artwork is dense," says visual effects supervisor Jake Morrison. “One of the anecdotes about Kirby is that he never erased anything. He only continued to draw forward. So you see characters with six fingers and stuff like that just ‘cause he was like, ‘Right, okay, I’ll just fill the page and just continue drawing’…what he’s doing is really just filling the frame. So for us what that means is we can be very dense with the visuals.”

Speaking of Sakaar, it’s basically a giant garbage dump.

Sakaar is the endpoint of a series of wormholes that dump whatever gets caught in them -- from different parts of the universe -- onto the planet, which is apparently how Thor and the Hulk both end up there (Hulk’s Quinjet gets trapped in a wormhole, as does Thor).

“It’s a bit of a sewer,” says Hannah about the planet ruled by the Grandmaster. “There’s no vegetation in Sakaar. It’s purely made up of space waste. All the food is made from space waste.” What Hannah refers to as “scrappers” -- which may include Tessa Thompson’s Valkyrie -- work in the dangerous areas outside the main city where things are constantly falling out of the sky. “It’s basically an accumulation of space debris that’s grown,” continues Hannah. “That’s how I think if it anyway . . . It’s like a landfill, basically. “

As for the city where the Grandmaster rules, it’s populated by aliens who have also come to the planet from all over the cosmos. Hannah describes it as “space Vegas.”

Producer Brad Winderbaum delved further into the development of Sakaar: “This is a planet that's like frozen in space between an incredible quantity of wormholes that have been spitting things out into this place for eons and eons. And essentially, if anything goes wrong in your intergalactic travels in the MCU, you're going to get spat out into the toilet of the universe which is this planet.”

The visual effects in the film are among the most intensive of any Marvel production.

Jake Morrison was asked which of the movie’s scenes or effects was the most challenging to create. “All of them,” the visual effects supervisor replied immediately. “It’s literally one of the most involved pictures I have ever been on. It’s visual effects heavy. All Marvel pictures do rely on visual effects to help tell the stories. But this one is absolutely enormous. The scope of the picture and the amount of elements in it is incredible.”

Even Hela’s famous antlers are created through visual effects.

During our day on the set, we saw a scene set on the Stone Arch Bridge in which Thor, Hulk, Valkyrie and Loki all confront Hela. Cate Blanchett was not in full costume, but Morrison assured us that we will see Hela in all her majesty in the final film: “The look of the headdress and all that kind of stuff is very, very iconic,” he explains. “When you have an actor like Cate, what we wanted to do is not tie her down with a physical costume that was overly complicated or weighty…if you're making this film in the 80s or the 90s you would actually have to put the big headdress on and you know exactly what that looks like. You’ve seen actors do this and they basically have a candelabra on there.

“The key is we can base it upon Cate’s physical performance,” continues Morrison about the CG parts of the costume, adding that they now capture 120 samples per second of Blanchett’s body. “We then have the option to make her costume behave in sympathy with her action completely and not have the actor feel in any way like her motion is restricted by the costume. So we’re trying to let the performance drive the picture and then we just add the fun stuff on afterwards.”

Finally, the big question…how does Thor: Ragnarok lead into Avengers: Infinity War?

“Without giving anything away, this definitely bleeds nicely into that,” hints Chris Hemsworth. “As they all tend to do. But this being called Ragnarok -- everyone knows what that means. So obviously it is going to affect the larger universe.”

Dark Nights: Batman the Drowned #1

I can't wait to find out how Bruce Wayne got such a fantastic pair of tits.

"This is my wish! And I'm taking it back. I'm taking them all back!"

The explanation for Bruce Wayne having magnificent tits occurs in a brief Narration Box where Aquabat thinks, "The gender roles are reversed here." I used the word "explanation" incorrectly in the last sentence. By saying the gender roles are reversed, does he mean the people who are women on Earth-Negative-Guys-With-Awesome-Tits are men on Earth-Main-Earth? Does that explain why he's a woman named Bruce? Or is he a man but men on Earth-Negative-Guys-With-Awesome-Tits would be considered women on Earth-Main-Earth? Am I using the correct pronoun for Aquabat? I can't tell because is being a woman actually considered being a man from his Dark Earth? Is that what he means by the gender roles being reversed"? My boner is super confused right now! Oh! Everything becomes clear when the flashback happens and this is taking place on Earth-Negative-Eleven and also when I check back to the panel I scanned to see that Bruce Wayne is actually called Bryce Wayne. Is Bryce a non-gender specific name? Is any name, in this day and age, non-gender specific?! Down with parental labels that force a person (and others!) into seeing them as a specific gender! That's the fight we should be fighting! Also maybe the fight against circumcision. Can that be a major fight too? Hello? Anybody? Babies being mutilated here! Anyway, now I have a question. If the Batman on Earth-Main-Earth is the Batman that Barbatos is obsessed with, why are all these Dark Earths, created by Earth-Main-Earth Batman's dark thoughts, not versions of Earth-Main-Earth? Oh wait! I have an answer to my question! Because Batjoker is actually the Dark Version of Earth-Main-Earth Batman. He just happened to recruit other versions of Dark Multiverse Batman before coming to the main universe. So Aquabat wasn't created from a stray thought of Earth-Main-Earth Batman. She was created by a stray thought from gender bent Earth-11 Batman! Okay, everything is straight now! Oh, I didn't mean that to sound like a micro-aggression! I just meant everything was back to normal! Oh man. That was a micro-aggression too, wasn't it? I just reiterated my implication that straight is normal! Batwoman on Earth-Negative-Eleven decided to kill all the bad guys just like the Batperson on all the other negative Earths. Apparently that's Batman's constant dark thought on every world in which he exists. He just goes around thinking, "Why don't I just kill all of these assholes? Stupid Bat-Rules." On this world, he killed them all because they killed his lover Catman. Not that Catman! Differently gendered Selina Kyle! His name was Sylvester Kyle and my boner is disappointed that Catwoman had to get the gender bent treatment. I want to see Bryce and Selina make out. And yes that means I want to co-opt their lesbianism for my own heterosexual turn-ons! We can't all be saints!

