I'm thinking about Euclid (song) again, and everyone always makes links to Euclid the Mathematician (Euclid of Alexandria) with his symmetry, but what about Euclid the philosopher (Euclid of Megara)?

If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter Thirty One

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

November 21st, 1987

“There, you see, Emile? It’s as easy as that,” his dad said, helping Emile stir the noodles in the pot.

“And when this is done we’ll have mac and cheese?” Emile looked up at his dad.

With a smile, his dad nodded. “We’ll have dinner, and we’ll have spent time together. And both of those things are extremely important, and good for the soul.”

Emile nodded sagely. He didn’t always understand what his dad was saying, but in this case it seemed really, really important. He hoped that one day soon, he would understand what “good for the soul” meant.

  May 26th, 2001

Remy was laughing with Emile’s dad, and Emile was watching them both fondly. He was really glad that Remy had jumped on the chance to cook. He definitely knew how to slice and dice, and Emile was impressed. Now whether he could cook the things he was cutting up was another story entirely. “You don’t think we have stuff to make half a dozen cupcakes, do you?” Remy asked.

“We might, why do you ask?” Dad replied.

“Well...we kinda forgot to celebrate Emile’s birthday due to an...unfortunate situation up in town.”

“A...situation?” Dad asked.

“Yeah, we had so much of a situation we accidentally forgot about Emile’s birthday and didn’t get to celebrate,” Remy said sheepishly. “And then it came time to pay rent and we just...never celebrated. But I really want to fix that.”

Dad nodded. “We’ll be making cupcakes then,” he said simply.

“That’s...that’s really not necessary, Dad, we don’t have to celebrate,” Emile said.

“Of course we do, you’ve turned twenty! That’s plenty of cause to celebrate!” his dad declared. “Two whole decades on this planet!”

“You turned twenty? Not nineteen?” Remy asked.

“I was held back in kindergarten,” Emile waved off. “I hadn’t yet learned to read, believe it or not.”

“You didn’t know how to read when you were five?” Remy asked skeptically. “You?”

Emile shrugged. “Took until I was six for everything to click properly. Once I figured it out, I was quickly moving to the top of my class.”

“Ah,” Remy said. “You would have an origin story like that.”

Emile frowned. He had no clue what that was supposed to mean. “What?”

“Just...your brain seems to operate like a supercomputer, sometimes. You went from knowing virtually nothing to knowing virtually everything you asked about within the span of a year. You would. Because this is you we’re talking about, and you’re nothing if not extraordinary.”

“That’s gay, Rem,” Emile said, a smile tugging at his lips.

“We’re gay, Emile,” Remy pointed out.

“You’re gay. I’m bisexual,” Emile teased.

Remy rolled his eyes and shook his head, and Emile laughed, heart warming. He loved having little domestic moments with Remy, it made him think that they could stay together forever. He moved closer and kissed Remy’s cheek, and Remy turned red. “Stop!” he said, playfully swatting Emile’s arm. “That’s not playing fair!”

“Who said I intended to play fair?” Emile asked with a wink.

“If you’re not playing fair, you can leave the kitchen,” Remy said. “Because I need to focus on cooking.”

“Okay, boys, one of you grab a pot and fill it up with water, will you?” Dad asked.

Emile went to grab a pot, and Remy looked at the bowl they were using to mix ingredients for their meatballs with a frown. “The meatballs are missing something,” he mused.

“We added everything in the recipe,” Dad said.

“No, no, I know that,” Remy said. “But that won’t give the meatballs an extra kick in the tastebuds. It needs something else.” Remy stared at the bowl intently before saying, “Olive oil. Do you have any olive oil? I think we’ll only need like, two tablespoons.”

Dad silently passed Remy the bottle of olive oil and Remy poured in what looked to be about two tablespoons, mixing it into the meat in the bowl. Emile watched curiously. “You know, if this goes wrong, all the blame for the food tasting weird is going to land on your shoulders. Jokingly, of course, but still.”

“It won’t go wrong,” Remy said. “Let’s get these suckers in the oven and start cooking the rice.”

Emile pulled out a cookie sheet they would use to bake the meatballs on and watched in fascination as Remy near-expertly rolled the meatballs in seconds, putting them on the tray just so. Dad whistled. “You never told me your boyfriend knew his way around the kitchen, Emile.”

Remy was grinning as he worked. Emile said, “Dad, he only eats granola and instant ramen at home. I didn’t even know he knew how to cook.”

“Never judge a book by its cover, Emile. I would have thought you lived by that philosophy,” Remy teased.

Emile rolled his eyes. “I never said you couldn’t cook. Cooking wasn’t brought up between us until the day you agreed to come home with me.”

“You doubted me a little,” Remy said, squinting at Emile. “You were skeptical.”

“So I was wrong, what’s the big deal?” Emile asked.

“Nothing much, I’m just happy to know you’re not perfect,” Remy said. “Lowers the bar for my expected performance just a bit.”

“You know, no one expects you to be perfect, Rem,” Emile said.

Remy scowled. “My parents do.”

“No one who matters, then,” Emile said before he could stop himself.

Remy froze and rounded on Emile, hands coated in flour still as he crossed his arms. “Are you saying my parents don’t matter?”

“Are you saying that you still want to meet their standards after they made it very clear that they’d rather have you dead than happy?” Emile asked.

Dad choked and Emile winced. “That...I would say it’s not as bad as it sounds, Dad, but I’d be lying,” Emile sighed.

“Hey, my parents may be a little controlling, but they’ll come around,” Remy said. “Once I make it clear that this makes me happy, they’ll see that I can handle myself, and they’ll be glad I’m happy.”

Emile knew that wasn’t true. In all his twenty years of existence, people who he had met that were like Remy’s parents didn’t rest until they saw you as perfect, by their standards and not anyone else’s. Emile would treat them civilly, and with respect, but to him, their opinions meant jack. Clearly, though, Remy was clinging to the hope that his parents might come around.

Emile didn’t want to dash those hopes, but he also didn’t want Remy to be let down when his parents failed him again. And they would fail him again if they didn’t get their act together. Emile doubted they would even make an attempt to fix the rift they had created. To them, everything was fine and Remy was the problem child. He didn’t know how to respond. “If you say so,” Emile said.

“You don’t believe me,” Remy huffed.

“No, I don’t,” Emile admitted. “But there is always a chance, and if you want to hold onto that infinitesimal chance, then I can’t exactly stop you.”

“Infinitesimal,” Remy repeated. “You really think...you haven’t even met my parents properly!”

“I met your mother at the police station after they put you in holding,” Emile said. “And I was not a fan.”

“I take it this is the ‘incident’ in question?” Dad asked.

“Unfortunately,” Emile said. “Remy’s mother claimed he was a runaway staying at our apartment so that she could drag him back to his parents’ house and they could continue to dictate his life.”

“You’re making it out to be way worse than it was!�� Remy protested.

“You were put in a holding cell, Rem!” Emile snapped back.

“Boys, please,” Dad cut in. “Clearly, this is a touchy subject for both of you. Take a step back and regroup before you try and resolve this, okay? Shouting at each other will get you nowhere.”

Emile huffed and Remy just silently turned back to the meatballs. Dad looked at Emile and arched an eyebrow, decidedly unimpressed with Emile’s behavior, and Emile wanted to hide his face in a sweater, or else just go to his room until he cooled off. But he couldn’t leave Remy alone, so Emile scowled back at him. Dad didn’t know the context of the situation, he couldn’t understand what the big deal was!

Dad just gave him that level, thousand-yard stare back. Emile hadn’t been on the receiving end of that one for a long time. It was usually his last warning before he got a talking-to. Inwardly, he scoffed. A talking-to. Like he didn’t know Remy better than his dad or even his mom did. They had known Remy all of two hours. Emile pat Remy’s shoulder twice and left the room. He was not having this discussion. It just wasn’t worth it. He didn’t want to explain why he was so angry, especially considering that he would have to go into Remy’s family life, and Remy didn’t like anyone doing that.

Emile stalked all the way to his room, and flopped down on his bed. He really wasn’t up for this as much as he thought he was. Maybe coming here for the weekend was a bad idea.

He stared at the ceiling for an indeterminable amount of time before there was a knock on his bedroom door. He flipped over onto his stomach and buried his head in his pillow. “Not now, Mom.”

“Emile, you haven’t stormed out of any room since you were fourteen years old. Something is wrong, and I know you’ll feel better if you talk about it sooner rather than later,” Mom said.

“No,” Emile repeated, burying his head in his pillow further.

His mom tutted. “You know, you’re acting an awful lot like how you described Remy in the beginning of your relationship,” she said neutrally.

Emile pushed himself off the bed, pacing and running his hands through his hair. “Yeah? Well I understand where he was coming from, now, so maybe it’s normal to act like that after meeting his fu—”

“—Think carefully before you finish that sentence,” his mom warned.

“He’s clinging to a hope that’s completely unrealistic! I’ve met people like his parents before, and all they want is for you to meet their expectations, no matter how impossible it is to reach them! He’s setting himself up for failure, and I don’t want to see him get hurt!” Emile growled.

“Then tell him where you’re coming from,” his mom said.

Emile laughed incredulously. “Don’t you think I would have already tried that?! He’s completely closed off to feedback!”

“Yeah, well, given your delivery of this little rant, it’s a small wonder he listens to you at all,” his mom said. “You’re not exactly being gentle.”

Emile scoffed. “Every time I try to be gentle, he shuts me down! He hates sugarcoating, but he also won’t listen at all when it comes to those two idiots he has the misfortune to call his parents!”

His mom stepped in front of Emile, and forced him to stay still. She gazed up into his eyes and smiled softly. “Emile, you can’t save everyone. Not everyone wants to be saved. And you have a long way to go before you know almost everything about helping people through past trauma. Have you ever considered that, maybe, he doesn’t like sugarcoating because he feels lied to? Furthermore, maybe his parents are a sensitive topic, one of the few where no matter what you do, you have to be gentle. Sugarcoating might not be the way to go, but you can’t just storm in and expect him to listen to you, especially when you’re acting the way you are right now.”

“Why can’t he understand that wanting them to be there is hurting him? He’s the reason he’s setting himself up for disappointment. And if they don’t change and he lets them back in his life, he’s going to get hurt worse,” Emile said.

His mom gave him a hug. “Honey, you can’t save everyone. No one expects you to. And if Remy wants to believe his parents can change, let him for now. It means he isn’t ready to accept your view on the matter yet.”

“What if he’s never ready?” Emile asked. “What if he continuously tries to convince himself his parents will change their mind?”

“Then you let him believe that, honey,” his mom said. “And if you can’t stand to watch him get hurt, then you walk away.”

Emile swallowed, but nodded. He didn’t like that prospect, but he knew that his mom was right. If watching Remy get hurt was going to hurt Emile, then clearly he couldn’t stick around forever watching Remy get worse and worse, over and over.

Sunshine | Reylo

ao3 link

a/n: I really love AU reylo sue me okay? requests are open!!

warnings: fluff, BAND AU, Soulmate AU

Rey sat in the middle of her physics lecture, listening to her professor drone on and on about a topic she'd learned in high school. Beside her, Rose was scribbling words onto her arm. After each word she'd wait a moment until more appeared on her opposite arm. It was her soulmate. Rey rolled her eyes at the girl as she giggled silently at something Finn had said. They'd been writing each other since they first turned 18. Rose and Finn were madly in love and it made Rey want to barf, just the thought of it made her gag. Sure she was happy that her best friend was in love, but the thought of writing endless love notes on her body never appealed to her.

Typically, when people turned 18 the first thing they did was write on their skin- to see if they'd get a response. Just about everyone had a soulmate, but there were the few rare occasions that someone was born without their other half designated by the stars. Rey never wrote on her skin because everyone left her. She didn't want to be reliant on someone's handwriting. She wanted to be her. Luckily, she never got some type of declaration of love and she was fine with that. Nobody could leave her if they didn't reach out. That was her philosophy in life.

She'd always been very careful not to write anything on her skin, for fear of a response. Anytime she accidentally got marker on her hands called for an immediate trip to the bathroom to scrub the ink from her skin. As soon as the lecture ended, Rose and Rey walked to the local coffee shop on campus, their daily routine in order to study. Rose claimed them a spot in a booth away from the door while Rey went to stand in line to order their coffee and tea.

___

Kylo Ren was about to lose his mind, or commit a felony. It was only the second week of the First Order tour for his band Knights of Ren, and he was contemplating if it would be worth looking for another bassist if Hux didn't just shut the fuck up. Seriously, the pale red head was way too loud on their cramped tour bus. Phasma gave him a glare before shaking her head. "It's not worth it." She had told him. "It might be if it gets us some peace and quiet." He grumbled throwing one of Hux's own drumsticks at his head. The red head grumbled. "I fear for whoever has you as their soulmate." Hux scoffed rubbing the back of his head tenderly. "And I mourn for Phasma, considering her's will be dead in a matter of seconds." Kylo snapped angrily. Hux knew soulmate's where a tough topic with Kylo, yet he brought them up at every single god damn opportunity he had.

Kylo didn't mind not having a soulmate. Well, he didn't know if he did, they never reached out and he had no desire to himself. He just tended to assume that he didn't have one. His parents were soulmates, but they seemed to be pretty bad parents. His nights as a child were spent listening to his parents fight thinking he couldn't hear them. Maybe they were in love before him, that was a good bet but growing up they seemed to hate each other.

"Ha, yeah right Ren." Hux said throwing a marker at Kylo. Catching it, he looked around for a piece of paper. Once he couldn't find it he decided his skin worked best, somewhat forgetting that it wouldn't just appear on his own. "Yeah, look it's on my to do list." Kylo said showing his wrist.

To Do

1. Murder Hux

___

Rey returned with her tea and Rose's coffee. She handed the cup to Rose whose eyes suddenly widened.

"Uh Rey, have you talked to your soulmate lately?" Rose asked cautiously, knowing the subject was touchy for the young adult.

"Jesus Rose, you know I've never spoken to them in my life and have no desire to." Rey said with a scoff sitting down in the booth directly parallel to her. "Well, um you might wanna look at your wrist?" Rose squeaked and Rey's eyes snapped to her wrist where a simple to do list was written out.

1. Murder Hux

"Oh my god." Rey said almost spitting her tea out. "I didn't write that"

"Yeah no shit! What kind of name is Hux!" Rose almost yelled. "You gotta write back man."

"Hand me a marker." Rey said shocking herself. All of this defiance of not writing her soulmate and for what? To give that up the moment they wrote her? Rose quickly scrambled for the pen she used to write Finn all the time. Once in her hands, Rey wrote out a simple question. "God, I hope they're not a psychopath."

Does this mean I'm an accessory to murder?

Rey waited a moment, her heart rate had accelerated. She'd never done this before. It was a foreign feeling like no other. Talking to her soulmate. The thought even felt weird, nonetheless when the words appeared on her skin this time, she felt a tingle. Maybe it was because she was consciously focusing on the words, who knows.

So you do exist came the mysterious reply. Rey laughed rolling her eyes as she scribbled on her arm again. Maybe she could understand the appeal to it now.

You never answered my question. Rey replied, dodging how her soulmate knew of her negligence to reach out. But technically the blame could go two ways.

No, I'm just threatening my Bandmate. He's annoying.

Rey let out a hearty laugh, as if that made sense. Rose watched on in awe, still completely shocked at what was happening.

___

Kylo was surprised when a response showed up, he'd completely forgot about the chances that someone out there was made specifically for him. He felt like he didn't deserve a soulmate. The fates decided otherwise. Maybe he was worthy of someone.

You're in a band? They asked and he felt the tips of his ears growing red. What if this person was an obsessed super fan? He felt narcissistic even thinking that, but it wasn't rare that people drew the same words on their arms thinking he'd be stupid enough to believe them. He hesitated answering, almost scared it would be someone who knew him.

We're actually on tour currently he wrote. Plenty of bands were on tour, surely whoever they were wouldn't single his out.

Anything I might know? The words appeared on his skin. Surely whoever it was had to know who they were. They'd been on every radio station, youtube interview, and all over social media. They blew up pretty much overnight, and went from playing in small venues barely selling tickets to sold out concerts at arena's.

It's an Emo/Alternative band, nothing too special. His arm was covered in writing at this point, he was receiving strange glances from Phasma who, thankfully had managed to keep Hux quiet.

My roommate is super into that stuff, always dragging me to shows with her whenever they come to town.

"Let's go pretty boy, rehearsal in 10." Hux said calling to him. He hadn't even realized when the bus stopped moving.

"Be right there." Kylo said looking back down at his arm. Hux only scoffed and walked away from the scene, as if he hadn't been this enamored the first time him and Phasma made contact in high school.

Sorry to cut this short, but I have rehearsal he wrote apologetically. He genuinely did want to stay here and talk to the stranger all night if he could. And I have a show tonight

Oh no worries, I have an exam to study for. Break a leg :) For the first time in ages, a genuine smile crossed Kylo's face. That was a rare occurrence, and a complete stranger managed to make it happen.

Thanks :)

___ The two chatted over the next two months, growing closer. He told her about concerts, groupie's, and of course Hux and his never ending mission of annoying Kylo. She told him about her exams, her classes, how much she worked because she was stressed about money. He always offered to help her, but every time she declined, telling him that she needed to work for it herself.

He admired her for that, but let her know that if she ever needed help, he'd find a way. She still didn't know the name of his band, and he didn't mind that. She knew him as Ben. Something to differ her from the rest of crazy fans. As he was thinking about her, he felt the familiar tingle on his skin.

Today's been absolutely horrible. He frowned at that. Every once and while, she had bad days but his were more common. Knowing she felt bad made him want to destroy whoever made her feel that way.

What happened sunshine? He asked her awaiting the response. Slowly each word showed up, and when the ink smudged almost like someone was wiping it away in certain places he could tell she was crying, it smeared the ink.

I went to turn in my paper, only my computer crashed and i lost everything so I wrote a horrible paper just to meet the deadline, and then someone stole my wallet at the coffee shop so I have to get a new card and then a bird pooped on my backpack, and it's just not a great day.

Hey don't cry sunshine. He wrote the words down quickly, his heart physically aching at the thought of her crying. Kylo wanted to hold her and never let go. Unfortunately, being soulmates didn't mean you could find one another physically quickly. Another thing was that any attempt at getting a phone number or basically anything other than a first name was off limits. It just meant, there was someone out there made especially for you. Everything is going to be okay, you're strong, your paper is amazing, and you can wash your backpack.

I wish you were here love Kylo's heart fluttered at the words.

Me too, sunshine He wanted more than anything to be there. To finally know what the girl he loved looked like. To hold her in his arms, and keep her to himself. Enough about the bad, what's good that's happening soon for you?

They did this a lot when one of them had a bad day. It tended to help and get their minds off of whatever was feeling wrong to them. Typically, Rey was always the happy one who was making Kylo feel better.

Rose is dragging me to a concert this weekend that she won tickets for, I don't know who but they're always fun. He smiled at that. For some reason, Rey was always letting her roommate drag her everywhere but she always had fun doing whatever Rose's plan was for the week. He was thankful for the girl because from what he could tell, Rose always looked after Rey well.

That will be fun, try not to fall for any of the band members ;) He laughed at his own joke, startling Phasma.

"Talking to your girl again?" She asked looking up from her book. "Yeah," Kylo said smiling. "I want to write a new song, for our next show."

"About her?" Phasma said cocking a blonde eyebrow. "Fan's will certainly love that."

"They all know they never had a chance anyways." Kylo said rolling his eyes.

"Tell them that." She spoke flipping a page in her book. "But I like the idea."

___

That Saturday night, Rey stood in front of her mirror looking over her outfit with uncertainty. The green overall dress and black shirt she wore under it were out of her comfort zone, but she knew she didn't want to stick out like a sore thumb if she wore something else. She borrowed some of Rose's boots that were always for these concerts they went to. They were hard would prevent her feet from getting smashed when they were at the barricade.

She tucked a pen into her pocket, just in case,  she had told herself. That was a lie, she always wanted to talk to Ben. Suddenly she felt the familiar tingle, looking down at her wrists Ben's handwriting appeared.

Be safe tonight sunshine <3.

Always am love <3.