Is the trident regarded as a phallic weapon or am I picturing dicks incorrectly?

I know I have a lot of fun attacking bad writers and artists in a hyperbolic way but whenever I hear Jim Lee give an interview, I feel bad about complaining about his scribbles all over the art he does. I genuinely like Jim Lee so much that it makes me hate myself for every time I critiqued a piece of his art that I didn't care for. Even though my hyperbolic rants are meant to be taken as the over-the-top ridiculous rantings of a rabid comic book fan, I know many people take this shit seriously instead of absorbing the whimsical feeling I have while while writing it. And since I like Jim Lee so much, I have to confront the fact that I might even like Scott Lobdell or (God forbid!) Cullen Bunn! Maybe I should stop being so mean? I mean so directly mean! I can be indirectly mean by making fun of the comic book and specific pieces of art that I scan because there's something wrong with them (like the way every colorist always fucks up the stripes in the American flag)! What I'm trying to say is this: "Jim Lee, I love you and I wish you were my father." So Bryce transformed herself into Aquabat to defeat all of the Atlanteans on Earth-Negative-Eleven. You know the story from the past Dark Nights books. Batperson wins but still can't save the world. Batjoker arrives with the shuttle to Earth-Main-Earth. Everybody rides the train to funkytown. Earth-Main-Earth suffers horribly because the Justice League are terrible at saving the lives of people who don't get to be characters in the comic book. It seems it's okay to kill thousands of people nowadays and still finish the story with the idea that the good guys somehow won. Aquabat turns Mera into one of its drowned henchman and then Doctor Fate saves Aquaman. Couldn't he have gotten there a bit sooner and saved Mera too? Or just saved Mera, really. Nobody cares about Aquaman. Dark Nights: Batman the Drowned #1 Rating: Apparently I'm reading a different comic book than all of the comic book review sites on the Internet. According to the advertisement for Metal in this issue, other reviewers are saying embarrassing things like "Like a good guitar lick, it'll melt your face off." Who writes that and thinks it's clever? Worse, who reads that and thinks it's clever enough to be used as a review blurb?! Here's another good one because it shows they know all about the metal music genre: "Just hold on tight and ride the lightning." Since it's an Internet quote, I'm surprised they weren't asking us to ride the "lightening." It's as if these reviewers heard about the concept of this comic series and wrote their reviews on that! Because I agree with the review that said "one of the most viscerally exciting comics series to kick off this year." But I only agreed with it before I read all of these tie-in Dark Nights books! And I only agreed with it before I had to actually think about most of Scott Snyder's plot points! I mean, I still agree with it in that I love this kind of comic book shit! And I'll love it even when it's not as good as I was hoping it would be. It's just that I can't bring myself to laud something in this way simply because it gets the comic book nerd inside me erect. I expect the writing to give me that same visceral feeling! It's just that it never does. Especially these fucking Dark Knight Origin Stories that are all basically the same. I think to write the kind of glowing reviews that Internet comic book lovers write, I need to just read the comic book without writing about it, not think about it while I'm not writing about it, somehow maintain a boner through whatever means necessary while reading it (to, you know, keep my interest and keep some of the blood out of my brain), and then talk about it with a really stupid friend who can't get enough of all the comic books. Then maybe I'd walk away thinking, "That was fucking awesome!" It's also possible I'm simply dead inside.

Reading Wednesday

Color of Love by Anita Stansfield. A Victorian romance starring Amala, an Indian woman adopted by a white family and raised in England, and Henry, a white Englishman recently returned from India. I can't figure out how to talk about this book without spoilers, so if you really want to be surprised, skip the rest of the review. Otherwise I'm going to talk about everything right up until the very end. Despite their instant attraction and obvious suitability for one another, Amala refuses to marry Henry because she's unwilling to deal with the difficulties of an interracial marriage in their stuffy country town. She vows instead to be a stylish independent single woman like her aunt the world traveler, and insists that Henry move on and forget their relationship. Which he does – by marrying her (white, adopted) sister. Amala is at first dismayed, but the years pass and she settles happily into traveling around Europe and doing good. And then her sister develops cancer and calls her home. The sister has one last wish before she dies: for Amala and Henry to promise that they'll marry one another. It turns out that despite their efforts to keep their former relationship a secret, the sister has known all along and doesn't hold it against them. She dies, and Amala and Henry go through a lengthy grieving period, their healing impeded by their resentment against the sister for forcing the promise out of them. They only are able to move out of the mourning period when they finally acknowledge how angry they are at her. Amala realizes that her exposure to the greater world, as well as the inclusion of more Indian people in her life (via the presence of Henry's servants), has changed her attitude toward interracial marriages and she's now willing to marry Henry. Henry, though, now has to get over the fact that Amala broke his heart years ago when they first courted. But, of course, he eventually comes to see that he's still in to her, and they marry and live happily ever after. Whew. I have such mixed feelings about this book! On the one hand, Stansfield does a better job of handling the racism of the period than I honestly expected. She's fantastic at depicting how Amala's isolation from any other people of color has had lasting, detrimental effects on her self-image, confidence, and personality, even when no one is actively being mean to her. Stansfield also is sensitive to how privilege has blinded Amala's white family and Henry, leaving them unaware of much of what she deals with and prone to making mistakes despite having the very best of intentions. On the other hand, HENRY MARRIES AMALA'S SISTER WTF. And yet again Stansfield is so careful and gentle that it never comes off as the sister being fridged for the sake of advancing their relationship! In fact, the section of the sister's illness is probably longer and written with more detail than any other part of the book. There's even a gruesomely long death-scene, with last words and tears and medicine side-effects and doctor intervention and sleeplessness and a fucking death rattle for god's sake, that was almost certainly more realism than I have ever needed for a romance novel's angst. Not to mention the year of grief that comes afterward. I can't deny that this plot point was handled as well as possible, but I also can't get over the fact that this plot point exists in the first place. Now, all of this attention to detail and thoughtfulness might lead you to assume that at least the craft of writing is well done – pretty sentences, gorgeous descriptions, and so. Sadly this is not the case. In fact Stansfield has an odd habit of skipping entirely over things that really need to be on the page; everyone knows 'show don't tell', but this is the worst case of it I've ever seen. For example, this is the first conversation Henry and Amala ever share, immediately after meeting one another: She was glad when he began to talk about the things he’d loved about living in India, as opposed to asking her questions about her own memories. He also talked of the things he’d hated—most specifically the heat and the bugs. She enjoyed listening to every word that came out of his mouth, until the sense of how much time had passed shocked her to her feet. No actual lines of dialogue from the conversation that will prove pivotal to drawing them together! We don't actually get to see these characters fall in love, how they talk to one another, what attracts them! This is basic Romance Novel 101, people: show how the love happens! For another example: Finally, Amala found the courage to break the wax seal and unfold the letter. She had to move closer to the light in order to more clearly see what was written. At a quick glance she was able to see that the letter began with My Dearest Amala, and that it ended some pages later with, All the love my heart possesses, Henry. The problem was that in between was such a beautifully detailed expression of his devotion that Amala kept having to dab at her eyes to keep her vision from blurring so that she could continue reading. When they had spoken in the garden, she had told him plainly and clearly where she had to stand on the matter of their attraction to one another, but she was now reading a genuine and sincere rebuttal to her every argument. It became evident through his words that he knew a great deal more about the issues of prejudice behind her motives than she’d given him credit for. He declared his firm belief that no matter what governments or society might try to dictate in this world, God surely saw all of His children equally, and that in God’s eyes, surely they could find a way to be right with this. Amala was completely taken off guard by how much her resolve had melted by the time she finished reading the letter, and after she’d read it through a second time, she was filled with doubt and confusion over matters that had previously seemed completely clear. One might assume that with such a plot-important and emotional letter, we'd get to read it ourselves, right? No. Those two phrases up there are literally all the reader gets to see of the letter. Similar problems happen throughout the book, though they're more common in the early pages. I suppose with a novel that covers as many years and has as many plot twists as this one, it's got to be forgiven for skimming over some of the details. But then again, it's the details that I most wanted to read! I read this as an ARC via NetGalley. The Age of Comfort: When Paris Discovered Casual – And the Modern World Began by Joan DeJean. The premise of this book is that during a single century (1670-1765) in France, many of the things we consider basic to life were invented or came into use: cotton clothing, clothing designs with the emphasis placed on comfort as opposed to imposing court dress, sofas, armchairs, bedrooms and bathrooms as separate rooms instead of one corner of a grand hall, flush toilets and running water, large paned windows to let in light, nightstands and writing desks, hardwood floors, and more. Part of this was a reaction to the grand magnificence of Versailles – after a day in a boned bodice that wouldn't let you sit down, surrounded by strict rules of etiquette, who wouldn't want to relax in cozy privacy? Another part was simply a consequence of the historic moment: increased trade with India, a newly rich merchant class eager to commission their own architect-designed houses, increased technology in various crafts, Enlightenment philosophers coming up with new ideas for improving "the art of living". It's a fascinating argument, to show how all these disparate things are linked, and DeJean makes her case very well, though I don't know enough about it to say if she missed anything obvious. DeJean has a entertaining, breezy style that makes the book more fun to read than you might suspect. For example: From the start (and the stories about [the Marquise de Pompadour] started right away), her biographers agreed that she set her cap for the king, having been encouraged to believe since childhood that she was somehow destined to become his mistress. (Her will contains a curious, and curiously touching, bequest of six hundred livres to "Madame Lebon for having foretold when she was nine years old that she would one day become the king's mistress"). Describing newly curved seating: And for "those who write" and therefore "spend long periods" leaning forward, [Roubo, a furniture designer] shows how the seat's curves could be adapted to this particular distribution of body weight and thereby help writers "resist fatigue". (I only wish someone would think like this today.) Describing an early toilet: Since it was not hooked up to waste piping, it's hard to imagine how well it performed its function. (In the fixtures he created for Pompadour, Migeon did at least use a wood then new to France, mahogany, because of its odor-resistant properties.) It's a surprisingly quick, easy read, with lots of illustrations and a really intriguing central premise. I recommend it if you have the least interest in the origins of mundane things. The Furthest Station by Ben Aaronovitch. YES I GOT TO READ THE NEW RIVERS OF LONDON NOVELLA EARLY! :D :D :D In this fairly short and light story, ghosts are harassing morning commuters on the Tube, and Peter has been deputized to put a stop to it. Abigail is a major character, with Jaget and Toby playing important supporting roles along with Nightingale and Molly. Pretty much no one else appears, unfortunately, though that's what happens when you only have 144 pages to fill. I was so glad to see more of Abigail, who is totally my favorite part of this novella, and I love how her role is developing: her Latin (now better than Peter's), her odd relationship with foxes, her pseudo-job as the Folly's intern, and of course the question looming ever closer: how to (or if to) teach her magic. A subplot about a new river is adorable, and I can't wait to see where it goes in the future. The writing is, as always, funny and clever and full of odd little facts about architecture and history, with a few moments of surprising emotion. I absolutely love the way the mystery developed – which is why I'm trying not to spoil it here – but my one complaint with the book is that I wish there'd been just a little bit more resolution at the end. I wanted that last thread tied up, even if it is probably more realistic to leave a few dangling. And again: only 144 pages. Overall it's a charming and memorable story, even if it doesn't advance the series's overall plot arc any. Highly recommended, though I'm sure all the Rivers of London fans plan to read it already. :D I'm not sure how well it would work as an introduction to the series – on the one hand, there is that fairly small cast, but on the other there's plenty of unexplained backstory and worldbuilding. It could go either way, I suppose. But if you're not familiar with Rivers of London, get on that! I read this as an ARC via NetGalley.