___

The crowd for Knights of Ren was dense. Their first album had been what got them on to the top 100 charts. Rose made Rey listen to them on the ride over, and Rey completely understood why. The lead singers voice was one of an absolute angel. The bassist was pretty amazing too. Somehow, they'd manage to get tickets about 3 rows away from the right side of the stage.

Rose squealed from beside her. "Dude this is going to be so amazing!"

Suddenly the lights went down, suggesting the concert was about to begin. Kylo Ren was absolutely gorgeous and she could tell he loved being on stage. After playing through the entire album Kylo spoke into the mic for a little bit.

"Okay, so I actually have a surprise for you guys here." He spoke, his deep voice traveling through the arena. "We're playing a new song, one I wrote very recently, for someone very special. This is Sunshine."

He nodded at Phasma who began to strum the first couple cords. Rey listened to the song carefully. It was really beautiful, and one of the best songs she'd ever heard of.

The words appeared on my skin

you said baby i've had a bad day

and I told you

Sunshine don't cry

I'm only a couple thousand miles away,

and love, you wish I was there

but I'm right here in your heart

always there to chase the rain away.

Sunshine, don't cry.

Rey's eyes widened. Remembering the conversation she had with Ben meerly days ago. One of the first things he told her was that he was in an alternative band. She scrambled for her pen in her pocket looking at Kylo with certainty before writing on her arm.

I'm right here

____

As he finished the first chorus, he felt the tingle. Subtly, he looked down towards his wrist where the words appeared. Frantically, he looked up searching the crowd, his leather gloves with the fingers cut off clutching the mic tightly.

____

She noticed his eyes searching the crowd as soon as he looked at his wrist. The same one she had wrote on. His eyes screamed one question Where? Quickly, she wrote down her location within the crowd.

My right, third row.

Despite there being thousands of people in that arena and the crying girls throughout the entire row her and Rose were in, she locked eyes with Kylo, well to her he was Ben, immediately. His eyes widened, almost in disbelief before he hopped off the stage, walking straight towards the barricade. Rey found herself pushing through the crowd of screaming girls to reach for him, Rose following hesitantly behind her. When they finally were face to face, he let the last line of the song fade away before speaking quietly, away from the mic.

"Sunshine" He spoke, making her heart burst into flames. For the past two months, she'd been imagining his voice saying his name for her. Finally, here they were. Staring at each other face-to-face in a crowd of thousands of people.

"Ben." She whispered and he put a large hand to her face cradling her cheek.

"It's you."

"Yeah, it's me love." With those words she kissed him deeply and lovingly. His arm came to the small of her back, holding her against the barricade as close as he could get her. Her hands held the back of his neck softly, but hungrily. He was finally in her arms and she never wanted to let go. Suddenly, the sound of fans screaming excitedly broke them from each others trance.

He turned to Rose quickly. "I owe you so much for bringing her here. Anything you want."

"Name your firstborn after me." Rose said in her typical fashion but also getting over the shock of what was happening.

"Sure, anything." Ben said before looking back to the crowd awaiting him. "I'm bringing you backstage, wait for me to finish?"

"Of course." Rey spoke grabbing his hand gently. Ben nodded towards security and then towards Rey before lifting her over the barricade and pressing his lips firmly against hers once more.

"I'll see you soon, Sunshine."

Teen Titans Spotlight #13: Cyborg

What are the two faces of evil? Cyborg's two halves? The two different houses Cyborg is climbing into at the same time? The gun and not the gun? The two cats in the painting? Probably Two-face?

Oh! I just understood this! I figured the chrome was Cyborg's face and the green was Two-Face's face. I thought maybe the pink was the other half of Two-Face's face but I couldn't figure out the other one until I finally started discussing black super heroes! I blame the lighting in my office and/or the colorist because the Victor "face" just seemed gold to me.

Two-Face sees Cyborg on television recognizes himself on a completely superficial level. But the superficiality is the point! He sees that Cyborg is accepted as a hero while he's seen as a monster. Maybe if Harvey Dent had become half sleek and shiny instead of half gross and disgusting, people would have accepted him and he could have gone on being a district attorney. But then it's also not the point because Two-Face understands that the people see Cyborg's deeds before they see his deformities (I probably would never refer to Cyborg's robotic parts as deformities but when you see some nice alliteration flashing its genitals in your face, you just got to put that shit in your mouth and go with it). And that's sort of the problem. Two-Face saw himself as a monster and thus began acting like one. Cyborg may think of himself as a monster from time to time but he doesn't let it stop him from making the world a better place. Harvey just uses his deformity as an excuse to not give a fuck anymore.

"We need an ad that declares 'Little kids who build our models fuck!"

I know I've suggested a ton of ways I'd use a time machine if I had access to one but I think I just came up with the thing I'd do first. I'd go back in time and tell the MPC model car company to get a different advertiser because I think their current one is a total pedo. Victor goes on a date with some woman named Cynthia Adams. I'd probably remember who she was if I didn't constantly fall asleep reading Cyborg comic books. I'm fairly certain I've used that line before but it's also possible I've just dreamed it every time I've fallen asleep reading a Cyborg comic. After the date, Victor doesn't score but mostly because Cynthia was being modest and chaste and instead of saying, "Show me that cyber-weenie, you sexy hunk of metal!", she just lets him go while secretly hoping he comes back to ravish her.

If she wasn't so thirsty, she never would have buzzed Two-Face right up!

Two-Face kidnaps Cynthia and uses the threat of her death to make Cyborg do what Harvey wants. Two-Face is all, "They'll see! There's no difference between us! None at all! Except maybe the kidnapping. And the obsessive coin flipping. And all the crimes. The only people hate me is because I'm not hot! But I'm a nice guy to! They'll see! They'll all see!" Cyborg's first task is to sneak into a woman's room and get his next task on a note under her alarm clock. But when the alarm goes off and she catches him, she calls him a monster! After escaping, Victor Stone doesn't think, "Fucking Two-Face. He made me scare the shit out of that woman by breaking into her house and startling her awake! Of course she was scared and called me a monster! Fuck, at least she didn't call me the n-word!" Instead, Victor thinks, "My name is Victor Stone. I am not a monster." Damn. Two-Face's plan is really going to work, isn't it?!

I'm perplexed as to why Cyborg begins jerking off in this panel.

While arguing with himself, Harvey admits that they first began calling themselves a monster. So the entire experiment is flawed! Two-Face wants to be able to blame his monstrous tendencies on the people who called him a monster because of the way he looked. So he's going to get Victor called a monster multiple times in one night and Victor will obviously snap! Who wouldn't?! I remember when I was called fat in junior high all those times while being fat that I became fat. No wait. Maybe that was somebody else. Nobody made fun of me because I was so fucking disconnected from what was going on around me that I never noticed. There were way better targets in junior high than me! I just went around telling everybody about how awesome Elfquest was. And they were all, "Really, fatty? Can I read your copy?" And I was all, "Sure! See you at the D&D game at lunch!"

I know I'm supposed to be reading this as if it took place in 1987 where you were supposed to think it was the robot half that everybody was afraid of and judging as a criminal. But this is 2019 and, well.

Imagine how short this issue would have been if Cyborg was connected to the Internet or had an internal cell phone. He must have had some internal gadget that could page Nightwing or the Gotham Police that he simply forgot about in the moment. Oh no, of course not. What am I thinking?! This is the era where Cyborg's only attachment was the white noise cannon! Cyborg finally confronts Two-Face on page 23 because this story is 25 pages long! Wow, I thought I was yawning a lot more than usual, even for a Cyborg story. Anyway, Two-Face declares he killed Cynthia thirty minutes ago because he totally read Watchmen and was all, "Oh fuck. That's a cool line. I am so using it some day!" But even that doesn't convince Cyborg to kill Two-Face. And while it means Two-Face gets to live, it also means Two-Face has to live with himself and the knowledge that maybe he was the real monster all along. Surprise! It wasn't society at all! Even though we all know it actually is society. People are fucking terrible. Surprise again! Cynthia was in a Two-Face mask and Two-Face was trying to get Cyborg to kill her! What a dumby! Hasn't he learned anything from Batman? If a hero doesn't kill, the hero doesn't kill! Sure, if this was Red Hood, Cynthia would be a fucking bullet sponge right now. But that's because he's expected to kill! How often does a hero who doesn't kill suddenly start killing? If you discount Hal Jordan. And Green Arrow. And Black Lightning. And Wonder Woman. And Black Canary. And Guy Gardner. And Fire. And Starman. And Obsidian. And Dr. Fate. And Black Canary. And, you know what, maybe this is too many ands for my initial premise to remain valid. Never mind. The issue ends with Two-Face realizing the problem wasn't "Cyborg could have been Two-Face" but that "Two-Face could have been Cyborg." Live with it, asshole. Teen Titans Spotlight #13: Cyborg Rating: B. I often tout Cyborg as boring because writers always simply do the same things with him. And while this is still another "Am I human?!" story arcs, at least it had a nice twist in that Cyborg plays off of a villain that you wouldn't have expected. Usually the writer brings in another character that's part robotic so that Cyborg can see his own humanity through the flaws of his foe. But has a writer ever thought, "Hey! Cyborg and Two-Face look fairly similar. I bet there's a story there?" Well, at least one did! And I'm happy to say they made a fairly decent go of it. Although wouldn't it have been nice if this story had been the last word on Cyborg's anxiety about how human he is?! Man, what if this was all the therapy he needed and for the next thirty years, DC audiences had been given a healthy Cyborg who would always be, "Oh yeah, I'm part robot! But I'm still all human! Want to fuck, baby?!" I miss that Cyborg that never existed.

I Liked Fates Before It Was Cool!: Revelation Part 2

Prologue

Opening Chapters

Revelation Part 1

Chapters 13-19, in which everyone’s going to Valla even though half of them suck.

Chapter 13

Hey look, Hoshidan scum!

Ok, meme comedy done. This is in my opinion the first really strong chapter of Revelation, with satisfying gameplay, escalation of the threat posed by Valla, and some good character development. It’s an utter tragedy that it takes place against the literal backdrop of Cyrkensia’s ruined opera house, but I can (mostly) live with the destruction of my favorite setting in Fates when it’s so effective at getting results. Azura still gets to sing here after a fashion, and although there’s no cutscene to go with it the results of this particular show do a good job of subtly foreshadowing that Azura and Mikoto use similar pacifying magic from the same source.

After Kaden and Keaton are done lampshading why the party always runs into shapeshifters in Cyrkensia, it’s time for Corrin to step between Xander and Ryoma as they left them back in Chapter 6 - at each other’s throats in a conflict ultimately engineered by Anankos. It’s a good demonstration of what the war between the two nations would look like without Corrin’s intervention, and the crown princes’ characters logically follow from their behavior as antagonists in the other routes. Xander is resolved that Corrin is a traitor and merits only death, whereas Ryoma is more hesitant to accept Corrin’s choice and, unlike in Conquest, willing to listen to their stated motivations when he’s not on the verge of death. Ryoma’s mellower outlook may be attributed, oddly enough, to the strong intimation that he’s got something going on with Scarlet, something I completely forgot about until I replayed this chapter. I don’t blame myself for doing so; in an Avatar free-for-all dating game romances between the other playable characters are naturally going to get short shrift in the story, and it doesn’t help that Birthright doesn’t suggest this relationship at all even though it’s the one route where both characters to survive to the end. And...yeah, there’s that part, but that’s for a bit later. It’s interesting to imagine how the different circumstances of Revelation could have encouraged Ryoma and Scarlet to grow closer in Revelation than they do in Birthright, though realistically it probably just boils down to Corrin not being there for most of their time together.

In any case, Ryoma shares what he knows about the Rainbow Sage - odd how the fourth person to visit the Sage is still Xander on this route when in the others it’s unsurprisingly the opposing older brother - and Corrin and co. are off to follow the path of Conquest 10 and 11. At least there’s no sequence-breaking teleport books this time.

Chapter 14

This time I’m not focusing on the cutaway to Garon and co., because his obvious gloating has reached such alarmingly stupid levels that I have nothing more to say about it. The payoff, such as it is, to that plot thread is still a few chapters away anyway...as is the appearance of Iago and Hans, who have yet to do much of anything on this route and yet get to appear as bosses at a plot-critical moment. Boo.

Let’s talk about unit balancing instead. Elise shows up with her she’s-legal-we-swear panty shot, and one look at the stats of her and her retainers showcases another glaring problem with the gameplay of Revelation. From this point onward, there’s really no point in training any of the numerous unpromoted units the game throws at you, because there’s no time to raise them up to par unless you do a lot of grinding. This is one instance where Revelation’s similarities to FE10 are more superficial than they first appear, because 

1) when compared to just one route of Fates Radiant Dawn is a much longer game, and in fact at 43 chapters still holds the record for the longest individual story campaign in the series. Revelation’s pacing and design suffers terribly from the requirement that it cover the same number of chapters as the other routes.

2) Radiant Dawn also has a massive roster (second largest in the series behind New Mystery) with several units who come behind the level curve, but they’re spread across the course of the game rather than lumped into a span of a few chapters. Examples vary from earlygame recruits just a bit behind (Meg) to underwhelming midgame units (Kyza and Lyre) to a bonus run Est type in lategame (Pelleas). 

3) and most notably, units in FE10 are divided into separate armies with different resource pools until lategame. While the balancing between those is infamously unequal, this setup almost requires that you train more units than you’ll ultimately be sending into endgame, giving even the lesser ones a small chance to shine.

I imagine that the design philosophy behind Revelation is that the player would be expected to spend a lot of time grinding on this route to get its numerous unique supports and raise a much larger army. It seems intended for a slower pace, particularly as this also helps with building up the castle base when you’ve got duplicates of most buildings to upgrade. I still don’t care for it though, because I don’t feel like taking that extra time to raise an oversized army and because some of the recruitments continue to be unexplained in story. Why would two border guards join in the invasion of a foreign port? Revelation doesn’t know or care, but it’ll make you run your new underleveled healer to both sides of this large map to recruit them regardless. At least Elise is mounted....

Chapter 15

Seriously, look at this. These two join in the same chapter, what the hell. This isn’t even mentioning that these are also some pretty random recruitments. Shura is awfully nonchalant on hearing that Corrin got his revenge for him, and Nyx has no more reason to be here than she did in Conquest 9. With her it really feels like the writers had a great (if highly fetishistic) concept for a character and came up with a plausible backstory only to find that there was no way to fit her into the plot, so...here she is. On a related note, Nyx is the only first generation character other than Gunter to outright not appear in one route, and at least there’s an explanation for Gunter’s absence in Birthright. Her presence really is just that random.

Before doing the write-up for this chapter I read back over what I’d written for the Sevenfold Sanctuary in the other routes. The gameplay of the Revelation iteration offers nothing really to speak of, lacking either Conquest’s class and skill-themed rooms or Birthright’s power jump. The Rainbow Sage uses an alternate old man sprite initially to make it less obvious that he’s repeating the same trick he pulled in Birthright, but his exposition at the end is worth the trolling for finally confirming that he is indeed a dragon and giving us the obligatory Fire Emblem name drop. Fates’s cosmology reveals itself to borrow mostly from Jugdral of all places, though I’ve never yet seen anyone try to piece together the scattered hints of worldbuilding to link the twelve dragons of the two settings. I’m certainly not going to attempt it, because even with divine weapons and draconic-blooded families in the mix there’s remarkably little to conclude definitively that the First Dragons of Fates are/were the dragons that appeared to Jugdral’s Crusaders. My pet theory aligns it a bit more with Tellius because of certain other observations about Fates’s setting and because something is going to have to connect the dragon laguz to the rest of the series’s lore eventually.

Chapter 16 + 17

I’ve been pretty down on Revelation thus far, and at first I was fully prepared to rip into these two chapters in similar fashion...and then I finished playing through them and changed my mind. If I had to pick one moment from FE14 to represent in miniature the beautiful mess that is this game, with all its inventive concepts and missed potential, its stirring emotional moments and lazy copouts, I would choose these chapters. In spite of everything they nail the very best of what Fates offers on an emotional level, and as a midgame climax they land almost as well as the Branch of Fate lands as an establishing moment.

And yet there’s so much wrong with them! Hans and Iago have never been flatter or more inconsequential antagonists; note that before this point in Revelation they’ve done nothing aside from knock Gunter off a bridge and use an illusion to piss off the Wind Tribe. The Ryoma/Scarlet angle is abruptly dialed back to the friend zone, presumably to make it okay for the Avatar to bone them, while Hinoka abruptly joins in the action after having been forgotten about for eleven(!) chapters bar one throwaway mention in Chapter 13. Xander and Leo’s apparent betrayal of Nohr has little bite to it even from Iago as Garon might as well not exist by this point, and their retainers fail so hard as backup I almost always just send them to a corner to wait out the battle. Speaking of which, the trend of underleveled units reaches its zenith, here where maybe four of the eleven units obtained in these chapters can reasonably be used without grinding after this point. It’s even worse than the torrent of garbage units the Archanea games throw at you, because at least those sometimes come with nice stuff in their inventories (hence the “Free Silvers” tier jokingly used on some of the DS tier lists back when those were popular). And to cap it all off the ticking timer that’s been running from Chapter 7 up until this moment, of the skies over Hoshido and Nohr switching as the moment that the portal to Valla will close, makes no sense either (meteoro)logically or narratively except to add unneeded urgency and entice a few of the characters to the Canyon. For that matter, since Revelation appears to take place in the same time frame as the other two routes it’s baffling that this bizarre bit of worldbuilding goes unmentioned in them. Wouldn’t it be kind of a big deal for Nohr to get a normal sky every few decades, and for Hoshido to get a bad one?

But somehow despite all that when the Nohrian brothers show up in Chapter 17 and the music switches to “A Dark Fall” (quick aside, but one thing I love about Fates as a whole is its soundtrack) I fully got what the developers were going for, and to see all the royals finally interacting with each other - something sorely missing from Chapter 6, if you recall - and calling a truce to face whatever awaits them in Valla together just sealed that feeling. The Hoshidan and Nohrian contrast to these two chapters followed by a scene of Corrin’s families united for the first time really sells the main draw of Revelation, even if for some of them the buildup to that moment was rushed (Takumi, Camilla) or just not there at all (Hinoka). Yeah, it comes with the distinct aroma of Avatar-centered plotting like everything else on this route - as Ryoma actually points out in Chapter 16, funnily enough - but even though some of the particulars are undercooked and most of the circumstances are downright silly I can completely get on board with this group of people in this moment banding together to, uh, jump off a bridge before an interdimensional portal closes because the sky is changing color and...ugh, never mind.

Chapter 18

I will say this for Valla: I really enjoy its visual style, a sort of supernaturally-ruined pastoral idyll that resembles nothing like the world above. It also helps that it’s not tied directly to any real-world cultures like Hoshido and Nohr are, and its nods to Middle Eastern, Indian, and exclusively in localization (I think?) Greek cultures come across in the series’s more typically understated fashion. Of course that otherworldly quality lends itself to more frustrating map mechanics, so it’s not entirely a positive. This one isn’t so bad provided you’re fielding a bunch of royals to activate all the Dragon Veins - and really, it’s not as though the player needs another excuse to use them to the exclusion of almost everyone else.

But of course the big moment of this chapter is Scarlet’s death. The bit with the flower is a painfully obvious hint to recall when it comes time for the reveal of her killer, but nevertheless the sequence does well despite that and some awkward staging with battle models. What doesn’t work quite as well is the reintroduction of the Ryoma/Scarlet angle just to add more punch to her death...completely ignoring the possibility that Corrin might be married to either of them (and Scarlet just undergone what had to have been one of the most hyper-accelerated pregnancies in all of fiction, if you want to be really sadistic). Because of their earlier buildup this may be the most egregious example of Fates needing to ignore its own support mechanics for the sake of the main plot. In any case, if Corrin didn’t shack up with one of them the scene after the chapter is pretty solid. I consider it comparable to Lilith’s death scenes on the other routes, since she also dies taking a hit for Corrin, but as the circumstances are less random and Scarlet actually gets most of her characterization outside DLC it’s much more effective overall.

Chapter 19

Enter the strange child with the oversized forehead. At least it’s not immediately obvious that’s he’s evil, I guess?

It’s interesting to note that the Valla chapters are structured almost as a route unto themselves, having to establish a new set of characters previously unseen in Revelation and not seen at all in the other routes. Although in terms of gameplay they function more like an extended endgame in the vein of Radiant Dawn’s Tower of Guidance, bizarre architecture and all. I’ll be talking more about Anthony and Arete and the others later on, but I wanted to note the setup for when I talk about it in the next post. 