(DW link for easier commenting)

Journal - Delicate Individualism: The Architecture of Wes Anderson

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This autumn will see the release of a new film by Wes Anderson. The French Dispatch has been described as “a love letter to journalists set at an outpost of an American newspaper in a fictional 20th-century French city.”

Fans of Anderson know what to expect: a cinematic world that feels much more put-together than the one we inhabit everyday. As a child, Anderson admired the “slightly heightened reality” of Roald Dahl’s children’s stories and has spent his career bringing a similar sensibility to the big screen.

Not everyone finds Anderson’s distinctive aesthetic delightful. New York Magazine critic David Amsden once complained the director had become “pickled in a world of his own creation.” Image: Tony Revolori and Saoirsie Ronan in ‘The Grand Budapest Hotel’ (2014)

With meticulously decorated sets, droll dialogue, and perfectly symmetrical shot composition, Anderson’s movies are catnip for perfectionists. One gets the sense that his greatest pleasure, as an artist, is making sure everything fits together just so.

Architecture plays a central role in this decidedly un-naturalistic approach to cinema. Nearly all of Anderson’s films feature a central structure around which the action revolves. In The Royal Tenenbaums, it was a family home in Manhattan, while in The Darjeeling Limited it was a train that carried American tourists across India. In The French Dispatch, judging by the promotional poster, it will be the newspaper’s offices.

Promotional poster for ‘The French Dispatch’ (2020). The poster was designed by illustrator Javi Aznarez.

In each of these cases, Anderson uses various techniques to ensure that the viewer gets a complete picture of the structure. He doesn’t just provide an impressionistic sense of place, but actually lays out how the spaces fit together, sometimes using architectural models and cutaways.

This impulse toward diagramming and contextualization cuts strongly against the grain of most Hollywood directors, who like to throw viewers in the midst of the action to encourage direct absorption in the plot. In contrast, Anderson treats his viewers like an architect treats their clients, leading them step by step through the world he has lovingly created — whether they are interested or not.

The following structures have played starring roles in Anderson’s films.

The Harlem brownstone where The Royal Tenenbaums was filmed has become a popular photo op for cinephiles. Image via movie-locations.com

The Royal Tenenbaums (2001)

“Royal Tenenbaum purchased the house on Archer Avenue in the winter of his 35th year.” So begins one of the most iconic films of the aughts, a work that is as much about place as it is about character or plot.

The Royal Tenenbaums is set in a storybook version of New York that was inspired by how Anderson imagined the city while growing up in Texas as an avid reader of the New Yorker. The addresses and place names in the film are all invented, yet the shooting locations are all real and located either inside the city or in nearby New Jersey.

Kumar Pallana blocks the Statue of Liberty in one scene shot in Battery Park. Wes Anderson did not want any recognizable landmarks to appear in his storybook version of New York. Image: Movie Mezzanine.

Landmarks, however, are decidedly absent from Anderson’s New York. In one scene filmed in Battery Park, Anderson carefully positioned actor Kumar Pallana in front of the Statue of Liberty so the monument wouldn’t show up in the shot. Gene Hackman, who plays the charmingly roguish title character, was confused by this, according to Anderson’s former assistant Will Sweeney, asking why they were even there if not to film the Statue of Liberty. Anderson responded that he wanted to clearly invoke New York without the viewer, at any point, knowing exactly where they were. An idiosyncratic priority, for sure, but one that makes the movie uniquely evocative.

Most scenes in The Royal Tenenbaums were shot in or around the “house on Archer Avenue,” a magnificent Victorian Brownstone that is really located near Convent Avenue and 144th Street in Harlem.

“At the time I was very adamant that this would be a real place and that we have to make it a real place,” Wes Anderson explained to Matt Zoller Seitz in Seitz’s magnificent coffee table book, The Wes Anderson Collection. “It was also quite practical, I think. The roof was the real roof. It was all one place. The only cheat was with their kitchen, which was in the house next door, because this place had no windows — it was not going to work. But the rest of it’s all there.”

Each of the Tenenbaum children inhabits a room that reflects their passions. For Chaz Tenenbaum, that passion is entrepreneurship. Note the on-screen text identifying the room — a truly architectural touch. Image: WordPress.

The film crew rented the house for the duration of shooting and made careful renovations in order to capture the spirit of space, a family home that is stuffed with artifacts from childhood. The film tracks the lives of the Tenenbaum children, three former child prodigies who have grown into unhappy adults. Growing up, each Tenenbaum child was given their own floor of the house, and decades later these spaces are still decorated to reflect their childhood passions.

The director on the set of ‘The Life Aquatic.’ Image: Smith Gee Studio

The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004)

Wes Anderson followed The Royal Tenenbaums with The Life Aquatic, a film that is similarly invested in themes of memory and regret. The Life Aquatic follows Steve Zissou, an eccentric oceanographer and documentarian played by Bill Murray, as he attempts to exact revenge on the “jaguar shark” that killed his friend and partner. He’s brought a film crew along for the adventure, hoping that a documentary about this Ahabian quest will revive his floundering career.

The Life Aquatic is a bit less grounded in reality than The Royal Tenenbaums. It is not just stylized but actually fantastical. It’s fitting that, for this movie, Anderson made use of constructed sets. He utilizes the cutaway “dollhouse” effect for the first time in this film to introduce Zissou’s boat, The Belafonte.

With a sauna, a laboratory, a research library, and an “observation bubble” that Zissou “thought up in a dream,” the scheme of The Belafonte tells us more about the main character’s aspirations than anything else in the film. This is very common for Anderson; his characters inhabit spaces that reflect who they wish to be.

Image: Pinterest

The Darjeeling Limited (2007)

The Darjeeling Limited is named for its principle setting, a luxury train that guides three brothers on a “spiritual journey” through India. Nathan Lee of the Village Voice put it best in his review when he described the film as as “a movie about people trapped in themselves and what it takes to get free — a movie, quite literally, about letting go of your baggage.”

As in The Royal Tenenbaums, Wes Anderson insisted on shooting Darjeeling on location in India, mostly in Jodhpur, Rajasthan, but also in various parts of Udaipur. The train itself serves as the spiritual center of the film. Tracking shots of the train in motion beautifully reflect the characters’ emerging insight that, in life, you don’t have the option of standing still.

As with The Royal Tenenbaums, Wes Anderson refused to create a studio set for the interior shots, insisting that they film inside of a real Indian train renovated to his specifications. This presented challenges, as Indian Railways were reluctant to cooperate with the headstrong American director.

Image: Mark Friedberg Design

“To this day I am not sure whether the greater achievement was the train’s design or securing the use of the train itself,” explained set designer Mark Friedberg. He admits that, at times, he was annoyed at Anderson’s insistence on shooting on a moving train but at the end realized the film could not have been done any other way.