The intro to this chapter also delves into a bit more of Fates’s cosmology, specifically its deified dragons. Xander asks what only Iago thought to question in Conquest, namely why Garon would worship Anankos and not the Dusk Dragon, only to get the obvious but still technically necessary reveal of Garon’s true nature. I do like that the First Dragons are vague enough in their presentation that I could believe either that the Dawn and Dusk Dragons are just different interpretations of Anankos or that they’re all separate entities. As I recall however this is somewhat muted by the knowledge that the emotional payoff re: Garon is going to be rather muted when it finally happens, so this really is just more vague worldbuilding. 

Oh, right, the chapter. It’s Conquest 15 with a bigger party and entirely too many items drops on the optional path. Why the developers think the player needed so many items thrown at them in a game with no durability and a route with no shortage of funds I’ll never know.

Next time: Revelation Chapter 20 - Endgame

my favourite fics in ao3

Ziam

Ninety-Eight Percent

“This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Niall chokes out, actual tears welling in his eyes. Liam hates him. A lot.

“This website is bullshit,” Liam grumbles. “Niall this can’t be real. How am I ninety-eight percent compatible with Louis Tomlinson?”

--

In which Louis is Liam's soulmate and Liam is really not amused.

Ziam Twitcam

The fans want some real life Ziam action

As He Moves

Zayn thought he wanted to know where Liam worked. Apparently he thought wrong.

Only Place I Call Home

Liam works at a coffee shop; Zayn is a homeless street performer who plays just outside the shop. Sometimes Liam brings Zayn coffee and donuts and in exchange Zayn sings for him.

Wrong Side of Love

Zayn and Liam wake up in each other's bodies.

Burning Away From Inside

They're a little too dysfunctional to be considered superheroes, but they do their best.

Connected

Fed up with Zayn and Liam skirting around how they feel about each other, the rest of the band devise a plan to get them to own up to their feelings.

(Or, Zayn and Liam are oblivious and annoying, the rest of the band can't handle it anymore, and handcuffs were probably not intended to be used this way.)

What We Become

“Nervous?”

“No.”

“It’s okay if you are,” Harry says seriously. “I mean, I know I would be. Like, if there was ever a date that was destined to go bad, it’s probably this one. Werewolf goes on date with the son of a werewolf hunter, who’s also training to be a werewolf hunter when he’s older, while another pack of werewolves are practically massacring the town, and no one has no idea how to stop them. It's not a question of what could go wrong. It's a question of what could possibly go right, and I'm willing to bet the answer to that is nothing."

Floating On The Water

Liam just wants to get through his last summer working at Malik Resort before University without incident. Of course, life is never that easy, and he ends up getting roped into giving the bosses son, Zayn, swimming lessons. That wouldn't be so bad, if Zayn didn't happen to hate him so much.

Tunnel Vision

In which Zayn is an award-winning popstar with a knack for getting himself in trouble, and Liam is the bodyguard he didn’t want to hire who has a few problems with staying professional.

Not Happening

Zayn and Liam are roommates. They hate each other. (Most of the time.)

Lover Dearest

"First rule, babe," Zayn says, leaning down. His lips slide over Liam's jaw, barely there, just a soft pressure, fleeting and gone as soon as it came. "Never trust a vampire."

He's grinning as he climbs off Liam, heading for the door. Liam watches him go, thinking that he's wrong. The first rule should be to not fall in love with one.

Larry

Learning to Eat

Celebrity chef Louis Tomlinson has a problem. He’s opening his first restaurant in 9 weeks, and he has yet to hire a pastry chef- apparently people think he’s ‘standoffish’ and ‘rude’ and ‘quick to temper’. Whatever. He ends up saddled with an annoying, happy-go lucky rookie who also happens to be obnoxiously good looking. His tv presenter and pop star best friends only add to the drama, and for fucks sake would everyone please stop quoting Julia Child?!

Kitchen AU where Harry helps Louis re-learn how to eat. (METAPHORICALLY)

we are honey and the bee

It isn’t his fault though, it is entirely the fault of whichever gods thought it would be a good idea to taunt Louis by dangling a curly haired boy in front of him with a mouth that can’t possibly be as soft as it looks, a mouth that requires further inspection with Louis’ own mouth. Unfortunately, Louis absolutely cannot do that, because it would go against all rules and guidelines in the Golden Handbook of Nanny and Employee Etiquette that he’s pretty sure exists.

au where harry plays rugby at uni, louis needs to hire a nanny, and life is one big cliche.

Turning From Praise (Punk!Harry Christian!Louis)

Louis has had a strict Christian upbringing that he never realized he resented until he meets Harry Styles, a boy who lives to rebel and doesn’t give a damn what anyone else thinks. But the better he gets to know Harry, the more he begins to realize that maybe Harry does care. And maybe “the children who God forgot” are closer to God than the devout will ever be.

if you need a loving hand

Harry and Louis are just two friends who bought a coffee shop and went into business together. They definitely probably do not have feelings for each other.

Follow Me Down This Time

Harry first noticed Louis in his second term at Hogwarts, and despite three years of inventing ways to stumble across Louis, he's never managed to actually work up the courage to speak to him. Also known as, self-indulgent Hogwarts AU, because every fandom needs Hogwarts AUs.

if you'll be my star, i'll be your sky

Louis smiles in the smuggest, most infuriating way, like he knows every thought filtering through Harry’s mind. He probably does.

“I thought you were a student, yeah,” Louis says, voice quieter now, leaving Harry to lean over the baluster somewhat to hear. “But I hoped you weren't.”

(or, Harry Potter AU where Harry takes a teaching post at Hogwarts and gets a little more than he expected when he meets the fit Transfiguration professor, Louis, who looks oddly familiar... Featuring Messrs. Horan, Malik, and Payne as well, along with some familiar faces from the HPverse)

At Least We're Breathing

(Just another mental institution fic!)

Fairly quickly, it becomes obvious to Harry why almost all of them are there; Liam can't control how much he eats-and then can't keep it down-. Niall doesn't talk, Harry himself has tried to end his own life, and Zayn isn't always...Zayn.

Then there's Louis, who no one really knows what he's in for, and Harry isn't even sure he belongs, but maybe he's glad he's there anyway.

Take A Bite Outta Me

Louis truly resents the implication that he is basically Harry’s own version of Bella goddamn Swan, because seriously, no. Just no. But the issue is that even this stupid Meyeresque revelation has done absolutely nothing to dampen his attraction to this weirdly charming vampire man who dresses in 8000 pound coats and hangs around in dilapidated buildings with his merry band of ethical bloodsuckers.

Louis is a slightly inept vampire hunter. Harry is a slightly unique vampire. They meet

Lego House

Louis didn't know what to think when he woke up with a needle in his arm and an unconscious man across the room. He didn't know what to think when he could hear everything. He didn't know what to think when he picked up four boys on his way out. Maybe, just maybe, they could get away.

or where Louis has heightened senses, Harry is basically a shape shifter, Liam can manipulate the air, Zayn can influence people's emotions, and Niall has healing powers. And crazy stuff happens as they wander through the woods.

Title is "Lego House" by Ed Sheeran

Two To Rule

Prince Louis is an intellectual interested in philosophy and human interaction; Prince Harry feeds off of power and wealth because it's all he's been raised to yearn for. Their arranged marriage will be the downfall of them both.

In Dreams

AU. When Harry moves to a new city, his new flat come with a number of sweet, anonymous gifts and surprises that brighten his days. Could it be a friendly ghost? Another friendly presence in his new building is his tattooed neighbor, Louis, who seems determined to put a smile back on his face.

yellow lamps on blackened skies

Louis is the best baker in his apartment building until his new neighbour shows up and threatens his position (and his dignity). It turns out that actually, he might have a competitive streak.

Like Master, Like Pet

In which Louis's cat apparently wants to date Harry's frog, intense studying of eyebrows is a thing, pillows can turn into flamingos, and a lot of really lame-ass jokes are made.

feel the chemicals burn in my bloodstream

“Alright, alright. No need to bite,” Harry says, holding his hands above his head in a general gesture of surrender.

Louis quirks an eyebrow and his foot nudges Harry’s as he moves to sit straight. “If that’s what you think biting is, you’ve got another thing coming, Styles.”

Harry blinks at him before he feels his face flush and inside the marrows of his bones there’s pulses of heat, pulses of fire spreading through him. “Is that a threat, your Highness?”

“That’s a promise,” Louis answers just as the car halts to a stop. “One I intend to keep.”

Harry is a journalist with a lot of secrets and Louis is the future king of the United Kingdom; they live together for 60 days.

With the Rising Sun

This idea bloomed after seeing a post of 19-year-old Harry with a picture of younger Louis and I just really wanted to make something where Harry was older.

Louis had been living in NYC for two years now while studying at NYU, and was probably the least social 21-year-old ever. Somehow he got roped into his sister's brilliant idea of getting her college best friend to help him branch out and meet people. Only there was one problem — Harry Styles is like the hottest thing on two legs and Louis' not ready to see a much older version of the boy who filled his fantasies as a teenager.

the value of this moment lives in metaphor

Louis and Harry are best friends and absolutely nothing more. It’s a bit strange that, suddenly, everyone thinks they’re dating.

Or the one where they’re all teachers at a high school and students are more invested in their lives than normally expected.

Baby Heaven's in your Eyes

They couldn’t be more different if they tried. Louis Tomlinson is 17 years old and in his last year of the most prestigious private school in Doncaster. If there’s one thing that completely annoys him, it’s that there is a poor community college right across the street.

Harry Styles is 19 years old, and (once again) in his last year of college. He goes to community college in Doncaster. He never shows up to classes and if he actually bothers to, he’s either high or drunk; sometimes both. His skin is littered with tattoos and if there’s one thing he absolutely hates, it’s the snobby students attending the private school right across from his.

Or a sixth form!AU where Harry is the fucked up bad boy with too many problems, Louis is the perfect rich boy with too much money and their schools are right across from each other. They meet at a party and that’s the last (and maybe the only) thing they need.

put the stars in our eyes

Louis goes to bed having ordered a nineteen year-old husband.

Louis is set to inherit the family farm after the death of his father, but after finding out that he needs to be married in order to do so, purchasing a nineteen year-old, mail-order husband named Harry Styles seems to be the easiest answer.

Zouis

Bruised

Louis accidentally gives Zayn a black eye and it sets off the weirdest year of his life. Set in New Jersey.

Chéri

growing up AU: In which Louis lives far away, but visits every winter; and Zayn falls just a bit more in love each year.

like any real love it's ever-changing

"Do you think if I repeat 'this isn't happening' for long enough it'll make it true?" Louis asks.

The cat—Zayn—moves its tail. Louis doesn't know what that means.

"I have no idea what that means," Louis says.

Zayn turns into a cat. Louis figures some things out.

if not the happiest, surely the luckiest

AU. reform boarding school for the obscenely wealthy, essentially. zayn is new and louis is hot shit.

high hopes

i know it's crazy to believe in silly things, but it's not that easy

Dreaming Of Another World

It was all Narnia’s fault.

I grew up in a deeply religious family, one that eschewed ‘worldly’ media for the religious variety. I remember Dad dragging us out of a showing of the Lion King one rainy September day--I think we’d gone to one of those theatres where the tickets were cheap and they only showed movies that had been out for a long time because my family was thrifty like that--because he was furious. Some time later, he explained to me that Disney was trying to brainwash us with “New Age Philosophy,” and he was angry at the spirit that tried to do it to us. Not a great birthday memory for me.

But Narnia? It had magic and monsters and demons and werewolves, and for whatever reason, we were allowed to watch it whenever we went to Grandma’s house. My parents drove us up to Independence, Missouri every few months for something called Enzyme Potentiated Desensitization, where we would stay with grandma and watch Narnia. EPD was an experimental allergen treatment that was banned in 2001.

I remember drinking water with bismuth in it and eating an awful meal that had the consistency of literal shit. This was supposed to help us get over our allergies, but I think the treatment was far worse. We weren’t allowed to eat many things, and most of what we could eat was disgusting, so most of the time, we laid around, sick, feverish, and vomiting, and we ate reheated french fries from Wendy’s (McDonald’s wasn’t allowed due to the oil they used), and we watched all of Grandma’s old movies.

My favorite one was The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, a movie about kids who escaped the horrors of World War II by traveling to another dimension where it was always winter and a cruel, monstrous witch ruled with an iron hand. Eventually, thanks to the help of the Christ-like Aslan, they overthrew her.

It was a dark movie, a far cry from the generally happy, low-intensity religious movies Mom let us watch. Aslan died, y’know. It was, to 8 year old me, the most incredible thing in the world. Later, I read the rest of the books, and I loved them too. My favorite was The Silver Chair, the darkest and least hopeful book of all. No one book had more of an impact on my artistic sensibilities than The Silver Chair. Real stakes! Real pain! Hope! Triumph! All the good stuff.

When I was 10, I found Digimon.

I was hanging out at Hyram’s place watching The Magic School Bus, a show that we weren’t allowed to watch at my house because of the magic. Hyram’s family, being Mormon, had a more enlightened--so it seemed--outlook on the world, being okay with sci-fi and fantasy stories that my parents forbade us from seeing. So there we were, watching The Magic School Bus, and the commercials came on, and Fox Kids aired a commercial for Digimon (Adventure 01, Episode 28, in case you were wondering--the one with the ferocious Devidramon).

Digimon was even darker than Narnia. It’s villains were literally Satan and a Vampire. There’s an episode where one of the kids is told her mother doesn’t love her and as a result, she’ll never be able to help her friends. There was drama, self-doubt, pain, misery, and, in the end, the kids overcame the darkness that opposed them and triumphed.

Over the years, I found increasingly creative ways to catch my Digimon fix, going to the church next door with a cable I’d found to connect to the TV so I could just barely catch Fox 24 when it was broadcasting. When Digimon stopped airing, I desperately searched for a way to download the show online, which led me to IRC, which took me to roleplay forums, which led me to Kotaku comments, and finally Twitter, which is where I know most of you from.

I realize this may all sound very self-indulgent, and I’m sorry for that, but I feel it’s important to establish the personal context here. I love these stories about going to other worlds and experiencing things that our worlds could never give us. The stories acted as a kind of meta-transportation, a way of letting me escape the frustrations of my own life.

When I finally made the transition from cartoons and books to video games, everything seemed to snap into place. Games were the closest thing I’d ever found to actually visiting Narnia or the Digital World. My friend Robert introduced me to Halo in his trailer home. My parents gave me Microsoft Flight Simulator, and it was like being able to fly planes in real life, so much so that when I eventually attended flight training, my instructors told me I flew like someone with thousands of hours under his belt.

Games let me go places.

Games let me see new things.

So, one day, in early 2007, I found a copy of PC Gamer with Bioshock on the cover in the Wal-Mart magazine aisle. I remember furtively browsing the issue, making sure Mom didn’t suddenly round the corner and catch me reading it. The game looked incredible, but I was focused more on roleplaying forums at the time, and I forgot about it until that fall, a few weeks after it came out. CompUSA was going out of business and was selling off their games. I couldn’t game at home--our computers were old Boeing surplus and ran the Half-Life 2 Ravenholm demo like a slideshow--but with a portable hard drive I’d purchased and hid in the ceiling tiles of my bedroom, I could play them at the university I was attending.

So I did.

First person games appealed to me because they let me experience the game worlds as though they were real experiences. It was the closest thing to going to another world; third person games didn’t elicit the same response, so I didn’t play them as much. I was a big fan of the Age of Empires: Rise of Rome demo that came with my copy of Microsoft Flight Simluator, though. But it was the first person games, the ones I found on Maximum PC demo discs, that really mattered to me. I’d played hundreds of hours of Unreal Tournament 2004, Call of Duty, and even Far Cry.

When I played Bioshock, everything changed. I had to get my own computer. Had to. I moved out in late December to go learn to fly at K-State Salina. Got really sick that spring--my illness was just starting to reveal itself--and I flunked most of my classes. I was so sick most days I couldn’t leave the house. Got diagnosed with severe social anxiety disorder later. Only left the house at night unless I had classes, when I could make it to them at all. I’d earned enough money the previous fall to build myself my own computer.

I played games.

Bioshock had led me to System Shock 2. I pirated a copy of STALKER: Shadow of Chernobyl because I’d seen the disc at CompUSA (alongside Blacksite: Area 51) but only had the cash to buy Bioshock and The Orange Box without my parents noticing. I played FEAR and its expansions. All the Half-Life games. Crysis. Call of Duty 4. It was a great time to experience a lot of amazing first-person games.

System Shock and STALKER were the biggest influences.

When I moved back that summer, I scrounged and saved and used the last of my savings to buy STALKER: Clear Sky and Crysis Warhead. I played them while living in the unheated camping trailer my parents used to own (it was cheaper than paying for dorms whenever we attended church camps). It was cold. I could see my own breath most days. I got a job at Office Max and used it to buy a copy of Far Cry 2. A few weeks later, I picked up Fallout 3.

If you’re familiar with these games, you’ll notice a lot of them have things in common. They do interesting things with the game world. Many are heavily systems driven compared to their contemporaries. STALKER’s world especially feels completely alive. System Shock 2 does a bangin’ job of making you feel like you’re really exploring an abandoned spaceship. Far Cry 2’s systems-driven gameplay is fascinating and influences designers to this day. Fallout 3 has one of the best ecosystems in a video game, with enemies who you can wound and terrify and allied characters who will come to your aid.

Even Blacksite: Area 51 was a fascinating game. It had this cool morale system that had your soldiers responding to your commands and combat prowess in ways that, at the time, felt believable and awe-inspiring. In Crysis, if you dropped an unconscious man in a river, he would die because he drowned. Incredible. It felt real.

The games that shaped my experience took me to other worlds, shaping my perception of what games could be in a very specific direction. As someone who’d grown up reading the old Microsoft Flight Simulator tagline “As real as it gets,” I felt right at home.

I tried other games, like Nintendo’s platformers or controller-centric spectacle fighters like Devil May Cry 3, but I didn’t like them. They were too obviously games. You got points. Everything was abstract. I was playing. I wasn’t going anywhere.

As my health declined, the importance of traveling to other places increased. The mark of a good game for me became one where I could forget about the world I lived in and exist in another world. I’m reminded of Lord Foul’s Bane, a book in which a writer with leprosy is transported to another world where he is healed of his leprosy. Games provided me that escape, especially the immersive ones.

Ah.

Right.

That word.

Immersion is nothing to be afraid of. Some people say that any game can be immersive, because one of the meanings of the word is roughly analogous to “engrossed,” but the English language is weird and tricky and sometimes two words share the same meaning in the dictionary but mean very different things.

To be engrossed in something is to have your attention completely arrested by it. To be immersed in something, well… when you’re immersed in water, you are literally, physically inside of it. You are a part of the water, as much as you can be.

I was seeking out immersive qualities in games without really understanding it. I would learn that some of my favorite games in the genre were literally called “immersive sims.” Some people will argue that they are not engrossed by those games, so they cannot possibly be immersive, but I’d argue that when you’re immersed in something, it surrounds you, you’re inside it. Whether or not it grabs your attention is up to you.

When a game is immersive, it might not grab your attention, but it’s doing its best to create a living, breathing world. When you drop an unconscious man in water, he drowns because that is what would happen in real life. When you perform well in combat, your allies rally around you. When you shoot an enemy in the leg, he limps.

An immersive game is one that does its best to represent a cohesive reality.

If you don’t believe me, go listen to Paul Neurath, a founder of Looking Glass, a studio that made games like System Shock and Thief, talk about why they made the games they did. Look at the cool attempts at simulation elements in games made by LGS alumni, like Seamus Blackley’s Jurassic Park: Trespasser, or Warren Spector and Harvey Smith’s Deus Ex. Emil Pagliarulo got a job at Bethesda and has a senior role (I forget what it is, exactly, sorry) on simulation-heavy games like Fallout 3 and Skyrim.

Heck, the Sega 2K Football games were praised as having some of the most sophisticated and realistic AI in sports games before the NFL decided it wasn’t cool with yearly games being priced at a sub-premium price point. Marc LeBlanc worked on the AI for those.