“Wes’s confidence in his own vision is one of his finest qualities,” Friedberg explained. “The fact of actually being on the train and actually being in India gives the film its lifeblood.”

The exterior of the Grand Budapest Hotel is quite clearly a miniature model. That’s an important part of its charm. Image: National Geographic

The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)

The Grand Budapest Hotel is a remarkable film about place, memory, and how the values of a lost era can live on through architecture.

Inspired by the writings of Stefan Zweig and his nostalgic depiction of early 20th century Vienna, the film proceeds through a series of nested narratives. The main storyline is set in the 1930s in a fictional Central European country called Zubrowka that is hemmed in by an approaching war. (This conflict is never spelled out as World War II. Anderson chooses to evoke the war indirectly, in the same way that he approached New York City in The Royal Tenenbaums.)

In the face of ominous political forces mounting in the region, the Grand Budapest Hotel — a pink and cream manor perched on a mountaintop and accessible by funicular — is an oasis of refinement. This is thanks to the careful work of master concierge, Monsieur Gustave, played by Ralph Fiennes, who oversees the hotel’s operations with pride and panache.

Model of the Grand Budapest Hotel. Image: Smith Gee Studio.

M. Gustave has an infectious elegance that at first seems campy, but over time is shown to be an ennobling reflection of his individuality. He represents the liberal values that totalitarian movements, both fascist and communist, would seek to stamp out in the ensuing decades.

Given the fact that the hotel is primarily a symbol of Monsieur Gustave’s humane way of seeing the world, it is fitting that it is depicted more as an idea than reality. The exterior shots of the hotel are a miniature model and no effort is made to conceal this fact. Many of the interior shots of the hotel, including those of the grand lobby, were taken in the vacant Görlitz Department Store, a palatial Art Nouveau structure built in 1929.

While most of the film showcases the Grand Budapest in its prime before the war, a few take place in the 1960s, when the furnishings have become drab and the exterior covered in raw concrete. All of the delicacy and whimsy have been lost as contemporary tastes have moved toward the utilitarian and (implicitly) collectivist values of the new regime.

By the 1960s, the Grand Budapest had lost its lustre. Image: Ultra Swank

With The Grand Budapest Hotel, Wes Anderson comes close to proposing a theory of architecture. For him, built spaces come to life when they reflect the ideals, aspirations and longings of the individual. This is true of the bedrooms of the Tenenbaum children, the lovingly organized bookshelves in the Belafonte library, and even in the ramshackle luxury of the Darjeeling Limited, a vehicle that promises adventure. It is especially true of the Grand Budapest Hotel, a faded monument to a past era that is imagined to have been both kinder and more stylish than the present.

Meticulous almost to the point of self-parody, Anderson’s sets embody an ethos of individualism. Not the rugged kind one associates with the American frontier, but a delicate individualism that affirms the curatorial instinct.

“You see, there are still faint glimmers of civilization left in this barbaric slaughterhouse that was once known as humanity,” M. Gustave tells his protégé, a young lobby boy named Zero, mid-way through the film. He adds that it is the mission of the Grand Budapest to uphold these civilized values in the face of encroaching barbarism, but then cuts himself short and mutters “ah, fuck it.” But no one watching believes he’s taken back the sentiment. No, it’s the heavy-handed rhetoric he rejects. M. Gustave, like the director who created him, prefers a light touch.

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How the internet was developed

In 40 times, the internet has morphed from a military communication network into a enormous world-wide cyberspace. And it all started in a California beer garden

In the kingdom of apps and unicorns, Rossottis is a rarity. This beer garden in the heart of Silicon Valley has been standing on the same recognise since 1852. It isnt disruptive; it doesnt proportion. But for more than 150 times, it has done one thing and done it well: it has given Californians a good situate to get drunk.

During the course of its long actuality, Rossottis has been a frontier barroom, a gold rush gambling den, and a Hells Angels hangout. These periods it is called the Alpine Inn Beer Garden, and the clientele remains as potpourrus as ever. On the porch out back, there are cyclists in spandex and bikers in leather. There is a wild-haired man who might be a prof or a lunatic or a CEO, scribbling into a notebook. In the parking lots is a Harley, a Maserati, and a horse.

It doesnt seem a likely discern for a major act of innovation. But 40 years ago this August, a small unit of scientists set up personal computers terminal at one of its picnic tables and conducted an extraordinary experiment. Over plastic goblets of beer, they proved that a strange sentiment called the internet could labour.

The internet is so vast and formless that its hard to gues it being invented. Its easy to visualize Thomas Edison devising the lightbulb, because a lightbulb is easy to envisage. You can hold it in your hand and examine it from every slant.

The internet is the opposite. Its everywhere, but we only see it in views. The internet is like the holy spirit: it manufactures itself knowable to us by taking wealth of the pixels on our screens to show sites and apps and email, but its centre is always elsewhere.

This feature of the internet prepares it seem extremely complex. Surely something so ubiquitous yet invisible must compel deep technical sophistication to understand. But it doesnt. The internet is essentially simple. And that simplicity is the key to its success.

The people who devised the internet came from all over the world. They drove at targets as varied as the French government-sponsored computer network Cyclades, Englands National Physical Laboratory, the University of Hawaii and Xerox. But the mothership was the US defense departments lavishly money research limb, the Advanced search Assignment Agency( Arpa) which later changed its reputation to the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency( Darpa) and its numerous contractors. Without Arpa, the internet wouldnt exist.

An old-time image of Rossottis, one of the birthplaces of the internet. Photograph: Politenes of the Alpine Inn Beer Garden, formerly Rossotti’s

As members of the military endeavour, Arpa had a specifically armed motivating for creating the internet: it offered a way to make estimating to the front line. In 1969, Arpa had improved a computer network called Arpanet, which relation mainframes at universities, government agencies, and defense contractors around the country. Arpanet originated rapidly, and included practically 60 nodes by the mid-1 970 s.

But Arpanet had a problem: it wasnt mobile. The computers on Arpanet were stupendous by todays touchstones, and they transmitted over attached joins. That might work for investigates, who could sit at a terminal in Cambridge or Menlo Park but it did little for soldiers distributed deep in enemy region. For Arpanet to be useful to violences in the field, it had to be accessible anywhere in the world.

Picture a jeep in the jungles of Zaire, or a B-5 2 miles above North Vietnam. Then suppose these as nodes in a wireless system linked to another network of potent computers thousands of miles away. This is the dream of a networked armed expending computing supremacy to demolish the Soviet Union and its friends. This is the dream that produced the internet.

Making this dream a reality asked doing two things. The first was building a wireless system that could relay packets of data amongst the widely scattered cogs of the US military machine by radio or satellite. The second was connecting those wireless networks to the wired network of Arpanet, so that multimillion-dollar mainframes could suffice soldiers in fighting. Internetworking, the scientists called it.

Internetworking is the problem the internet was invented to solve. It presented tremendous challenge. Get computers to talk to one another networking had been hard enough. But getting networks to talk to one another internetworking posed a whole new established of impediments, because the networks addrest alien and incompatible accents. Trying to move data from one to another was like writing a letter in Mandarin to someone who only knows Hungarian and hoping to be understood. It didnt work.

In response, the architects of the internet developed a kind of digital Esperanto: a common conversation that enabled data to expedition across any system. In 1974, two Arpa researchers mentioned Robert Kahn and Vint Cerf published an early plan. Depicting on conferences happening in all areas of the international networking parish, they sketched a design for a simple but very flexible etiquette: a universal fixed of rules for how computers should communicate.

These regulations had to strike a very sensitive equilibrium. On the one hand, they needed to be strict enough to ensure the reliable transmitting of data. On the other, they needed to be loose enough to accommodate all of the different ways available data might be transmitted.

Vinton Cerf, left, and Robert Kahn, who organized the first internet etiquette. Photograph: Louie Psihoyos/ Corbis

It had to be future-proof, Cerf tells me. You couldnt write the protocol for one point in time, because it would soon become obsolete. The military would keep innovating. They would continue constructing brand-new networks and new technologies. The protocol had to keep pace: it had to work across an arbitrarily large number of distinct and potentially non-interoperable packet swopped systems, Cerf says including information that hadnt been invented yet. This boast would establish the system not only future-proof, but potentially infinite. If the rules were robust enough, the ensemble of networks could ripen indefinitely, adapting any and all digital forms into its sprawling multithreaded mesh.

Eventually, these rules grew the lingua franca of the internet. But first, they needed to be implemented and nipped and experimented over and over and over again. There was nothing inevitable about the internet going built. It seemed like a outlandish project to many, even among those who were building it. The scale, the ambition the internet was a skyscraper and nothing had ever seen anything more than a few floors tall. Even with a firehose of cold war military cash behind it, the internet was like a long shot.

Then, during the summer of 1976, it started working.

If you had strolled into Rossottis beer garden on 27 August 1976, you would have assured the following: seven men and one woman at a table, wavering around personal computers terminal, the woman typing. A pair of cables guide from the terminal to the parking lots, disappearing into a big gray-headed van.

Inside the van were machines that changed the words being typed on the terminal into packets of data available. An feeler on the vans roof then given these packets as radio signals. These signals extended through the air to a repeater on a nearby mountain surface, where they were enlarged and rebroadcast. With this extra increase, we are able to make it all the way to Menlo Park, where an feeler at an office improving received them.

It is there that the real magic began. Inside the role build, the incoming packets passed seamlessly from one network to another: from the packet radio network to Arpanet. To make this startle, the packets had to undergo a subtle metamorphosis. They had to change their kind without changing their contents. Make about ocean: it can be vapor, liquid or frost, but its chemical composition remains the same. This magical flexible is a feature of the natural universe which is lucky, because life depends on it.