The way I heard it, Looking Glass made flight simulators with realistic physics (I believe that was thanks to Blackley’s background as a physicist). At some point, the folks at Looking Glass thought it would be cool to take Dungeons and Dragons style tabletop and make a game out of it, but instead of building something like the isometric Ultima, they’d apply the flight simulator logic to it. The whole thing would be first person, and you could treat it like you were really there. Their publishing partner decided this new game should be an Ultima game, so Ultima Underworld was born.

After that, Looking Glass made a mix of flight simulators, golf games, and weird first-person games that took you to other worlds. System Shock put you on a space station. Thief let you do exactly what it said on the cover. Terra Nova was… well, read this piece on Rock, Paper, Shotgun. All of these games were fascinating and transformative, even if they had weirdly inaccessible control schemes.

Eventually, the studio died. Sony and Microsoft passed on buying them, Eidos made some poor financial decisions and couldn’t pay them. Talent moved off to other studios. Eventually, they shut down.

A few developers tried to carry the torch. Ken Levine’s Irrational games released Bioshock, which was like the bro shooter version of System Shock. Ion Storm Austin produced Thief 3 and two Deus Ex games. Bethesda’s work has become increasingly Looking Glass-influenced over the years. Clint Hocking’s Splinter Cell: Chaos Theory and Far Cry 2 clearly learned from Looking Glass’ games as well.

Over in France, a guy named Raphael Colantonio founded a studio called Arkane. They made a game heavily inspired by Ultima Underworld called Arx Fatalis. Then they made another one, called Dark Messiah of Might and Magic, using a Ubisoft license.

As game tech got better, simulation elements became more pronounced. The German Yerli brothers unsuccessfully pitched a neat dinosaur game, but eventually managed to convince Ubisoft to publish Far Cry and EA to publish Crysis. Their games are mostly known for their graphics tech, but I’ve always been fond of their intriguing stabs at realism; on its highest difficulty, Crysis’ enemies speak Korean, making it difficult for most players to understand their callouts. Crysis lets players use the game’s physics to enhance its combat, collapsing buildings on enemies or leveling foliage to give them access to easier sight lines. I wrote about one of my favorite levels here.

Bioshock brought the attention back, though. Even though it wasn’t very simulation heavy, it gave players that sense of presence that so many had been craving. Some developers stumbled; Far Cry 2 is beloved by game designers but wasn’t the critical or commercial success Ubisoft hoped. STALKER was one of the buggiest commercial games I’ve ever played, capable of crashing if you so much as blinked, so it didn’t sell as well as THQ would have liked, and GSC Game World sought a new publisher for Clear Sky, then shifted to yet another publisher for Call of Pripyat.

Fallout 3 had more simulation elements than most of its contemporaries and, I’d argue, did a better job presenting a living, breathing world than any other game of its generation, but people were too busy being mad that it wasn’t a classic isometric RPG to notice.

So, this is where my head was at when I entered into the world of immersive sims. I was fascinated by simulation elements, in love with the idea of exploring other worlds, and, most importantly of all: I needed an escape from my health. Immersive games, some of them sims, some of them not, provided the escape I craved.

In 2011, I downloaded the leaked demo of Deus Ex: Human Revolution. I’d been mowing the lawn and was going to take a shower before sinking my teeth into it, but it was so engrossing that, before I knew it, five hours had passed and I’d played the entire thing. As soon as I scraped the cash together, I bought myself a copy. It was the first game I’d been able to afford in years.

I loved it.

The next year, Arkane roared back to life with Dishonored, which was one of my favorite games, not just because it’s really fucking good, not just because the world is fascinating and creative, not just because Harvey Smith, the man responsible for Deus Ex and Blacksite (he deserved better treatment from his publisher on that one; if they’d had more time, I think it would have been rightly hailed as a masterpiece; as it stands, it’s a fascinating thing that I love to pieces), partnered up with Arkane to make it, but because it helped me get my first writing gig.

If you wanna read my thoughts on Dishonored, check it out here.

And yet…

Something felt off.

Not about Dishonored, but about the conversation surrounding immersive design. I’d read posts by people who talked about the importance of design, who placed a weird focus on systems-driven design, who seemed to think that immersive games were stealth games and nothing but.

Before Dishonored and Human Revolution, I recall reading one of the foremost voices in immersive design discourse proclaiming the genre was dead because Looking Glass and Ion Storm had shut down. He argued, while Fallout 3 was selling millions of copies, that immersive sims were dead because they weren’t commercially viable. Many agreed with him.

After the apparent sales failings of Prey (Arkane), Dishonored 2, and Mankind Divided, I’ve heard those conversations picking up again.

I think they’re wrong, and I’d like to try to explain why.

I think a lot of the people who talk about immersive sims, focusing on immersive design and talking about what these games should be, tend to get hung up on Very Specific Details without looking at the bigger picture. Go watch the Underworld Ascendant Kickstarter pitch video, and you’ll hear Neurath talk about how important it is to solve problems logically. Go listen to a lot of the immersive sim fans talk about games, and you’ll hear them talking about… well, other things.

One thing I feel like I see a lot is an emphasis on stealth mechanics. That’s great! I love stealth games. But I’d argue that stealth is not an important part of immersive games. Some people have told me that they don’t think Bethesda games are immersive sims because the stealth in those games is nowhere near as in depth as Thief. Maybe, maybe, but here’s the thing:

I think you could make an immersive game where you’re 12 years old and you’re visiting your grandparents at their farm on an island somewhere, and the entire game is just about being a kid exploring a little seaside town and making new friends. I think you could catch fireflies and go to the library and go fishing and do all sorts of things on an island that feels just as alive as STALKER, without actually doing any stealth.

But if you go play Dishonored or Deus Ex: Human Revolution, or the Thief games, or whatever, you’re going to have the immersive sim community types talking about how important stealth is. Thief is good, but get over it. It’s just one manifestation of a broader genre. Stealth is GREAT. Dishonored so good I will buy any Dishonored game sight unseen. I would kill to get a job working for Arkane, even if it was like… as a janitor or something. I love those people and I love their games.

I think the emphasis on stealth is part of the reason a lot of these games have failed. I love stealth games for the same reason I love horror games; they’re high-intensity, high-stakes games that, when you play them well, make you feel like a real master. I’d also argue that stealth is exhausting. Maybe I’m more attuned to this than most due to the whole chronic fatigue thing, but like…

In a stealth game, success can feel like failure. You’re constantly feeling the pucker factor. If you are seen, you fail, even if the game doesn’t actually have an instant failure state. When I get seen in Dishonored, I have to fight. Fighting is really fun, but getting caught means I wasn’t able to do what I wanted to; I messed up. I’m a failure. A lot of stealth stuff ends up feeling like constantly being on edge and failing because you had to kill like 5 dudes who saw you. I played Hitman last night and every time I killed or choked out someone who saw me, I just wanted to start the whole thing over.

I’d argue that most people feel this way when playing stealth games. They don’t like the stress. A little stealth is nice, especially in a game like Far Cry 5 where you can approach a base with a sniper rifle and take out like 6 dudes without them noticing you, but getting into a firefight afterwards feels fun and purposeful too, so you get a nice mix of occasional stealth and action. I think that’s probably why Far Cry 5 is the best-selling video game of 2018 so far (Red Dead releases tomorrow).

I love that we’re making stealth games with immersive elements, but I think we’re making a mistake when we assume that immersive games must be stealthy ones. There are so many games that claim to learn from immersive games--Mark of the Ninja, Deus Ex: Human Revolution, Wildfire, Quadrilateral Cowboy--and they do, but they’re also so very focused on stealth (the ones I’ve played are all among my favorite games, by the way! Please don’t think of this as a knock against them!). I can’t think of any game that claims to be influenced by immersive sims that doesn’t have stealth.

Stealth is a verb (short version: game design speak for ‘thing you can do’). It is not the genre.

Then there’s the whole “design” thing. Mario games are exceptionally designed. Each level is a unique, bespoke challenge, stacking mechanics on top of mechanics and helping you develop your mastery over the experience. This design comes at the expense of… well, I’ll get to that later. For now, I’ll just say that Mario Feels Like A Game.

That’s not a bad thing, but, like, you’ve got this for, so you know what I’m about. You can see why that might not appeal to me personally.

Buuuuuuut… a lot of the newer, like… I don’t know, it’s weird to call them “design-focused,” because all games are designed, a lot of these newer immersive sim type games seem focused on that kind of immaculate design. Walk into the bank in Deus Ex: Mankind Divided and you’ll see The Person You Can Talk Your Way Past If You Have That Skill, you’ll see The Lasers You Can Sneak Past If You Can Turn Invisible, you’ll see The Vending Machine You Can Lift If You Have The Strength Ability, and you’ll see The Air Vent You Can Crawl Through To Get To The Computer You Can Hack If You’re A Hacker.

Mankind Divided will give you The Most Experience Points for playing this without being detected and without killing anyone.

Suddenly, you are incentivized to treat the game like a game because it is objectively better for you to approach all objectives in a specific way. Heck, in Human Revolution and Mankind Divided, after you’ve nonlethally subdued everyone in a room, you can hack all the computers (even if you have a password) and crawl through all the vents (though there’s no reason to) for Maximum Points. It… it makes no sense. You’re not trying to be a part of the world. The game rewards you for engaging with it on a level that must recognize the game as an illusion.

It’s not the only game. I loved Prey, but I got the sense that I was being graded as I played, which meant I started playing more to the game’s expectations of me rather than how I felt I ought to act. Look, I grew up in a family environment where people were sneaking up on me to see if I was acting righteously. I grew up in a church where I was paraded in front of two hundred kids and told that I had The Devil in me because my pottery had shattered in their shoddily-built kiln and destroyed most of the rest of the pottery. I am so fucking tired of being judged, so exhausted of having to act a specific way to avoid being treated like garbage, I don’t want games to do it to me too. I just want to act in a way that feels appropriate.

In Eidos Montreal’s immersive sim games (and most immersive games, for that matter), I felt like I was running into The Metroid School of Design, in which a player is unable to progress through a level without the right tool, with one key difference: there are multiple tools you can use to progress. Four routes into the same room, every room, all the time.

This creates a sense of artifice. When I see a bunch of chandeliers and mysterious, architecturally suspect vents that show me an obvious route through a map, I see the designer’s hand. I see that the designer has planned all these routes for me. They have planned for any eventuality. They want me to sneak my way through this room, regardless of the skills I have at my disposal.

I can play their game in just one way. I can ghost-stealth it perfectly and get The Good Ending, or I can Violence Through It and get less progress points and The Bad Ending. If I am a hacker, there will always be a door to hack. If I am a fighter, there will always be a man to fight.

Oh, sure, the best games will give you a dozen tools that can be combined in really interesting ways, but someone has figured out what all those tools are and designed each level to perfectly accommodate every. Single. tool.

Every level is a puzzle, and puzzles are designed by a human with the intent to solve them. You don’t need to be creative--heck, sometimes, being creative is actively discouraged--because all you need to do is figure out what the designer wanted you to do and do it. Ah, I have tools X, Y, and Z? I know exactly where I’m supposed to deploy them. See, there’s the path you can blink through and the door you can bypass with a specific tool or the fish you can possess to swim through.

And… I cannot stress this enough:

It’s not bad.

It’s good.

It’s very good. I fucking love these games. They mean the world to me. They do.

But can you see how that might not be what I was looking for, and how I feel that’s… quite a long way removed from what Looking Glass was trying to do? Instead of solving solutions in a natural way, these games have created very nice puzzle worlds. As someone who loves puzzles, this is wonderful, but as someone who loved what Looking Glass and STALKER were doing… I can’t help but feel my own needs and interests aren’t being met.

I mentioned I was playing Hitman. I love it. I love it to pieces. I just did a Suit Only, Silent Assassin run and it was thrilling. But, like… I knew the route the guy would take. I knew The Device that I could interact with to take him off his path. I didn’t feel like I was improvising; instead, I was looking at one of several dozen ways the designers had very carefully placed in my path.

I can see you, designer. I know you’re there.

I couldn’t see the designer in STALKER. Everything felt natural to me. I woke up in a bunk. I met Sidorovich. He asked me to run a job for him. On my way to the job, there were dead animals and a wounded Stalker. He asked me for a med kit. I gave him the med kit. He became my friend. I joined a few Stalkers and we took out a bandit camp.

This will happen in every playthrough. It has been designed. I get that. But it wasn’t like a designer came in shouting PLAY YOUR WAY, ALSO THIS IS A STEALTH GAME, right? I could take out that encampment however I wanted. The more I play, the more tools I find. Sometimes, they randomly pop out of an anomaly. Other times, I find them on the corpses of people who died in a brutal gunfight. In Clear Sky, the gun you wield in the opening cinematic can be found right where you left it. It’s broken, but you can find a man to repair it, and later, you can get ammo for it by eliminating high-level enemies.

If someone says “hey, please help me take out this facility,” that’s all the direction you have. How you take it out is up to you. Stealth it? Sure. Lead mutants to it? Absolutely. Come in under cover of night or rain? You bet. STALKER’s verbs might be limited, but the game itself is so much more flexible. Sneak in through a crack in the wall or charge the front gate.

You play your way, but “your way” doesn’t mean four skill trees, it means “here’s a real, tangible space, with no hint of the designer’s hand. This feels real, like it actually exists in the outskirts of Chernobyl. There are bad men inside. Go get them, using whatever tools you have available to you.”

STALKER feels natural.

In fact, if there was one word I’d use to describe my ideal immersive game, “natural.” Would be that word. When I play Far Cry 2, I am playing a Designed Game. This is the Friendly NPC Zone. There are no friendly NPCs outside it. You can safely kill everyone because they’re bad. Everyone hits hard, so it’s best to snipe them. Make sure to go to the safe house, which looks exactly like all the other safe houses (and has the exact same supplies plus one unique bonus gun) to engage The Buddy System™, recharging your Buddy Meter® so your Buddy® will come to your aid when you go down One Time. If you go down a second time, he will die. This is how it always happens. It will never deviate.

In STALKER, I was caught finding bandits when a man named Edik Dinosaur passed by. He and I had met on occasion on the road. Edik Dinosaur fought valiantly alongside me, because he hated bandits and he liked me. I accidentally shot him during the encounter. He died because of me. That was way more impactful than Far Cry 2’s Super Obvious Buddy System, you know?

It was like I was there. I had to grapple with a sense of guilt at shooting blindly into the brush after a fleeing bandit.

I remember a story of someone playing an old Zelda game, I think it was Ocarina of Time, when their mom walked in and asked them what they were doing. They explained that, to cross a bridge, they had to get some item to unlock it. “Why don’t you just chop down a tree to cross the river?” came the reply. The storyteller said they rolled their eyes at this and thought their mom was crazy, but later, they were like “actually, yeah, why can’t I do that?”

Breath of the Wild let players do just that. It was hailed as a brilliant new Zelda game and seems more beloved than… basically every Zelda game in decades? This is a game where you can shoot a fire arrow, watch the grass catch fire, and use the updrafts to fling yourself into the sky, which lets you drop down on top of your foes for a powerful melee attack.

I have my complaints with the game, which you can read here, but I’m fascinated by the way its overworld avoids just outright telling you how to play and letting you figure out how to solve the problems it presents to you. Instead of being A Puzzle Game, Breath of the Wild’s overworld feels like a stylized yet real space. Its people are alive. Its spaces are not clearly designed to be exploited by specific mechanics. The Designer’s Hand is invisible.

This brings me to Bethesda.

Yes, sure, if you’re an RPG fan, Bethesda probably isn’t going to make you a happy camper. The writing can be stupid at times. They let you do anything, even though the narrative acts as though you’re on an urgent mission. The modular system design makes the world feel super artificial, and you can exploit the game’s systems in dumb, unrealistic ways, like putting a bucket on a person’s head (the AI has no sense of personal space and doesn’t mind) so he can’t see you steal things, or you can craft a million daggers so you can be The Best At Blacksmithing or whatever.

But… the thing is, when I hop into a Bethesda world, it feels relatively real. While you have a lot of skills that make you better at playing specific ways, like Unarmed or Melee or Rifles or Handguns or whatever, you’re never walking into a fight and seeing Five Specific Tool-Driven Routes and deciding which tool is The Best One For The Job.

I feel like too many immersive sims are specifically stealth-driven games with immaculate designer-driven puzzles that give you a dozen different tools to use How You Want (but, hint hint, there are a few very clear routes).

Bethesda games give you a billion tools and let you loose in the world, much like STALKER does. You can shoot someone so much they become afraid of you and run away, but some people are less afraid than others and will fight you to the death. Take out a guy with a good gun, and his buddy will run over, pick it up, and use it against you unless you can get to him first. Approach this fort aggressively, sneak in, talk your way in, do whatever. It’s going to depend as much on who’s in the fort as it is on you. Heck, I think in Skyrim, if you’re wearing Imperial gear, you can walk into an Imperial fort without anyone realizing you’re not an Imperial.

Bethesda games let you play how you want in the moment.

They let you formulate a plan based on what you feel like doing, and sometimes, you’re going to find places you can’t take on because nobody bothered to design a way for a specific character build to attack. Come back later or get creative. It feels more natural than most immersive sims because it’s trying to be a real place, rather than an artfully designed one. Yeah, Bethesda games have rough edges. They do!

And yet… they are immensely successful, and I think it’s because they’re actually trying to send their players to other worlds. They’re not demanding you play stealthily, they’re not giving you the same routes so that every player can play One Specific Play Style. They’re bringing a world to life and letting you live in it. In Skyrim, I can go save the world and become the boss of the Magic College, or I can be a simple elk hunter, peddling my wares.

I guess where I’m at is… we saw one studio trying incredible things in games, and they went under through little fault of their own. Their successors didn’t find the smashing success that the enthusiasts think they deserve, but I think that’s because… well… a lot of the enthusiasts are just looking at one or two games on the spectrum and refusing to make anything else. I think so many of the genre’s fans have a very limited, very specific view of what the genre can be, which is why none of them have managed to recapture the glory of Looking Glass; they’re not making the kind of games Looking Glass was, no matter how much they claim that they are.

There’s too much artifice in the inheritors.

Bethesda’s out there making billions of dollars because their games live up to the Looking Glass ideal more than anything else out there. These other games, this other design philosophy, it’s great. I love it. It’s wonderful and beautiful and fascinating, but when I see people arguing that “nobody wants immersive games,” because those games didn’t break sales records, I want to scream “how would you know? You’ve made something else!”

STALKER sold like 6 million copies. Skyrim’s up at like… what, 20 million now? Breath of the Wild has sold a bajillion copies. Red Dead Redemption 2 is poised to be the second best-selling game of 2018 after Black Ops IIII. Grand Theft Auto V made a billion billion dollars and it’s got some of the most sophisticated immersion elements in video games. Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain is one of the “could this realistically work?” games out there and it made a ton of cash. When you make a game that’s really about existing in a living, breathing world, you can make a shitload of cash.

When you make a stealth game with a lot of Specific Tools and Obvious Routes, you’re making a great video game, but you aren’t making an immersive one. That’s okay, but please don’t argue that we should stop making immersive games because your model didn’t work. The immersive model is thriving. You just made something else.

I just want to escape to other worlds.

Of Snakes and Lions  Ch-7

Rated: Smut

Pairing: JaehyunxReaderxTaeyong

Summary: Your new term at Hogwarts starts with more drama then you intended. You didn’t expect your oldest friend to have feelings for you, but you didn’t expect to have feelings for a Gryffindor jock either.

Mini Masterlist

The next day she was already studying with Doyoung for their next assignment. She noticed his lingering gaze at moments but decided not to point it out. Focusing on work instead.

“Are you guys working on the History of Magic paper?” She looked up and smiled noticing Johnny.

“Yes, want to join us?” She said without hesitation and he nodded sitting down.

“Hi Doyoung.” Johnny smiled at him politely and he gave him a half hearted smile.

“Johnny is really good at the subject.” She explained to Doyoung who offered a distracted nod as he continued writing in his notebook.

“I was always fascinated by those.” Johnny said, pointing at Doyoung writing.

“The pen or the notebook?” She inquired.

“Both.” He admitted, “I swear you all have such amazing things in the Muggle world.” He said with wonder and she laughed. She rummaged through her bag and picked out a notebook and a pen.

“This is empty so you can keep it.” She offered it to him and he looked flustered.

“No I can't-” He stuttered.

“Please, I insist. I have plenty more. Consider this a thank you for helping me with this subject every time.” They both laughed at that.

Doyoung listened to their conversation quietly, holding onto his book a little tighter and not looking away from it. He didn't need any help so he didn't interrupt as Johnny explained some things to her, he was clearly better at the subject than he himself.

By late morning they were joined by Sicheng and Johnny's best friend Ten. No one was studying anymore and they three boys only told them about things that happen in the Gryffindor dorm too often.

“I was supposed to study divination.” She sighed after a while, still laughing at an anecdote.

“We're sorry.” Johnny said and she shook her head.

“No I really enjoyed listening to those. It must never get boring in the Gryffindor Tower.” She said and they laughed in agreement.

“I'll just go finish the rest of this in my room.” She announced, already packing her things.

“Or you could come with me to my room.” Her hands froze as Doyoung spoke beside her, “I have a book that could help you.” He said casually and she turned around to look at him, her stomach dropping already.

“Okay sure, let's go.” She nodded at him and he smiled.

“And then?” Hansol asked as he chewed on the same candy.

“We didn't do any studying.” She groaned, dropping her head into her hands with embarrassment. He chuckled lightly.

“Well at least your afternoon was eventful.” He chuckled, his voice held no sign of judgement or caution. And that's what she truly adored about him. She laughed and hit his arm playfully.

“Are you sure about him though?” Hansol asked as he offered her a piece of candy and she took it.

“Of course not. This is Doyoung, things are never simple with him.” She admitted.

“Then why?” He inquired and she groaned again, very dramatically.

“He just fucks me in a way I enjoy. I forgot what a good fuck he was.” She sighed and laughed when Hansol’s face contorted.

“I'm more than willing to listen to your greek tragedy but please keep the details off the table. I don't need to know how you like to have sex.” He shoved her gently.

“But it's relevant, I'm so stressed because of school work. Then I landed up in the infirmary, this is really not my year. He just makes me feel nice, and wanted. Also this is Doyoung so I don't have to worry about breaking a heart that doesn't exist.” She explained. Hansol nodded and got up, giving her a last piece of candy.

“Greek Tragedy.” He stated, “I have to go for class bye.” He waved and walked away.

She sat on the pebble beaches, listening to the water splash inches away from her. The wind was blowing so she didn't hear the approaching footsteps till they were closer, opening her eye when she heard the distinct crunch to find Jaehyun standing over her with a curious smile.

“We were both caught injured after curfew you know.” He stated and she smiled.

“Yet here we are.” She smiled back and he chuckled as he sat down beside her.

“Did you need fresh air again?” He asked after a moment, watching her peaceful face as she sat with her head back and her eyes closed.

“No I need to think.” She spoke softly, opening her eyes and turning to Jaehyun, who turned away when she caught him staring. Face red with embarrassment.

“What are you thinking about?” He said awkwardly, only turning back when the silence stretched a little, to find her deep in thought.

“I feel like I'm making a huge mistake. Like I know it's wrong, but it feels irreversible somehow.” She stated, looking up at him and clearly confused by her own admittance.

“Then don't do it.” He offered and she couldn't help her laugh at the seemingly simple solution.

“It's not that easy.” She sighed.

“Things are only as easy and as difficult as we make them. If you think something is wrong then you also know what is right.” He said and she looked up, contemplating his words.

“I think both my choices are furiously wrong in their own ways.” She groaned and Jaehyun nodded.

“Then try both and see which one you like better.” He grinned and she laughed indulgently.

“I like your philosophy Jaehyun.” She laughed again, really contemplating his words.

The sound of cheering entered the practically empty castle, making Doyoung click his tongue with disapproval again. She looked up at him and chuckled a little, his eyes drawn together with irritation and concentration all etched into one beautiful face. She looked away and went back to her book.

“I can't do this anymore. These people are so inconsiderate.” Doyoung complained as he sat back and raked his fingers through his hair with frustration.

“Then leave it. Do it later.” She offered without looking up from her book. She could practically hear his mind winding as she felt his eyes spaced out on her. He got up quietly after that, coughing to get her attention.

“Let's go.” He said with a strange bit of conviction.

“Where?” She asked quizzically as she looked up at him. The moment she say him bite down on his lip she didn't need an answer.

“No.” She said, heat already spreading up her neck as she forced her eyes away from him and back to her book, “I can finish my work just fine.” She added.

“You aren't doing anything.” He said almost restlessly and she refused to look back up at him.

“Yes, especially not you.” She clarified.

“What's wrong?” He asked as he walked around over to her side and she suppressed a hefty sigh.

“Nothing is wrong.” She turned a page, focusing harder on the words on the page.

“You didn't mind me ramming the breath out of you earlier this week.” His deliberate choice of words made her breathing hitch.

“Careful Doyoung, someone might think you actually like me at this point.” She tried her best known defence against him. Instead of him shutting down or leaving, she was given a response by his fingers, unbuttoning two buttons before her hand went down to stop him.

“You really need to learn to learn to take no for an answer.” She warned with a bored gaze. He smirked, pushing her hand away easily and sliding his hand in to trace up and down her thigh till he felt goosebumps.

“Oh baby, I promise to do nothing till you beg me to fuck you raw.” He whispered against her ear. Pulling his hand out after and closing off all her buttons.

“I'll see you in class later. I'm going to go take a nap.” He said casually like none of the last few minutes happened. He didn't wait for her respond, smiling sweetly and walking out.

“Ravenclaw won.” Yuta spoke, first to enter the hall. Clearly still pumped from watching an eventful match.

“I don't care.” She said, relieved to finally have silence. As she got up from her seat, “We have a class now Yuta let's go.” She stated and he nodded.

“Your team won.” Yuta told Doyoung as he sat down on the desk beside her in class.

“I don't care.” He said monotonously.

“You know if it wasn't such a catastrophic idea, I'd suggest both of you get married.” Yuta pointed at both of them.

“Shut up Yuta.” She sighed and he laughed in return. Taeyong entered a little later, with Jaehyun stalking behind with Johnny. Taeyong came and sat beside Yuta, greeting them pleasantly and Johnny waved at her and came and sat in the seats in front of her and Doyoung.

“We suddenly have too many friends. Are you going to be okay?” Yuta leaned into the aisle. She scoffed and told him to stop annoying her.

Class went on as usual the professor finishing his lesson halfway through and giving them work to do. This was the point where no one did any work, which is why she preferred to sit next to Doyoung. But halfway through the lesson, Doyoung had put his hand on her thigh and his thumb kept drawing circles while he focused on class.

She turned to him several times but he looked completely engrossed in his own work, and his actions felt more subconscious. She felt telling him to remove his hand would be pointed it out and she just tried to think past it. The more she tried to not think about it, the more it became all she thought about. To the point when Johnny turned around to call her, she practically jumped at his tap, Doyoung's hand stilling on her thigh.

“There's a small gathering at our tower today. I won't take no for an answer this time (Y/N).” He grinned.

“This time?” Jaehyun asked him confused. And Johnny nodded.

“I asked (Y/N) to join us on the day we were trying out hexes, but she refused.” Johnny said.

“Why are you hexing each other recreationally?” She asked with a little concern.

“It's fun.” Jaehyun offered as an explanation.

“Gryffindors..” Doyoung said under his breath and Jaehyun frowned at him.

“And we only do it in a small group. But today we'll be drinking firewhiskey.” Johnny said like it was definitely the better option.

“My drinking history isn't the best.” She said sheepishly.

“Funny, Jaehyun said the same thing.” Johnny said cluelessly and both of them blushed.

“Both of you should definitely marry each other.” Yuta spoke up from beside them suddenly, catching everyone off guard.

“Ignore him.” She said dismissively, avoiding Jaehyun's gaze anyway.

“Please come, it will be fun I promise.” Johnny insisted and she hesitated.

“She'll come. Don't sweat it.” Yuta spoke up, “How bad can your drunk mistakes be? You were sober when you agreed to date that one.” Yuta pointed at Doyoung, who's hand on her thigh tightened making her hold back a yelp.

“Yuta behave.” She warned.

“Kinky.” Yuta winked at her and she sighed.

“I'll come okay? But don't blame me if I don't drink too much. I'll get him too.” She pointed at Yuta who turned towards her.

“Who said I want to go?” He asked half jokingly.

“I did. Just now.” She smiled with forced sweetness and he didn't refute.

“I heard you got a cat.” Jaehyun inquired and she looked up towards him and nodded.

“What is it called?” He asked and she squinted with guilt.

“I can't decide what to call her yet.” She admitted and he laughed.

“Maybe you can name her nightshade.” His voice was a hesitant mumble. She looked up with bright eyes.

“That's perfect actually.” She said, ignoring the way her heart thumped a little.

“Why nightshade?” Doyoung asked and she smiled and shook her head, glancing at Jaehyun, both of them smiling at the significance that felt like a shared secret.

Cooking Head Canons: Republic City and the Krew

Korra, Mako, Bolin, Asami, Amon, Tarrlok... etc... All the other people. The Gaang The Gaang’s Kids

The Lieutenant Is A Gourmet Having grown up in Republic City in a mixed family, the lieutenant has a diverse culinary palate.   There’s a bit of Water Tribe, a bit of Fire Nation, and a bit of Earth Kingdom in every dish.  And the dishes are usually well-balanced and delicious. Since he has a limited budget, he usually goes for ingredients that are cheap, long-lasting, and easy to store.  This means that anything that he makes isn’t just good, it’s economical.  But sometimes he has to improvise since he doesn’t have all the tools he needs for a particular dish... Talent: Cheap, but delicious meals made with diverse ingredients and unusual techniques.   Weakness: Can be a little too experimental at times.  Not everyone wants to try Water Tribe Ice Cream with a Fire Nation flare... Pro: He can make fabulous dinners easily and with anything you put in front of him. He’s a masterful chef and understands the subtleties of food and flavor Con: He will try and convert you to equalism, and you might just do it because the food is just that good.  Also, stay away from the ice cream... it’s 100% pure blubber with berries and inferno fire flakes. Advice: Sit down, enjoy a rousing conversation, listen to him talk about the proletariat, engage in debate... Be prepared for when he comes over next week for dinner, because you’re supposed to return the favor (all things being equal and all).

Korra Is A Great Cook Korra was trained in the arts of cooking by Katara to ensure that the next Avatar wasn’t completely useless around the fire-pit/only prepared vegetables.  Korra learned all of Katara’s tricks and was trained to make a delicious and wholesome meals with whatever was placed in front of her.  She can prepare a delicious, wholesome snack out of three nuts and rock or even the best frog soup you’ve ever tasted.  And you would not believe how delicious her pickled jelly swamp-vine is. Talent: Like Katara she can make anything taste good, but unlike Katara she actually likes cooking.  Her favorite part, however, is putting things together so they look nice on the plate. Weakness: Sometimes making things look nice means that she occasionally puts things together on a plate that might be unpleasant to consume in the same meal...  This tendency to focus on appearance rather than edibility has hurt many a poor, unfortunate stomach in the past... Pro: She creates beautiful, delicious meals and often assists Pema in the kitchen (Pema makes sure she keeps things that don’t go together off the same plate). Con: Militant in her opinions about cooking (she was taught by Katara and Katara instilled certain values), particularly about respecting others styles and eating whatever is put in front of you without complaint (unless it’s poisoned).  So while she can cook, she will never actively volunteer. Advice: Ask her to cook.  Tell her to keep things simple.  Make sure she doesn’t coat the sugary, arctic yak-milk flan with the lemon-spice-grass mustard.  Yes it looks beautiful and the mustard makes the flan glisten like honeyed sunshine, but you will suffer horribly for hours after.

Tahno Could Rival Katara (If He Wanted To) Like the Lieutenant he grew up in Republic City and has a diverse palate.  But his interests are further diversified by his home environment- his family came from the swamps, so he grew up with an even broader culinary palate than most.  His mother’s cooking fused traditional water tribe recipes with swamp-tribe recipes and added a unique Republic City Spice flare... and he used to help her in the kitchen. Of course, as soon as he started hanging out with the tough-guys and pro-bending he stopped assisting.  He didn’t want his tough buddies to know he had such a feminine talent or that he was a “mama’s boy.” Talent: Exotic fusion cuisine. Weakness: Focused on athletics and has absorbed the ‘men don’t cook’ tradition from his water tribe neighbors and friends.  (His mother hates his friends, because she never gets to talk/spend time with her baby anymore!) Pro: If you can get him in the kitchen, he will make something delicious. Con: He will not set foot in the kitchen unless he’s desperate. Advice: Don’t even bother trying to get him to cook for you.  He won’t set foot in the kitchen unless he’s desperately hungry.

Bolin Is A Skilled Cook So, this one time, when Bolin and Mako were very desperate, they did a stint at a local restaurant.  They started off as dishwashers, but Mako got promoted to busboy and then waiter.  Meanwhile, Bolin cozied up to the chef and managed to become a helper.  He learned some great skills. Unfortunately, things went south when the Terra Triads got into a fight with the Triple Threats over disputed territory.  Since the restaurant was in that disputed territory, it was destroyed.  However, Bolin hasn’t forgotten how to make delicious foods... He’s just “too busy” to bother. Talent: Several delicious dishes of high-quality restaurant foods. Weakness: He’s lazy and thinks cooking is boring.  He’d much rather play with Pabu, or practice pro-bending, or go on a date, or... (you get the picture) Pro: He’ll cook if he’s not alone, will get praise for his talents from a pretty lady, and is in the ‘right mood.’ Con: He will always try to weasel out of kitchen/cooking/dinner duty if he can manage, because there’s always something way more fun to do... or someone more interesting to pay attention to... Also, Mako will steal kitchen duty from Bolin if he’s there and Bolin is only too happy to stand aside. Advice: Come over.  Bring the ingredients.  Convince him that you’re hungry and that you don’t know how to prepare a dish... Ask him to show you.  Talk to him and ask questions throughout the process.  Make sure Mako’s not there to take over half-way through.

Mako Is An Above Average Cook Mako can cook.  He’s been cooking and feeding his brother for years.  And while he knows his brother can cook, he is reluctant to let Bolin manage an open flame (seeing his brother near fire makes him nervous).  So he always takes over the cooking process half-way through if Bolin is at the stove. Despite his experience, not the best cook in the world.  He has a few specialties, but on the whole his cooking tends to be a little less than palatable.  This is mostly due to the fact that he typically doesn’t care what a meal tastes like, he just wants to put it on the table before it’s too late.  The work-day starts early and food is necessary for survival, so it’s important to choke something down before the day starts and at the end of the day... that’s his philosophy... Also: fire is energy, so meals should be hot.  Bolin is a bit of a picky eater (comparatively), so he made Mako up his game a bit Talent: He’s amazing as long as it involves fire and a pan.  His stir fries and fried noodle dishes are to die for. Weakness: Anything more complex is going to involve more peppers.  In fact, amount of peppers is directly proportional to the amount of complexity the dish calls for.  The fancier it is, the more your insides will burn. Pro: If you want a quick, fried meal that can be bolted down and still tastes pretty darn good, Mako is your man. Con: DO NOT ASK FOR ANYTHING FANCY.  HE WILL PUT A POUND OF BURNING DEATH FIRE PEPPERS IN IT.  EVERYTHING WILL HURT. Advice: Mako is your man for a quick, simple meal.  Avoid the Burning Death Fire Peppers.

Tarrlok Is Able To Cook A woman’s place is in the kitchen, but when there are no women around men must make do.  And when you’re in the Northern army, there are no women around ever. If you’re old enough to marry in the North, you’re old enough to serve in the army.  And if there’s a conflict, the Northern throne will draft young men to join the army.  When Tarrlok turned sixteen, the Northern Tribe got into a conflict with some Nomad Warrior Clans and he was drafted. New recruits always get stuck with mess-duty for the first few weeks.  This ensures that every individual in every squadron knows how to prepare quick, simple, utilitarian meals made from easy to locate ingredients.  Yessir, starvation was a thing of the past in the Northern Army! So, Tarrlok learned to cook simple, bland meals to keep them going in the often harsh environment.  And he hated it. The bland, flavorless food, the feeling of emptiness, the sense of existing on the edge of starvation, and eating meals that barely meeting nutritional requirements... it was awful. The politician has his own private chef and eats out whenever possible.  He abhors military food... but if he needs to eat, he will cook. Talent: Basic, utilitarian dishes that do not taste good, but will keep you alive (barely) Weakness: He always overcooks vegetables, and everything tends to be bland because he’s not comfortable with cooking spices (what does he do with this fancy crap?). Pro: You won’t starve. Con: It might be kind of boring.  In a soul-crushing kind of way. Advice: Maybe come over when his personal chef doesn’t have the day off.  Cooking his own food makes him very crabby.

Asami Can Cook... Maybe...? Asami is capable of cooking... in theory.  She once almost successfully completed a meal (it was a baked item.  It burned because she forgot it was in the oven)... In fact, home economics was the only class she nearly flunked out of in finishing school (the teacher passed her because her father was Mr. Sato and Asami completed every single Shop assignment and project even though she wasn’t in the class). Yes, for all her picky eating, Asami has never once successful prepared a single meal in her life.  She always gets bored half way through the process and starts looking at the kitchen appliances... and not in a ‘what do I do with this’ kind of way... Talent: Following clear and explicit directions.  She can do that.  She knows she can do that. Weakness: She gets bored and inevitably takes the stove apart before the meal is finished.  But don’t worry, she’ll rebuild it!  Bigger!  Faster!  More efficient!  Durable! Pro: She fixed/optimized your stove and added several useful extra-features, which will make your cooking experiences in the future amazing. Con: She forgot where she was in the cooking process and you’re stuck with half-prepared food... which has been sitting out on the counter too long and is now inedible. Advice: Invite Asami over to fix the stove before asking her to cook.  When she does cook, sit with her throughout the entire process, because if you don’t she will wander off to invent the refrigerator or the microwave.  Expect to have to finish the cooking process for her when she inevitably wanders off to examine your electrical board.

Amon Turns Everything He Cooks Into Coal And Ash (Even Water) In the north pole, men don’t cook.  That’s what women are for.  But you’d think that being on his own would have pushed him to learn some cooking skills, but that’s just the thing, he’s never been on his own.  From the moment he left the north pole, Amon has always sought to be surrounded by people. So wherever he is he’s always near someone who can do the cooking for him... That’s not to say that he hasn’t been asked to cook dinner.  It’s just that most people never ask twice. Talent: Raw food.  As long as it’s never been near a fire, it might be edible/palatable. Weakness: Burns everything.  Even a pot of water can become a conflagration.  He also doesn’t cut things up or do much prep-work before tossing it on/in the fire (except meat, he knows what to do with meat before cooking it, so it’s always artfully prepared before being reduced to coal), so he tosses everything together and charbroils it.   Pro: He makes the best charcoal.  Sometimes you can almost taste what it used to be. Con: He expects you to eat it.  He always expects you to eat it without complaint.  And if you do complain the look he gives you is so devastated and heartbroken that you feel like a monster... so eat the charcoal and smile weakly. Advice: Just eat the charcoal and pretend it’s good.  It’s better than putting up with his hurt feelings. If you complain, he’ll be passive aggressive about it for weeks.

BONUS ROUND

Saikhan Prepares The Food Of The Gods Secret Best Chef.  His father prepared meals for the Earth King in Ba Sing Se.  After the Earth King died and Hou-Ting took over, things went downhill for the family.  Hou-Ting had some strange and ridiculous demands, which offended and insulted Saikhan’s father’s sentiments about the fine and respected art of cooking. Saikhan’s father resigned and they decided to immigrate/flee to the United Republic.  There, the family set up shop and founded several well-respected an very popular restaurants in Republic City.  They enjoyed great fame and popularity and became accustomed to serving the broad and cultured tastes of Republic City’s elites. Everyone expected Saikhan to follow in his father’s footsteps, but he wanted to be a cop and a metal bender.  So he left home, went to the academy and never looked back.  His siblings, however, stayed in the Restaurant Business and are doing quite well.  His sister even married a gentleman named Kwan and set up a lovely little high-end establishment uptown. Saikhan can cook.  He was raised to be an artisan chef and master of the culinary arts... but he will never admit that to any of his buddies on the force.  Oh no, he hides his secret talent and prepares one fine dinner every week for himself to keep his skills sharp... in case he wants to impress a significant lady-friend. Talent: Cuisine suited for the Earth King’s tender and delicate palate. Weakness: Fear of being picked on for his talents.  He will not cook for you if he doesn’t believe you can keep his shameful and not-policeman-worthy secret. Pro: Whoever he ends up with will never go hungry or have a bad meal for as long as they live... once he trusts them enough to cook for him. Con: They can never tell anyone about it.  Not even their closest friends.  They must take the secret of his talents to the grave or he will never forgive them. Advice: As long as you’re okay with keeping secrets it’s a good bet.