A plaque at Rossottis commemorating the August 1976 experiment. Picture: Courtesy of the Alpine Inn Beer Garden, formerly Rossotti’s

The flexibility that the internet depends on, by compare, “mustve been” engineered. And on that day in August, it enabled packets that had only dwelt as radio signals in a wireless network to become electrical signals in the wired network of Arpanet. Remarkably, this translation perpetuated the data perfectly. The packets continued completely intact.

So intact, in fact, that they could excursion another 3,000 miles to a computer in Boston and be reassembled into exactly the same content that was typed into the terminal at Rossottis. Powering this internetwork odyssey was the brand-new etiquette cooked up by Kahn and Cerf. Two networks had become one. The internet worked.

There werent balloons or anything like that, Don Nielson tells me. Now in his 80 s, Nielson led the experiment at Rossottis on behalf of the Stanford Research Institute( SRI ), a major Arpa contractor. Tall and soft-spoken, he is relentlessly modest; seldom has someone had a better excuse for boast and a lower level of are looking forward to indulge in it. We are sitting in the living room of his Palo Alto home, four miles from Google, nine from Facebook, and at no spot does he even partly take ascribe for creating information and communication technologies that realized these extravagantly profitable firms possible.

The internet was a group effort, Nielson insists. SRI was only one of many organizations working on it. Perhaps thats why they didnt experience comfortable popping bottles of champagne at Rossottis by claiming too much magnificence for one crew, it wouldve flouted the collaborative character of the international networking community. Or maybe they are only didnt have the time. Dave Retz, one of health researchers at Rossottis, says they were too worried about get the experimentation to operate and then when it did, concerned about whatever came next. There was always more to accomplish: as soon as theyd stitched two networks together, they started working on three which they achieved a little over a year later, in November 1977.

Over time, the recognition of Rossottis receded. Nielson himself had forgotten about it until a reporter prompted him 20 years later. I was sitting in my bureau the working day, he withdraws, when the phone call. The reporter on the other purpose had been hearing the venture at Rossottis, and wanted to know what it had to do with the birth of the internet. By 1996, Americans were having cybersex in AOL chatrooms and structure gruesome, seizure-inducing homepages on GeoCities. The internet had outgrown members of the military roots and run mainstream, and beings were becoming curious about its ancestries. So Nielson excavated out a few old-time reports from his files, and started indicating on how the internet inaugurated. This concept is shifting out to be a big deal, he remembers thinking.

What manufactured the internet a big deal is the aspect Nielsons team demonstrated that summer day at Rossottis: its flexible. Forty years ago, the internet teleported thousands of words from the Bay Area to Boston over channels as dissimilar as radio radiation and copper telephone lines. Today it bridges far greater intervals, over an even wider various forms of media. It ferries data among thousands of millions of designs, communicating our tweets and Tinder swipes across multiple networks in milliseconds.

The Alpine Inn Beer Garden today still a home where Silicon Valley mobs meet. Photo: Courtesy of the Alpine Inn Beer Garden, formerly Rossotti’s

This isnt simply a technological accomplishment its a blueprint decision. The main thing to understand about the roots of the internet, Nielson says, is that it came out of the military. While Arpa had wide-ranging leeway, it still had to choose the research project with an see toward developing technologies that might someday are used for acquiring campaigns. The engineers who construct the internet understood that, and tailored it accordingly.

Thats why they designed the internet to lead anywhere: because the US military is everywhere. It maintains virtually 800 basis in more than 70 countries around the world. It has hundreds of ships, millions of warplanes, and tens of thousands of armored vehicles. The reason the internet can work across any machine, system, and medium-sized the reason a smartphone in Sao Paulo can stream a lyric from a server in Singapore is because it needed to be as pervasive as the American security apparatus that financed its construction.

The internet would end up being useful to the US armed, if not quite in the ways its designers intended. But it didnt actually take off until “its become” civilianized and commercialized a phenomenon that the Arpa researchers of the 1970 s could never have anticipated. Quite candidly, if anyone would have said they could have imagined the internet of today in those dates, theyre lying, says Nielson. What astonished him most was how willing people were to spend money to set themselves on the internet. Everybody wanted to be there, he says. That was utterly startling to me: the outcry of wanting to be present in this new world.

The information that we think of the internet as a world of its own, as a home we can be in or on this too is the legacy of Don Nielson and his fellow scientists. By obliging different networks together so seamlessly, they stimulated the internet feel like a single space. Strictly expressing, this is an misconception. The internet is composed of numerous, many systems: when I go to Googles website, my data must pass 11 different routers before it arrives. But the internet is a original weaver: it secretes its sews extremely well. Were left with the perception of a boundless, borderless digital universe cyberspace, as we used to call it. Forty years ago, this world firstly flickered into existence in the foothills outside of Palo Alto, and has been expanding ever since.

Source: http://allofbeer.com/2017/09/17/how-the-internet-was-invented/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2017/09/17/how-the-internet-was-developed/