ANYONE ELSE?

Congratulations Becca! You have been accepted for the role of Hiro Komatsu with the FC of Sen Mitsuji. We found Hiro fascinating and look forward to seeing where you take him. Please send us an account within the next 24 hours with the ask and submit boxes open.

Welcome to Yalton! We look forward to roleplaying with you.

OOC:

Name/Alias: Becca

Pronouns: She/Her/Hers

Age: 17

Timezone: EST

Activity Level: I’d say a solid 7. Like everyone, there are days where I’m more active and eager to roleplay than others, but I usually do take time to come onto my character account everyday and at my worst, my replies will take place every other day.

Things you aren’t willing to write: Smut

IC:

Biography Info:

Character Name: Hiro Komatsu

Pronouns: He/Him/His

Gender: Cis Male

Age: 22

Major/Position: Philosophy Major

FC: Sen Mitsuji

Biography:

The Komatsu family has always been the epitome of elegance in their town of Hiraizumi, Japan. Ancient Japanese culture and practices still run deep in the town to this day, with it’s agriculture based economy and plethora of historic monuments. At the age of eight, Hiro knew that the small town life would never accompany him as he visited Tokyo for a distant relative’s wedding. The most people Hiro had ever seen in one place at one time were the 103 kids in his year gathered together for an assembly. It was safe to say that stepping off the train and into Tokyo city was unlike anything he had ever witnessed before. Since that day, Hiro was obsessed with the thought of leaving his town to go live somewhere new and exciting, preferably somewhere far away from the farmer filled town of Hiraizumi.

Hiro wasn’t so much of a bad kid as he was a trouble maker. He was anything but neglected, but it’s safe to say his older brother Sho received the most attention from his family. With Sho’s stellar grades and a full ride scholarship for basketball to the University of Tokyo, Hiro couldn’t help but be kept in his 6′5″ brother’s shadow. While eighteen year old Sho was meeting up with the Prime Minister to be condemned for his amazing academic achievements, Hiro was being suspended from school, this time for stealing his teacher’s grade book and altering his friend’s grades. Hiro was stealthy, so if he wanted to get away with little things like that he could, it’s just that the chase was a lot more fun.

While Hiro’s father was born in Japan, his mother is from Philidelphia, Pennsylvania. She came to Japan to teach English and eventually met Minato Komatsu, and the rest was history. Though Hiro was aware of his family in the states, he never actually met them. With only a measly seven cousins residing in Japan, Hiro’s mother explained how she was one of eight, and there’s over thirty other relatives from her side of the family he’s never met. It seemed as if his seventh suspension was the last straw from his parents, as the day he turned fourteen, Hiro was fresh prince’d all the way to Philly to stay with the grandparents he often forgot existed.

Philidelphia was incredibly different from Hiraizumi, but in every way Hiro had hoped it would be. The schools were bigger, people more diverse, and Hiro had learned to prefer the savory American food over the traditional Japanese dishes back home. Though his family feared the culture shock would take him by surprise, they could have never imagined he’d fit in so nicely. Hiro was initially only supposed to reside in Philly for a year, but he was doing so well that his parents decided to allow him to stay for however long he pleased. Although he was considered very smart back in Japan, here in Philly his intelligence was exceptional as he quickly became the top of his high school class. While his peers struggled with teenage angst during high school, Hiro had never felt better. Hiro had girls, boys, and pretty much everyone else he wanted at the tip of his fingers, because who wouldn’t be attracted to the smart yet bad boy from Japan?

His bad behavior stopped in school, but that didn’t prohibit Hiro from engaging in less than admirable activities behind his family’s back. He became quite good at holding his alcohol as Hiro had a party almost every time his grandparents were out of town. If he wasn’t hosting one, he was most certainly attending one. Starting the third week he entered America, Hiro went to a house party at least five times a month. He’d get black out drunk or higher than heaven with his friends, something his family failed to realize until he was seventeen and headed home from what must’ve been his thousandth party. With only a visa, Hiro couldn’t drive, so he was dependent on his buddies to bring him home from whatever they had been doing that night. Though he knew better, his friends didn’t, and decided it would be a good idea to drive everyone home intoxicated. Paramedics arrived at the scene seven minutes after the crash to find the bottom half of the car 100 feet away from the scene of the accident, the tree the car hit completely toppled over, and no survivors except for Hiro who’s legs were completely shattered and stuck between the passenger’s seat and dashboard.

Hiro’s left leg was able to be saved, but his right one was forced to be amputated below the knee as it was completely mutilated. While the rest of his body was practically untouched besides for a few wounds requiring sistches, Doctors didn’t realize there was something else wrong with Hiro until four months after the accident during his last days in rehab. Due to the car stopping so fast while going such a high speed, Hiro’s upper body went right through the windowshield and into the tree which eventually toppled over the car. The impact caused parts of his skull to shatter and enter his frontal lobe, a problem that was presumed solved by an immediate surgery. However, that proved to not be the case once the frontal lobe damage became prominent in his behavior. The once charismatic and somewhat sweet boy quickly became a mix of all different personalities in one. Mood changes had become frequent, and the smallest things would now set Hiro off. His volatile behavior spontaneity had quickly become the main concern for those around him.

As he learned to live with his prosthetic and had been attending a therapist daily, now eighteen year old Hiro was sent home a total of five months after the accident. He finished his senior year by taking summer school classes and being tutored. It was harder to concentrate but still proved manageable as Hiro graduated with one of the highest GPA’s in high class. His family back in Japan flew over for a weekend as they had a party in celebration of this accomplishment, but it seemed as if everyone returned to their daily lives except for Hiro himself. He had plans to apply to some of the biggest colleges in the US for Computer Science, but the accident caused him to lost passion for most things in life. Instead, Hiro decided to take a gap year, getting a job at a local diner. It’s surprising how many tips a crippled nineteen year old with a pretty smile can make.

Eventually Hiro started applying to colleges again. He was lucky enough to take the SATs during his Junior year a earn a near perfect score, but it was still difficult getting accepted almost two years after graduating high school, However it wasn’t all for nothing as Hiro opened what he thought would be his fifth rejection letter only to find out that come fall, he’d proudly be a Yak. Though his battles are far from over, Hiro can proudly say he’s doing better. Weekly therapy sessions and time to himself has improved his behavior immensely, but there are times where he’s set off by some seemingly meaningless things. There’s still a long way to go, but for the first time in his life, Hiro can say he’s actually excited for the future.

State at least one headcanon about the character:

Ever since his accident, Hiro has refused to touch any alcoholic beverage. Although the crash wasn’t his fault, he can’t help but feel responsible for not doing something. He’s been told all his life that coke and rum mix, but booze and driving do not. Hiro is terrified that for any instance if he were to consume alcohol again that history will somehow repeat itself.

Though most expect him to be a womanizer of sorts, Hiro has always identified as pansexual. Sure, he’s flirty with the ladies, but his interests are not influenced by gender identity. He constantly says how his love for another isn’t with the body, but the mind. Hiro is unapologetically proud of his sexuality and greatly values the time it took for him to understand that being so is okay.

Japanese is his first language and he didn’t learn English until age eight.

He has a strong dislike for all of social media except Instagram, where he constantly posts pictures of the most random things he can think of. If it’s artsy enough, Hiro will snap a photo and upload it in minutes. He does use other social media as well but only to keep up with his friends, as he rarely posts any of his own content on there.

Traditional Japanese instrumental is his favorite type of music to listen to, however he is also a big fan of Alternative rock and Grunge bands like Nirvana, Sublime, and Red Hot Chili Peppers. The two contrasting genres are an accurate representation of Hiro’s personality.

If you were to tell high school Hiro that he’d be majoring in Philosophy, he probably would’ve laughed in your face. Up until his accident, he was set in stone that he’d be majoring in something having to do with technology. However, in the past few years Hiro has been plagued with a constant question regarding everything: Why? He’s always been interested in theory, and as his love for science dwindled, his passion for the study of ideas about almost everything rose.

He doesn’t exactly know what job he wishes to pursue come graduation, so he presumes graduate school will be his next step.

journal entry from december 2016 (or, literature in the age of trump)

I was thinking of the writer Sergio Pitol today and I found this journal entry completely by accident. It seemed like a sign to shelve off its dust and repost.  The second half feels almost innocent now, and I’m adding a couple footnotes to it:

12/2/16

Just read Sergio Pitol for an hour. It was an essay on a Polish novel about darkness, yelling against the politics of oppression. It was inspiring to read about. The novel apparently is a 150 page long sentence, followed by a five word sentence. The story is of a holy crusade taken by children in the 12th century. It is told through the format of a series of inner monologues. I would like to read it, but honestly, I can't imagine it being as good as Pitol's essay on it. Pitol apparently translated the novel in Spanish, and his love for the novel, his compassion for the novel, shows throughout his essay. There's a tender moment where he re reads it 20 or 30 years later, and is afraid its poetics and form will seem outdated or stale (it was very sylized and 'avant' for the time). He is happily surprised that the language and form hold up -- just as beautiful as he remembered.

I've never read Thomas Mann, or Joseph Conrad -- but they are both writers Pitol admires. Reading Sergio Pitol reminds me of my old teacher Attila, who's grave I would like to visit soon, who did so much for my life, who touched my life and inspired me in a way that will never fade. Attila was also a fan of Thomas Mann; and he was a political prisoner for a time in Hungary. I imagine he might have been aware of this Polish writer -- perhaps was even a fan of his. Attila was imprisoned for composing a minimalist piece of classical music during the communist takeover. There were strict rules on what kind of art one should make. When Attila performed the piece, a small riot ensued in the theater and he was arrested. He later escaped, fled to Italy, and eventually emigrated to Michigan, where he became a private teacher of voice lessons. His final, unfinished work was an opera he was writing based on "The Master and Margarita."

This morning, I am made aware that both the writers Attila loved and that Sergio Pitol loves are those who write in times of, and in reaction against oppression, totalitarianism, or to Power (with a capital P). It is almost a violent style of literature. To use poetry and language to express the strong distaste at the currents of the system. To use “political angst” (for lack of better term) as a lens in which the narratives exist. For my whole life, I've been fortunate not to live under those kinds of regimes. Sure, George W. Bush was terrible -- and he disgusted me -- but he still resembled something like a democracy, no matter how opposed I was to his politics and policies, not to mention his unjust wars. He still hinted at some level of humanity within him, perhaps buried, perhaps misguided. His wars were disgusting. He expanded the powers of the state and surveillance. But the veil of democracy still seemed to exist, if only as a veil. There was room for hope. And though Gore won the popular vote, he won by a small number. (400,000 or something like that). It seemed unbelievable, but it was admittingly, a small number.

Trump has now lost the popular vote by over 2 million (*authors note — the real number increased to 3 million), and he uses fascist language and rhetoric almost daily, and always publicly, without shame.

***

In school, in middle school, or high school, or even elementary school -- I remember reading multiple times a poem about nazis. It was essentially about how no one stopped them. "When they came for Jews, we didn't do anything, because..." and “When they came for the handicaps, we didn’t do anything, because…” and ended with a line similar to "then when they came for me, there was no left to stop them" or something like that. This poem exists solely in memory, although I know its widely read and would be easy enough to find. It was about complacency (a word I didn't know then) and a casual calmness, a cool. We always wondered how people could be silent while others were oppressed, while the secret police would beat people, while the violence eventually escalated from torture and fear into a genocide in the middle of a "civilized" continent. We watched the movie Swing Kids in a class, a watered down Disney film about the same kind of thing. It showed friends betray each other, even each other's families. It was met with the same measure of disbelief in us. How could people let this happen?

When I asked a teacher about it, and I forgot which one, and I forgot how young I was, but I must have been before high school, before I became "rebellious" or whatever -- I remember the teacher telling me this poem was a warning. It was a warning and a way to be aware of the past. Our memory of history would protect us, make us aware that societies fall, that the danger is real. But still, fascism seemed like nothing could enter this country to me. Orwellianism -- no way. Elements of it, sure. Elements of thought control and manipulation and corruption -- of course. But nothing as blatant as what Trump has promised.

If Trump somehow is able to NOT damage our democracy, it will be a testament to how strong our democracy and philosophies are. I know many people who believe it is this strong.

But I tend to not think so. Our democracy is still young, its in its adolescence. Its younger than Europe was with Hitler, with Mussolini or Stalin.

And its not holy -- its not religious -- its not from God. I don't prescribe to that weird right wing idea that it is protected by a sacred power. Our Democracy is human. It was founded on intellectuals, yes. It was founded with clear philosophies and guidelines, yes. But that does not make it immune. It might have checks and balances, but we've already seen these corroded before Trump; when the Senate refused to even vote on a Supreme Court nominee. (Something that is unprecedented, at least for this length of time). This act of defiance corroded two branches of government -- both the court and the Senate.

And its never been tested by the things its being tested with now. That is: globalization and the Internet. (It has been tested with other huge economic shifts, though; so this paragraph probably should not contribute to my argument).

Like most people, I'm not sure how to react to recent news and movements. I'm not sure how to fight back for what I believe in, how to stand up, how to do the right thing, or what to even do or what that thing even is.

But reading Sergio Pitol and thinking about Attila Farkas makes me feel that there should be a new canon of literature -- one that reflects "avant" writers reacting and responding to oppression.

Pitol and Attila share these writers, which should be added to the canon: Thomas Mann (who I've never read). Joseph Conrad

Pitol adds Jerry Andrzejewski in this.

Attila would add J.M. Coetzee (who I love) and Bulgakov (Master and Margarita).

I would like to add to this list the violent, powerful, and wonderful prose of Roberto Bolano. A writer who's often compared to Borges, but adds an intense political anger to the style of "magical realism" -- and who kind of reminds me of the beat poets as well. I'm sure Attila would have loved Bolano, had he been alive to see Bolano’s translations into English.

So again, that list: Thomas Mann Joseph Conrad J.M. Coetzee Mikhail Bugakov Roberto Bolano

I will of course continue reading for fun as well, and won't strictly follow this. I can't imagine putting down works by Javier Marias (who's new book, I am glad to say, confronts fascism and takes place immediately after Franco's regime); or by "non political" magical writers such as Clarice Lispector, Cesar Aira, Haruki Murakami. But their style, their form, does not differ much from Bolano, nor from Coetzee for that matter. (Like I said, I haven't read the others).

When we are without gurus and teachers, we can use the books we read to help teach and guide us. Its not exactly a replacement, but the writers do become gurus. I'm paraphrasing, but Seneca, the Greek philosopher, said that reading philosophy makes life longer, beacuse it adds other writer's experiences to yours in a quick setting.

My generation, and those younger than me, and those older than me, should begin arming ourselves by reading a new canon.

Who would you add? ****

Footnotes (updated August 2018) A few more writers I must add to my personal list. For one, a book which has become one of my all time favorites, Pereira Declares by Antonio Tabucchi (sometimes translated as Pereira Maintains).  Also, I can’t believe I didn’t include Jose Saramago! He should be near the top of this list. In fact, Zizek called Saramago’s Seeing one of the best books to read during this moment.

If I re-did the list, it would mainly be: Pereira Declears by Tabucchi Jose Saramago Roberto Bolano JM Coetzee (I have to make note of Tabucchi again, and point out that his other novels do not seem to have the political activation and ingredient as Pereira, but are equally wonderful. He also has a more dreamy style, and less angst than the others mentioned).

I’m currently experiencing a burnout from the presidency, and almost refuse to say the president’s name. He’s haunted my dreams at moments (where I’ve conversed with him, even swam with him at a public pool). Part of me believes he gains an almost spiritual power through the repetition of his name, and so I’m trying to refer to him as things different than his name. (For now, just the president, though even that seems a lie). I’d also like to quickly point out my disappointment at the nonfiction books written in response to his presidency. Its really weird and almost shocking that the only one I’ve read that has seemed cerebral, academic, and passionate was Hilary Clinton’s What Happened. (I also read Death of Truth, Fantasyland, and one by Naomi Klein). Not sure how to end this post script. I’m thinking of bicycling to a show right now. I have to wake up early in the morning. I experienced a pleasant feeling of cooking today. I had a strange encounter. I woke up at 5am.

touching

Depression and compassion

  Postmark Oct 24 1985 Cincinnati, OH

 Hi Suzin.

           Boy, were you depressed on Sunday. Depressing Letter. And you sounded depressed last night (wed). I wish there was something I could do to help. Is there? WORK. This week is going so slow. I wish I had some time to go Pintoing. This weekend, however. I will 1) college search 2) do the apartment 3) work on a lot of homework.

After the weekend, things should be significantly easier. Well, I’ve got tons of work to do, so I must get started and mail this letter.

Talk to you soon.

 Love,

Bok

 P.S. I miss you. I love you.

           (Forgot to say those elsewhere.)

  I did terribly in my classes, I felt incredibly guilty about how much money my parents spent. This was one of the most expensive schools in the country, and we didn’t qualify for financial aid or scholarships – I never even filled out a Financial Aid Form. I started a job washing dishware in one of the research labs across campus. I lasted all of two hours. I didn’t bother showing up anymore. I never got a paycheck.

 I had zero motivation to do my required reading or homework. Instead I spent my time skulking around looking for stereos to listen to music and socialize. I was awake all hours of the night, I slept through classes, and I missed Ross like crazy. I couldn’t stand to be alone. Stephen Paul and Jim and others flirted with me constantly, and to win companionship, no matter how temporary, I flirted back; sometimes enthusiastically, sometimes the flirt rang hollow. My moods changed quickly then. I missed Ross, and my floor-mates tried very hard to help me.

 Jim stopped by my room on Sunday mornings, dragging me to Christian worship services. I met caring people there. Jim’s roommate Lawrence was really good to talk with, and we became close friends. Jim’s suitemates, Craig and Bart made me laugh, and Keith was just Keith –  fun to tease.

 Others echoed Ross’ concern about the depressing letter I sent. Mother wrote, “Thanks for the nice letter – I won’t say more or I’ll cry.” And she included some money in the envelope. I asked if we could gather the family to escape to Green Knob for Thanksgiving. When Jack was struggling at Wake Forest, Dad and I met him at Green Knob for a week to sugar the maples. It was a time for Dad and Jack to share hard physical labor, time to be away from distracting influences and meditate. I wanted similar. I called Jack in Allentown to chat. Jack was busy with Pennsylvania Stage Company, putting together the next stage show. Dad was still traveling for work, and Mom also had to work. No one had the time or the inclination to go to Green Knob that year. I reached out to my familiars, I wrote letters, I made phone calls. No one had time to help me. I was left to my own devices. I didn’t do very well on my own.

 *          *          *

 In 2002, I told my couch-guy, “I want a “do-over”.” At any point since August 27th, 1985 I want to change a decision and do it all over again, and see what might have happened. Should I have told Mom and Dad, “I’m not going, and you can’t make me!” Should I have insisted I come home for my grandmother’s funeral? And then stayed? Should I have refused to return to Rochester after October break? But parallel universes and time travel exist only in fiction – unless you want to discuss Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, and even then, time travel isn’t particularly practical.

 What do I think would happen in that do-over? Do I want a different story? A different ending? Is my present life so terrible? Do I think I would be happier? I don’t know. But like George saw in It’s a wonderful life, I wish an angel could show me how my life might have gone. As it is, I’ll never have the reassurance that the decisions I made were the right ones. I’ll always have the nagging feeling that I made a very wrong decision that ultimately resulted in disaster.

 *          *          *

 I continued my nocturnal lifestyle from summer. By this time it was just that – a lifestyle – some might call it a rut. I was rarely asleep before one or two a.m. I dragged myself out of bed in the morning to go to classes. Then I found a comfortable napping situation in the Welles-Brown Room during the afternoons. The couches were quite nap-worthy and I took refuge there many an afternoon. Thus refreshed, I would be once again awake until the wee hours of the morning.

 It wasn’t hard to find companionship after midnight – whether I pretended to work on a paper that was due, or fought with Calculus, someone was always around to distract or encourage me. And between buying rolls of quarters for the washing machines, my sewing kit and the toolbox, there were a lot of visitors to my room. People had a reason to stop by. Another quote that Stephen Paul kept fits in here, “I like sleeping in my room. I’m never sure who I will wake up with.” That came from the comfort people felt even if I didn’t share it. Roz and I furnished our room with comfortable carpeting and pillows. Any given night, a group of us chatted ‘til all hours, and one by one people fell asleep – some stumbled back to their own rooms, but not always. I woke up in the morning (the clock radio blaring Starship’s, “We built this city.” That song received entirely too much airtime on Rochester radio in 1985) and found someone asleep on the floor who wasn’t there when I fell asleep.

 One night, I decided to get drunk. I never was much of a drinker. I can’t stand the taste of beer, don’t like the fuzzy feeling I get in my head, don’t need the empty calories, hate the morning-after scum in my mouth. I’m still not much of a drinker, although a glass of wine or whiskey does go down smoothly on occasion. That night I guess I felt drunkenness was necessary, another way to escape the emotional upheaval. As I recall, Chris prepared some sort of flaming concoction on the desk in his room. It was a layered drink served in shot glasses, in which the final step was to light the top layer on fire. I did not care to drink flames...so the guys, Chris, Stephen Paul and Mike willingly and enthusiastically found an alternative. Perhaps it was peppermint schnapps? Cool and refreshing, like mouthwash. But packed a powerful punch when you drank enough of it.

 I sat on someone's lap in Chris' room and tossed back several shots. And the handwriting tests began. As a geek test of my sobriety, the guys had me write a sentence every fifteen minutes or some such nonsense. (That endeavor ranks high on the geek scale.)  I got the giggles, and then when the room was spinning and I had to pee, I wandered back to my room to sleep it off. Not a very satisfactory drunk. My handwriting didn’t even suffer too badly…

 *          *          *

 Two days before Halloween I had a terrible cold – probably the flu. I was achy, feverish. It hurt like hell to swallow anything. I felt miserable. I hiked up the hill to University Health Service but all they did was a lousy job of taking a throat culture and told me to rest. What a waste of time that was. I just wanted to be home. It didn’t help that I didn’t have a winter coat. It was silly really. I wore my jean jacket with a down vest over it. I layered – turtleneck, sweatshirt or sweater, jean jacket and vest. It was cold…but I refused to wear a winter coat.

 The Student Association sponsored a band to play at a costume party at the student center (Wilson Commons, designed by world-renowned architect I.M.Pei) Stephen Paul and Jim persuaded me to go with them and the guys from Jim’s suite – Bart, Lawrence, Craig, Keith. I wrapped a box that Mom shipped with some of my things from home, using birthday wrapping paper and ribbon that I paid too much for at the campus bookstore. I put on a long sweater and some tights and voila! A Birthday present - instant costume. No make-up or mask required. After the costume contest at the party, I took off my box and danced with the guys of the 7th floor.

 *          *          *

 One early November evening we had a floor meeting, and after business was done floor residents wandered off to their other commitments – homework, rehearsals, social engagements. Those of us left in the common area chatted until time to retire. Eventually Chris and I were left sitting alone together.

 Introspective, quiet, reserved, not one to seek the center of attention, Chris was an observer of human interaction. A physics major, he found elegance in mathematics, but loved the logic and ponderings of philosophy. And like Ross, he worked hard. They both had that same drive and self-discipline to complete the task set before them. For Ross it was writing computer programs, for Chris it was solving equations. They both loved language as well - the language of music and the beauty of the written word. He was from “NOT New York City” - Eastern Oregon, an area of the country I was somewhat familiar with having been driven through the area several times. And like Ross, Chris listened to excellent music. It was similar to the music Ross listened to with the same passion and the same appreciation for the finer details within an album. So much of him was familiar, and I desperately needed familiar.

 Lost in my own turmoil of desperately missing Ross and home, awed by the power I held over Stephen Paul, and intrigued by the comfort and guidance offered me by Jim. My world was upside down and inside out. That night Chris offered me his hand. I took it. There, in the quiet of the night, while friends slept in the rooms around us, we held hands. We were silent together. We didn’t talk much, if at all. We didn’t need to. Occasionally a floor-mate walked off the elevator and saw us together. We nodded an acknowledgement, offered a greeting and said goodnight. And still we held hands.

 I leaned my head back against the wall and drifted in and out of sleep. At one point I rested my head on Chris’ shoulder and dozed. And still we held hands. I woke, briefly rested, and holding only our hands together we were tender, erotic and sensual. We made love there in a way. Silently, sitting in the semi-darkness on the benches in front of the elevator. The cheerful rainbow mural around us was a stark contrast to our melancholy. Each lost in our own misery, we comforted each other. Fully clothed, sitting side-by-side our only physical contact was the gentle and comforting touch of our hands. The hours wore on, our eyes grew heavy and the time came for us to return to our respective beds. We may have kissed briefly, I don’t recall.

 We never spoke of our encounter, but I cherish the memory. That night I learned the healing power of touch. I internalized that intimacy is a state of mind that goes far beyond physical attraction. As I hope Ross did, I wonder if Chris ever found peace and happiness.

The Devil. Ivan's Nightmare

I AM NOT a doctor, but yet I feel that the moment has come when I must inevitably give the reader some account of the nature of Ivan's illness. Anticipating events I can say at least one thing: he was at that moment on the very eve of an attack of brain fever. Though his health had long been affected, it had offered a stubborn resistance to the fever which in the end gained complete mastery over it. Though I know nothing of medicine, I venture to hazard the suggestion that he really had perhaps, by a terrible effort of will, succeeded in delaying the attack for a time, hoping, of course, to check it completely. He knew that he was unwell, but he loathed the thought of being ill at that fatal time, at the approaching crisis in his life, when he needed to have all his wits about him, to say what he had to say boldly and resolutely and "to justify himself to himself." He had, however, consulted the new doctor, who had been brought from Moscow by a fantastic notion of Katerina Ivanovna's to which I have referred already. After listening to him and examining him the doctor came to the conclusion that he was actually suffering from some disorder of the brain, and was not at all surprised by an admission which Ivan had reluctantly made him. "Hallucinations are quite likely in your condition," the doctor opined, 'though it would be better to verify them... you must take steps at once, without a moment's delay, or things will go badly with you." But Ivan did not follow this judicious advice and did not take to his bed to be nursed. "I am walking about, so I am strong enough, if I drop, it'll be different then, anyone may nurse me who likes," he decided, dismissing the subject. And so he was sitting almost conscious himself of his delirium and, as I have said already, looking persistently at some object on the sofa against the opposite wall. Someone appeared to be sitting there, though goodness knows how he had come in, for he had not been in the room when Ivan came into it, on his return from Smerdyakov. This was a person or, more accurately speaking, a Russian gentleman of a particular kind, no longer young, qui faisait la cinquantaine,* as the French say, with rather long, still thick, dark hair, slightly streaked with grey and a small pointed beard. He was wearing a brownish reefer jacket, rather shabby, evidently made by a good tailor though, and of a fashion at least three years old, that had been discarded by smart and well-to-do people for the last two years. His linen and his long scarf-like neck-tie were all such as are worn by people who aim at being stylish, but on closer inspection his linen was not overclean and his wide scarf was very threadbare. The visitor's check trousers were of excellent cut, but were too light in colour and too tight for the present fashion. His soft fluffy white hat was out of keeping with the season. * Fiftyish. In brief there was every appearance of gentility on straitened means. It looked as though the gentleman belonged to that class of idle landowners who used to flourish in the times of serfdom. He had unmistakably been, at some time, in good and fashionable society, had once had good connections, had possibly preserved them indeed, but, after a gay youth, becoming gradually impoverished on the abolition of serfdom, he had sunk into the position of a poor relation of the best class, wandering from one good old friend to another and received by them for his companionable and accommodating disposition and as being, after all, a gentleman who could be asked to sit down with anyone, though, of course, not in a place of honour. Such gentlemen of accommodating temper and dependent position, who can tell a story, take a hand at cards, and who have a distinct aversion for any duties that may be forced upon them, are usually solitary creatures, either bachelors or widowers. Sometimes they have children, but if so, the children are always being brought up at a distance, at some aunt's, to whom these gentlemen never allude in good society, seeming ashamed of the relationship. They gradually lose sight of their children altogether, though at intervals they receive a birthday or Christmas letter from them and sometimes even answer it. The countenance of the unexpected visitor was not so much good-natured, as accommodating and ready to assume any amiable expression as occasion might arise. He had no watch, but he had a tortoise-shell lorgnette on a black ribbon. On the middle finger of his right hand was a massive gold ring with a cheap opal stone in it. Ivan was angrily silent and would not begin the conversation. The visitor waited and sat exactly like a poor relation who had come down from his room to keep his host company at tea, and was discreetly silent, seeing that his host was frowning and preoccupied. But he was ready for any affable conversation as soon as his host should begin it. All at once his face expressed a sudden solicitude. "I say," he began to Ivan, "excuse me, I only mention it to remind you. You went to Smerdyakov's to find out about Katerina Ivanovna, but you came away without finding out anything about her, you probably forgot-" "Ah, yes." broke from Ivan and his face grew gloomy with uneasiness. "Yes, I'd forgotten... but it doesn't matter now, never mind, till to-morrow," he muttered to himself, "and you," he added, addressing his visitor, "I should have remembered that myself in a minute, for that was just what was tormenting me! Why do you interfere, as if I should believe that you prompted me, and that I didn't remember it of myself?" "Don't believe it then," said the gentleman, smiling amicably, "what's the good of believing against your will? Besides, proofs are no help to believing, especially material proofs. Thomas believed, not because he saw Christ risen, but because he wanted to believe, before he saw. Look at the spiritualists, for instance.... I am very fond of them... only fancy, they imagine that they are serving the cause of religion, because the devils show them their horns from the other world. That, they say, is a material proof, so to speak, of the existence of another world. The other world and material proofs, what next! And if you come to that, does proving there's a devil prove that there's a God? I want to join an idealist society, I'll lead the opposition in it, I'll say I am a realist, but not a materialist, he he!" "Listen," Ivan suddenly got up from the table. "I seem to be delirious... I am delirious, in fact, talk any nonsense you like, I don't care! You won't drive me to fury, as you did last time. But I feel somehow ashamed... I want to walk about the room.... I sometimes don't see you and don't even hear your voice as I did last time, but I always guess what you are prating, for it's I, I myself speaking, not you. Only I don't know whether I was dreaming last time or whether I really saw you. I'll wet a towel and put it on my head and perhaps you'll vanish into air." Ivan went into the corner, took a towel, and did as he said, and with a wet towel on his head began walking up and down the room. "I am so glad you treat me so familiarly," the visitor began. "Fool," laughed Ivan, "do you suppose I should stand on ceremony with you? I am in good spirits now, though I've a pain in my forehead... and in the top of my head... only please don't talk philosophy, as you did last time. If you can't take yourself off, talk of something amusing. Talk gossip, you are a poor relation, you ought to talk gossip. What a nightmare to have! But I am not afraid of you. I'll get the better of you. I won't be taken to a mad-house!" "C'est charmant, poor relation. Yes, I am in my natural shape. For what am I on earth but a poor relation? By the way, I am listening to you and am rather surprised to find you are actually beginning to take me for something real, not simply your fancy, as you persisted in declaring last time-" "Never for one minute have I taken you for reality," Ivan cried with a sort of fury. "You are a lie, you are my illness, you are a phantom. It's only that I don't know how to destroy you and I see I must suffer for a time. You are my hallucination. You are the incarnation of myself, but only of one side of me... of my thoughts and feelings, but only the nastiest and stupidest of them. From that point of view you might be of interest to me, if only I had time to waste on you-" "Excuse me, excuse me, I'll catch you. When you flew out at Alyosha under the lamp-post this evening and shouted to him, 'You learnt it from him! How do you know that he visits me?' You were thinking of me then. So for one brief moment you did believe that I really exist," the gentleman laughed blandly. "Yes, that was a moment of weakness... but I couldn't believe in you. I don't know whether I was asleep or awake last time. Perhaps I was only dreaming then and didn't see you really at all-" "And why were you so surly with Alyosha just now? He is a dear; I've treated him badly over Father Zossima." "Don't talk of Alyosha! How dare you, you flunkey!" Ivan laughed again. "You scold me, but you laugh - that's a good sign. But you are ever so much more polite than you were last time and I know why: that great resolution of yours-" "Don't speak of my resolution," cried Ivan, savagely. "I understand, I understand, c'est noble, c'est charmant, you are going to defend your brother and to sacrifice yourself... C'est chevaleresque." "Hold your tongue, I'll kick you!" "I shan't be altogether sorry, for then my object will be attained. If you kick me, you must believe in my reality, for people don't kick ghosts. Joking apart, it doesn't matter to me, scold if you like, though it's better to be a trifle more polite even to me. 'Fool, flunkey!' what words!" "Scolding you, I scold myself," Ivan laughed again, "you are myself, myself, only with a different face. You just say what I am thinking... and are incapable of saying anything new!" "If I am like you in my way of thinking, it's all to my credit," the gentleman declared, with delicacy and dignity. "You choose out only my worst thoughts, and what's more, the stupid ones. You are stupid and vulgar. You are awfully stupid. No, I can't put up with you! What am I to do, what am I to do?" Ivan said through his clenched teeth. "My dear friend, above all things I want to behave like a gentleman and to be recognised as such," the visitor began in an access of deprecating and simple-hearted pride, typical of a poor relation. "I am poor, but... I won't say very honest, but... it's an axiom generally accepted in society that I am a fallen angel. I certainly can't conceive how I can ever have been an angel. If I ever was, it must have been so long ago that there's no harm in forgetting it. Now I only prize the reputation of being a gentlemanly person and live as I can, trying to make myself agreeable. I love men genuinely, I've been greatly calumniated! Here when I stay with you from time to time, my life gains a kind of reality and that's what I like most of all. You see, like you, I suffer from the fantastic and so I love the realism of earth. Here, with you, everything is circumscribed, here all is formulated and geometrical, while we have nothing but indeterminate equations! I wander about here dreaming. I like dreaming. Besides, on earth I become superstitious. Please don't laugh, that's just what I like, to become superstitious. I adopt all your habits here: I've grown fond of going to the public baths, would you believe it? and I go and steam myself with merchants and priests. What I dream of is becoming incarnate once for all and irrevocably in the form of some merchant's wife weighing eighteen stone, and of believing all she believes. My ideal is to go to church and offer a candle in simple-hearted faith, upon my word it is. Then there would be an end to my sufferings. I like being doctored too; in the spring there was an outbreak of smallpox and I went and was vaccinated in a foundling hospital - if only you knew how I enjoyed myself that day. I subscribed ten roubles in the cause of the Slavs!... But you are not listening. Do you know, you are not at all well this evening? I know you went yesterday to that doctor... well, what about your health? What did the doctor say?" "Fool!" Ivan snapped out. "But you are clever, anyway. You are scolding again? I didn't ask out of sympathy. You needn't answer. Now rheumatism has come in again-" "Fool!" repeated Ivan. "You keep saying the same thing; but I had such an attack of rheumatism last year that I remember it to this day." "The devil have rheumatism!" "Why not, if I sometimes put on fleshly form? I put on fleshly form and I take the consequences. Satan sum et nihil humanum a me alienum puto."* * I am Satan, and deem nothing human alien to me. "What, what, Satan sum et nihil humanum... that's not bad for the devil!" "I am glad I've pleased you at last." "But you didn't get that from me." Ivan stopped suddenly, seeming struck. "That never entered my head, that's strange." "C'est du nouveau, n'est-ce pas?"* This time I'll act honestly and explain to you. Listen, in dreams and especially in nightmares, from indigestion or anything, a man sees sometimes such artistic visions, such complex and real actuality, such events, even a whole world of events, woven into such a plot, with such unexpected details from the most exalted matters to the last button on a cuff, as I swear Leo Tolstoy has never invented. Yet such dreams are sometimes seen not by writers, but by the most ordinary people, officials, journalists, priests.... The subject is a complete enigma. A statesman confessed to me, indeed, that all his best ideas came to him when he was asleep. Well, that's how it is now, though I am your hallucination, yet just as in a nightmare, I say original things which had not entered your head before. So I don't repeat your ideas, yet I am only your nightmare, nothing more." * It's new, isn't it? "You are lying, your aim is to convince me you exist apart and are not my nightmare, and now you are asserting you are a dream." "My dear fellow, I've adopted a special method to-day, I'll explain it to you afterwards. Stay, where did I break off? Oh, yes! I caught cold then, only not here but yonder." "Where is yonder? Tell me, will you be here long. Can't you go away?" Ivan exclaimed almost in despair. He ceased walking to and fro, sat down on the sofa, leaned his elbows on the table again and held his head tight in both hands. He pulled the wet towel off and flung it away in vexation. It was evidently of no use. "Your nerves are out of order," observed the gentleman, with a carelessly easy, though perfectly polite, air. "You are angry with me even for being able to catch cold, though it happened in a most natural way. I was hurrying then to a diplomatic soiree at the house of a lady of high rank in Petersburg, who was aiming at influence in the Ministry. Well, an evening suit, white tie, gloves, though I was God knows where and had to fly through space to reach your earth.... Of course, it took only an instant, but you know a ray of light from the sun takes full eight minutes, and fancy in an evening suit and open waistcoat. Spirits don't freeze, but when one's in fleshly form, well... in brief, I didn't think, and set off, and you know in those ethereal spaces, in the water that is above the firmament, there's such a frost... at least one can't call it frost, you fancy, 150 degrees below zero! You know the game the village girls play - they invite the unwary to lick an axe in thirty degrees of frost, the tongue instantly freezes to it and the dupe tears the skin off, so it bleeds. But that's only in 30 degrees, in 150 degrees I imagine it would be enough to put your finger on the axe and it would be the end of it... if only there could be an axe there." "And can there be an axe there?" Ivan interrupted, carelessly and disdainfully. He was exerting himself to the utmost not to believe in the delusion and not to sink into complete insanity "An axe?" the guest interrupted in surprise. "Yes, what would become of an axe there?" Ivan cried suddenly, with a sort of savage and insistent obstinacy. "What would become of an axe in space? Quelle idee! If it were to fall to any distance, it would begin, I think, flying round the earth without knowing why, like a satellite. The astronomers would calculate the rising and the setting of the axe; Gatzuk would put it in his calendar, that's all." "You are stupid, awfully stupid," said Ivan peevishly. "Fib more cleverly or I won't listen. You want to get the better of me by realism, to convince me that you exist, but I don't want to believe you exist! I won't believe it!" "But I am not fibbing, it's all the truth; the truth is unhappily hardly ever amusing. I see you persist in expecting something big of me, and perhaps something fine. That's a great pity, for I only give what I can-" "Don't talk philosophy, you ass!" "Philosophy, indeed, when all my right side is numb and I am moaning and groaning. I've tried all the medical faculty: they can diagnose beautifully, they have the whole of your disease at their finger-tips, but they've no idea how to cure you. There was an enthusiastic little student here, 'You may die,' said he, 'but you'll know perfectly what disease you are dying of!' And then what a way they have of sending people to specialists! 'We only diagnose,' they say, 'but go to such-and-such a specialist, he'll cure you.' The old doctor who used to cure all sorts of disease has completely disappeared, I assure you, now there are only specialists and they all advertise in the newspapers. If anything is wrong with your nose, they send you to Paris: there, they say, is a European specialist who cures noses. If you go to Paris, he'll look at your nose; I can only cure your right nostril, he'll tell you, for I don't cure the left nostril, that's not my speciality, but go to Vienna, there there's a specialist who will cure your left nostril. What are you to do? I fell back on popular remedies, a German doctor advised me to rub myself with honey and salt in the bath-house. Solely to get an extra bath I went, smeared myself all over and it did me no good at all. In despair I wrote to Count Mattei in Milan. He sent me a book and some drops, bless him, and, only fancy, Hoff's malt extract cured me! I bought it by accident, drank a bottle and a half of it, and I was ready to dance, it took it away completely. I made up my mind to write to the papers to thank him, I was prompted by a feeling of gratitude, and only fancy, it led to no end of a bother: not a single paper would take my letter. 'It would be very reactionary,' they said, 'none will believe it. Le diable n'existe point.* You'd better remain anonymous,' they advised me. What use is a letter of thanks if it's anonymous? I laughed with the men at the newspaper office; 'It's reactionary to believe in God in our days,' I said, 'but I am the devil, so I may be believed in.' 'We quite understand that,' they said. 'Who doesn't believe in the devil? Yet it won't do, it might injure our reputation. As a joke, if you like.' But I thought as a joke it wouldn't be very witty. So it wasn't printed. And do you know, I have felt sore about it to this day. My best feelings, gratitude, for instance, are literally denied me simply from my social position." * The devil does not exist. "Philosophical reflections again?" Ivan snarled malignantly. "God preserve me from it, but one can't help complaining sometimes. I am a slandered man. You upbraid me every moment with being stupid. One can see you are young. My dear fellow, intelligence isn't the only thing! I have naturally a kind and merry heart. 'I also write vaudevilles of all sorts.' You seem to take me for Hlestakov grown old, but my fate is a far more serious one. Before time was, by some decree which I could never make out, I was predestined 'to deny' and yet I am genuinely good-hearted and not at all inclined to negation. 'No, you must go and deny, without denial there's no criticism and what would a journal be without a column of criticism?' Without criticism it would be nothing but one 'hosannah.' But nothing but hosannah is not enough for life, the hosannah must be tried in the crucible of doubt and so on, in the same style. But I don't meddle in that, I didn't create it, I am not answerable for it. Well, they've chosen their scapegoat, they've made me write the column of criticism and so life was made possible. We understand that comedy; I, for instance, simply ask for annihilation. No, live, I am told, for there'd be nothing without you. If everything in the universe were sensible, nothing would happen. There would be no events without you, and there must be events. So against the grain I serve to produce events and do what's irrational because I am commanded to. For all their indisputable intelligence, men take this farce as something serious, and that is their tragedy. They suffer, of course... but then they live, they live a real life, not a fantastic one, for suffering is life. Without suffering what would be the pleasure of it? It would be transformed into an endless church service; it would be holy, but tedious. But what about me? I suffer, but still, I don't live. I am x in an indeterminate equation. I am a sort of phantom in life who has lost all beginning and end, and who has even forgotten his own name. You are laughing- no, you are not laughing, you are angry again. You are for ever angry, all you care about is intelligence, but I repeat again that I would give away all this superstellar life, all the ranks and honours, simply to be transformed into the soul of a merchant's wife weighing eighteen stone and set candles at God's shrine." "Then even you don't believe in God?" said Ivan, with a smile of hatred. "What can I say? - that is, if you are in earnest-" "Is there a God or not?" Ivan cried with the same savage intensity. "Ah, then you are in earnest! My dear fellow, upon my word I don't know. There! I've said it now!" "You don't know, but you see God? No, you are not someone apart, you are myself, you are I and nothing more! You are rubbish, you are my fancy!" "Well, if you like, I have the same philosophy as you, that would be true. Je pense, donc je suis,* I know that for a fact; all the rest, all these worlds, God and even Satan - all that is not proved, to my mind. Does all that exist of itself, or is it only an emanation of myself, a logical development of my ego which alone has existed for ever: but I make haste to stop, for I believe you will be jumping up to beat me directly." * I think, therefore I am. "You'd better tell me some anecdote!" said Ivan miserably. "There is an anecdote precisely on our subject, or rather a legend, not an anecdote. You reproach me with unbelief; you see, you say, yet you don't believe. But, my dear fellow, I am not the only one like that. We are all in a muddle over there now and all through your science. Once there used to be atoms, five senses, four elements, and then everything hung together somehow. There were atoms in the ancient world even, but since we've learned that you've discovered the chemical molecule and protoplasm and the devil knows what, we had to lower our crest. There's a regular muddle, and, above all, superstition, scandal; there's as much scandal among us as among you, you know; a little more in fact, and spying, indeed, for we have our secret police department where private information is received. Well, this wild legend belongs to our middle ages - not yours, but ours - and no one believes it even among us, except the old ladies of eighteen stone, not your old ladies I mean, but ours. We've everything you have, I am revealing one of our secrets out of friendship for you; though it's forbidden. This legend is about Paradise. There was, they say, here on earth a thinker and philosopher. He rejected everything, 'laws, conscience, faith,' and, above all, the future life. He died; he expected to go straight to darkness and death and he found a future life before him. He was astounded and indignant. 'This is against my principles!' he said. And he was punished for that... that is, you must excuse me, I am just repeating what I heard myself, it's only a legend... he was sentenced to walk a quadrillion kilometres in the dark (we've adopted the metric system, you know): and when he has finished that quadrillion, the gates of heaven would be opened to him and he'll be forgiven-" "And what tortures have you in the other world besides the quadrillion kilometres?" asked Ivan, with a strange eagerness. "What tortures? Ah, don't ask. In old days we had all sorts, but now they have taken chiefly to moral punishments - 'the stings of conscience' and all that nonsense. We got that, too, from you, from the softening of your manners. And who's the better for it? Only those who have got no conscience, for how can they be tortured by conscience when they have none? But decent people who have conscience and a sense of honour suffer for it. Reforms, when the ground has not been prepared for them, especially if they are institutions copied from abroad, do nothing but mischief! The ancient fire was better. Well, this man, who was condemned to the quadrillion kilometres, stood still, looked round and lay down across the road. 'I won't go, I refuse on principle!' Take the soul of an enlightened Russian atheist and mix it with the soul of the prophet Jonah, who sulked for three days and nights in the belly of the whale, and you get the character of that thinker who lay across the road." "What did he lie on there?" "Well, I suppose there was something to lie on. You are not laughing?" "Bravo!" cried Ivan, still with the same strange eagerness. Now he was listening with an unexpected curiosity. "Well, is he lying there now?" "That's the point, that he isn't. He lay there almost a thousand years and then he got up and went on." "What an ass!" cried Ivan, laughing nervously and still seeming to be pondering something intently. "Does it make any difference whether he lies there for ever or walks the quadrillion kilometres? It would take a billion years to walk it?" "Much more than that. I haven't got a pencil and paper or I could work it out. But he got there long ago, and that's where the story begins." "What, he got there? But how did he get the billion years to do it?" "Why, you keep thinking of our present earth! But our present earth may have been repeated a billion times. Why, it's become extinct, been frozen; cracked, broken to bits, disintegrated into its elements, again 'the water above the firmament,' then again a comet, again a sun, again from the sun it becomes earth - and the same sequence may have been repeated endlessly and exactly the same to every detail, most unseemly and insufferably tedious-" "Well, well, what happened when he arrived?" "Why, the moment the gates of Paradise were open and he walked in; before he had been there two seconds, by his watch (though to my thinking his watch must have long dissolved into its elements on the way), he cried out that those two seconds were worth walking not a quadrillion kilometres but a quadrillion of quadrillions, raised to the quadrillionth power! In fact, he sang 'hosannah' and overdid it so, that some persons there of lofty ideas wouldn't shake hands with him at first - he'd become too rapidly reactionary, they said. The Russian temperament. I repeat, it's a legend. I give it for what it's worth, so that's the sort of ideas we have on such subjects even now." "I've caught you!" Ivan cried, with an almost childish delight, as though he had succeeded in remembering something at last. "That anecdote about the quadrillion years, I made up myself! I was seventeen then, I was at the high school. I made up that anecdote and told it to a schoolfellow called Korovkin, it was at Moscow.... The anecdote is so characteristic that I couldn't have taken it from anywhere. I thought I'd forgotten it... but I've unconsciously recalled it - I recalled it myself - it was not you telling it! Thousands of things are unconsciously remembered like that even when people are being taken to execution... it's come back to me in a dream. You are that dream! You are a dream, not a living creature!" "From the vehemence with which you deny my existence," laughed the gentleman, "I am convinced that you believe in me." "Not in the slightest! I haven't a hundredth part of a grain of faith in you!" "But you have the thousandth of a grain. Homeopathic doses perhaps are the strongest. Confess that you have faith even to the ten-thousandth of a grain." "Not for one minute," cried Ivan furiously. "But I should like to believe in you," he added strangely. "Aha! There's an admission! But I am good-natured. I'll come to your assistance again. Listen, it was I caught you, not you me. I told you your anecdote you'd forgotten, on purpose, so as to destroy your faith in me completely." "You are lying. The object of your visit is to convince me of your existence!" "Just so. But hesitation, suspense, conflict between belief and disbelief - is sometimes such torture to a conscientious man, such as you are, that it's better to hang oneself at once. Knowing that you are inclined to believe in me, I administered some disbelief by telling you that anecdote. I lead you to belief and disbelief by turns, and I have my motive in it. It's the new method. As soon as you disbelieve in me completely, you'll begin assuring me to my face that I am not a dream but a reality. I know you. Then I shall have attained my object, which is an honourable one. I shall sow in you only a tiny grain of faith and it will grow into an oak-tree - and such an oak-tree that, sitting on it, you will long to enter the ranks of 'the hermits in the wilderness and the saintly women,' for that is what you are secretly longing for. You'll dine on locusts, you'll wander into the wilderness to save your soul!" "Then it's for the salvation of my soul you are working, is it, you scoundrel?" "One must do a good work sometimes. How ill-humoured you are!" "Fool! did you ever tempt those holy men who ate locusts and prayed seventeen years in the wilderness till they were overgrown with moss?" "My dear fellow, I've done nothing else. One forgets the whole world and all the worlds, and sticks to one such saint, because he is a very precious diamond. One such soul, you know, is sometimes worth a whole constellation. We have our system of reckoning, you know. The conquest is priceless! And some of them, on my word, are not inferior to you in culture, though you won't believe it. They can contemplate such depths of belief and disbelief at the same moment that sometimes it really seems that they are within a hair's-breadth of being 'turned upside down,' as the actor Gorbunov says." "Well, did you get your nose pulled?" "My dear fellow," observed the visitor sententiously, "it's better to get off with your nose pulled than without a nose at all. As an afflicted marquis observed not long ago (he must have been treated by a specialist) in confession to his spiritual father - a Jesuit. I was present, it was simply charming. 'Give me back my nose!' he said, and he beat his breast. 'My son,' said the priest evasively, 'all things are accomplished in accordance with the inscrutable decrees of Providence, and what seems a misfortune sometimes leads to extraordinary, though unapparent, benefits. If stern destiny has deprived you of your nose, it's to your advantage that no one can ever pull you by your nose.' 'Holy father, that's no comfort,' cried the despairing marquis. 'I'd be delighted to have my nose pulled every day of my life, if it were only in its proper place.' 'My son,' sighs the priest, 'you can't expect every blessing at once. This is murmuring against Providence, who even in this has not forgotten you, for if you repine as you repined just now, declaring you'd be glad to have your nose pulled for the rest of your life, your desire has already been fulfilled indirectly, for when you lost your nose, you were led by the nose.' "Fool, how stupid!" cried Ivan. "My dear friend, I only wanted to amuse you. But I swear that's the genuine Jesuit casuistry and I swear that it all happened word for word as I've told you. It happened lately and gave me a great deal of trouble. The unhappy young man shot himself that very night when he got home. I was by his side till the very last moment. Those Jesuit confessionals are really my most delightful diversion at melancholy moments. Here's another incident that happened only the other day. A little blonde Norman girl of twenty - a buxom, unsophisticated beauty that would make your mouth water - comes to an old priest. She bends down and whispers her sin into the grating. 'Why, my daughter, have you fallen again already?' cries the priest: 'O Sancta Maria, what do I hear! Not the same man this time, how long is this going on? Aren't you ashamed!' 'Ah, mon pere,' answers the sinner with tears of penitence, 'Ca lui fait tant de plaisir, et a moi si peu de peine!'* Fancy, such an answer! I drew back. It was the cry of nature, better than innocence itself, if you like. I absolved her sin on the spot and was turning to go, but I was forced to turn back. I heard the priest at the grating making an appointment with her for the evening - though he was an old man hard as flint, he fell in an instant! It was nature, the truth of nature asserted its rights! What, you are turning up your nose again? Angry again? I don't know how to please you-" * Ah, my father, this gives him so much pleasure, and me so little pain! "Leave me alone, you are beating on my brain like a haunting nightmare," Ivan moaned miserably, helpless before his apparition. "I am bored with you, agonisingly and insufferably. I would give anything to be able to shake you off!" "I repeat, moderate your expectations, don't demand of me 'everything great and noble,' and you'll see how well we shall get on," said the gentleman impressively. "You are really angry with me for not having appeared to you in a red glow, with thunder and lightning, with scorched wings, but have shown myself in such a modest form. You are wounded, in the first place, in your asthetic feelings, and, secondly, in your pride. How could such a vulgar devil visit such a great man as you! Yes, there is that romantic strain in you, that was so derided by Byelinsky. I can't help it, young man, as I got ready to come to you I did think as a joke of appearing in the figure of a retired general who had served in the Caucasus, with a star of the Lion and the Sun on my coat. But I was positively afraid of doing it, for you'd have thrashed me for daring to pin the Lion and the Sun on my coat, instead of, at least, the Polar Star or the Sirius. And you keep on saying I am stupid, but, mercy on us! I make no claim to be equal to you in intelligence. Mephistopheles declared to Faust that he desired evil, but did only good. Well, he can say what he likes, it's quite the opposite with me. I am perhaps the one man in all creation who loves the truth and genuinely desires good. I was there when the Word, Who died on the Cross, rose up into heaven bearing on His bosom the soul of the penitent thief. I heard the glad shrieks of the cherubim singing and shouting hosannah and the thunderous rapture of the seraphim which shook heaven and all creation, and I swear to you by all that's sacred, I longed to join the choir and shout hosannah with them all. The word had almost escaped me, had almost broken from my lips... you know how susceptible and aesthetically impressionable I am. But common sense -oh, a most unhappy trait in my character - kept me in due bounds and I let the moment pass! For what would have happened, I reflected, what would have happened after my hosannah? Everything on earth would have been extinguished at once and no events could have occurred. And so, solely from a sense of duty and my social position, was forced to suppress the good moment and to stick to my nasty task. Somebody takes all the credit of what's good for Himself, and nothing but nastiness is left for me. But I don't envy the honour of a life of idle imposture, I am not ambitious. Why am I, of all creatures in the world, doomed to be cursed by all decent people and even to be kicked, for if I put on mortal form I am bound to take such consequences sometimes? I know, of course, there's a secret in it, but they won't tell me the secret for anything, for then perhaps, seeing the meaning of it, I might bawl hosannah, and the indispensable minus would disappear at once, and good sense would reign supreme throughout the whole world. And that, of course, would mean the end of everything, even of magazines and newspapers, for who would take them in? I know that at the end of all things I shall be reconciled. I, too, shall walk my quadrillion and learn the secret. But till that happens I am sulking and fulfil my destiny though it's against the grain - that is, to ruin thousands for the sake of saving one. How many souls have had to be ruined and how many honourable reputations destroyed for the sake of that one righteous man, Job, over whom they made such a fool of me in old days! Yes, till the secret is revealed, there are two sorts of truths for me - one, their truth, yonder, which I know nothing about so far, and the other my own. And there's no knowing which will turn out the better.... Are you asleep?" "I might well be," Ivan groaned angrily. "All my stupid ideasoutgrown, thrashed out long ago, and flung aside like a dead carcass you present to me as something new!" "There's no pleasing you! And I thought I should fascinate you by my literary style. That hosannah in the skies really wasn't bad, was it? And then that ironical tone a la Heine, eh?" "No, I was never such a flunkey! How then could my soul beget a flunkey like you?" "My dear fellow, I know a most charming and attractive young Russian gentleman, a young thinker and a great lover of literature and art, the author of a promising poem entitled The Grand Inquisitor. I was only thinking of him!" "I forbid you to speak of The Grand Inquisitor," cried Ivan, crimson with shame. "And the Geological Cataclysm. Do you remember? That was a poem, now!" "Hold your tongue, or I'll kill you!" "You'll kill me? No, excuse me, I will speak. I came to treat myself to that pleasure. Oh, I love the dreams of my ardent young friends, quivering with eagerness for life! 'There are new men,' you decided last spring, when you were meaning to come here, 'they propose to destroy everything and begin with cannibalism. Stupid fellows! they didn't ask my advice! I maintain that nothing need be destroyed, that we only need to destroy the idea of God in man, that's how we have to set to work. It's that, that we must begin with. Oh, blind race of men who have no understanding! As soon as men have all of them denied God - and I believe that period, analogous with geological periods, will come to pass - the old conception of the universe will fall of itself without cannibalism, and, what's more, the old morality, and everything will begin anew. Men will unite to take from life all it can give, but only for joy and happiness in the present world. Man will be lifted up with a spirit of divine Titanic pride and the man-god will appear. From hour to hour extending his conquest of nature infinitely by his will and his science, man will feel such lofty joy from hour to hour in doing it that it will make up for all his old dreams of the joys of heaven. Everyone will know that he is mortal and will accept death proudly and serenely like a god. His pride will teach him that it's useless for him to repine at life's being a moment, and he will love his brother without need of reward. Love will be sufficient only for a moment of life, but the very consciousness of its momentariness will intensify its fire, which now is dissipated in dreams of eternal love beyond the grave'... and so on and so on in the same style. Charming!" Ivan sat with his eyes on the floor, and his hands pressed to his ears, but he began trembling all over. The voice continued. "The question now is, my young thinker reflected, is it possible that such a period will ever come? If it does, everything is determined and humanity is settled for ever. But as, owing to man's inveterate stupidity, this cannot come about for at least a thousand years, everyone who recognises the truth even now may legitimately order his life as he pleases, on the new principles. In that sense, 'all things are lawful' for him. What's more, even if this period never comes to pass, since there is anyway no God and no immortality, the new man may well become the man-god, even if he is the only one in the whole world, and promoted to his new position, he may lightheartedly overstep all the barriers of the old morality of the old slaveman, if necessary. There is no law for God. Where God stands, the place is holy. Where I stand will be at once the foremost place... 'all things are lawful' and that's the end of it! That's all very charming; but if you want to swindle why do you want a moral sanction for doing it? But that's our modern Russian all over. He can't bring himself to swindle without a moral sanction. He is so in love with truth-" The visitor talked, obviously carried away by his own eloquence, speaking louder and louder and looking ironically at his host. But he did not succeed in finishing; Ivan suddenly snatched a glass from the table and flung it at the orator. "Ah, mais c'est bete enfin,"* cried the latter, jumping up from the sofa and shaking the drops of tea off himself. "He remembers Luther's inkstand! He takes me for a dream and throws glasses at a dream! It's like a woman! I suspected you were only pretending to stop up your ears." * But after all, that's stupid. A loud, persistent knocking was suddenly heard at the window. Ivan jumped up from the sofa. "Do you hear? You'd better open," cried the visitor; "it's your brother Alyosha with the most interesting and surprising news, I'll be bound!" "Be silent, deceiver, I knew it was Alyosha, I felt he was coming, and of course he has not come for nothing; of course he brings 'news,'" Ivan exclaimed frantically. "Open, open to him. There's a snowstorm and he is your brother. Monsieur sait-il le temps qu'il fait? C'est a ne pas mettre un chien dehors."* * Does the gentleman know the weather he's making? It's not weather for a dog. The knocking continued. Ivan wanted to rush to the window, but something seemed to fetter his arms and legs. He strained every effort to break his chains, but in vain. The knocking at the window grew louder and louder. At last the chains were broken and Ivan leapt up from the sofa. He looked round him wildly. Both candles had almost burnt out, the glass he had just thrown at his visitor stood before him on the table, and there was no one on the sofa opposite. The knocking on the window frame went on persistently, but it was by no means so loud as it had seemed in his dream; on the contrary, it was quite subdued. "It was not a dream! No, I swear it was not a dream, it all happened just now!" cried Ivan. He rushed to the window and opened the movable pane. "Alyosha, I told you not to come," he cried fiercely to his brother. "In two words, what do you want? In two words, do you hear?" "An hour ago Smerdyakov hanged himself," Alyosha answered from the yard. "Come round to the steps, I'll open at once," said Ivan, going to open the door to Alyosha.