so I know it's 2021 and death note aint exactly poppin anymore but let me say something here

one thing I love about death note that makes me both happy and sad is the fact that we are never shown how light actually is outside of the death note's influence. we see him for like twenty seconds before he picks up the death note, which is heavily, HEAVILYYYY implied to be cursed (Ryuk saying every human who's met with it has led a life of misfortune, light being DRASTICALLY different during yotsuba, it being said that the note makes people use it, etc)

so that gives people a LOT of wiggle room when writing light in fanfic. and that's fun and fine and good, but can I say that I am tired,,,, 🤌TIRED🤌 of seeing light just be actin exactly the same even when he's written as never even having touCHEd the death note

I GET IT, ITS YALLS AU AND YALL CAN WRITE WHATEVER U WANT HOWEVER U WANT!!!!!! it is yours to do with as u PLEASE 💕😤💕

But mannn my favorite light is a warm light. I rly like imagining light as being just as charming when he's himself as when he's Kira, BUT Real Light runs out of socially smooth, scripted things to say after about an hour, and eventually drifts into Dork Mode where he ends up talking about all this nerdy shit he's actually into (",,,,,,,,,,,,,,, have you heard of sanpaku eyes? I don't know how much merit it actually holds, but it's still an interesting observation. it means 'three whites' and it's in reference to how a lot of psychopaths have the top or bottom white of their eye visible around their iris--" "okay light")

more headcanons I have for my lil version of Actual Light I've created in my head:

• surprisingly funny and usually out of nowhere

• makes fun of L for being a "homeschooler" and how it explains a lot

• v close with sayu. plays wii and Pokémon with her and they go on morning jogs together before school while light quizzes her with unnecessarily complicated versions of her study guide to get a laugh in before breakfast

• much closer with his mom than he is with his dad. knows how to and is adept at sewing, cooking, and cleaning. I like to think his mom knew he Wasn't Straight Very Early On and they both know it but light still hasn't said anything out loud to her yet. they love each other v v much

• got his first and only failing grade when he was 14 just bc he forgot to do it. keeps a planner now and writes absolutely everything in it. L thinks it's funny bc light's so, so smart but he's also so forgetful. also forgets to eat all the time

• doesn't have any real friends and never has. really adept at socializing for a little while, but runs out of socially smooth things to say after about an hour, and that's kept him from making genuine friends bc no one else rly wants to talk about black holes or unsolved murders. has One Friend at To-Oh that sits next to him, and it's bc she listens to true crime podcasts and is rly interested in unsolved murders. that's it

• going off that, I also like to imagine light being really reALLY interested in L when he first meets him, not even romantically or anything. just bc hes never met anyone on his same wavelength and it's so cathartic just to sit and talk to L and not have to wait or slow down, bc L already knows what he's saying and what he means. loves playing chess as expected, but also loves playing "guess who" with L once they're good enough friends for a while to get there. they make up questions like "do they look like they wake up at 4:30 am every day and drink lemon water while they run before the sun is up" "yes" *flips down seven tabs*

• I see light as a heavy iced coffee drinker. not even bc he needs it to wake up or anything but just bc he likes the constant light buzz throughout the day, and it also helps him stay focused on everyday things that would otherwise bore him and make his mind wander. mans likes iced caramel macchiatos. eet eez what eet eez and it makes sense in my head

• don't clown me but y'all know how every lil genius in death note has their favorite snacks. aight so lights is fresh sliced oranges. mans could eat a whole bag by himself in an hour. I will not elaborate

• always does dress nice yeah, like Kira!Light, but also comfortably and sometimes like he's 45. Has never worn a pair of acidwash jeans in his life. Khakis or joggers 24/7, and the occasional slim fit dark jeans. has 20 cardigans. one pair of high top white vans, one pair of dark grey low top vans, and the rest would all qualify as business casual. doesn't know what a flip-flop is and will cut you off if he hears you say it

• loves cats and really wants one but soichiro doesn't want animals in the house. light secretly feeds a cat that comes to his windowsill every day and has named it "Mao" bc of its obnoxious meow. was once caught meowing at Mao to come closer by sayu walking home and she snapchatted it to him. sayu starts feeding Mao and scritching his ears while light goes to cram school

• openly likes tally hall, joji, mother mother, and glass animals. secretly likes ariana grande and lizzo. blares them in the car with sayu

• typical gifted kid piano player. soichiro signed him up for piano lessons upon learning light was gifted when he was young. uses his skills now to make piano renditions of cardi b songs

• sometimes bakes obsessively when stuck on something. during the Kira case, L walks in the headquarter's kitchen at 2 am to find a very tired looking watari and 16 apple crisps on the counter with light cutting out intricate dough shapes to decorate the tops. they meet eyes once light notices him and stay Silent for a minute. light says he can't get off the idea that it has to be supernatural, as silly as it sounds, because causing heart attacks in such a controlled manner is impossible. there's no way otherwise. L says he was starting to reluctantly think the same thing, but didn't want to overlook anything before he settled on that. they nod to themselves and light goes back to cutting out shapes. L grabs a plate of beignets light made a couple hours earlier and turns back around to walk out

well that's it. thanks for coming to my death note Ted talk

Chapter 5: A Unifying Force (second draft)

Walt Whitman was occupied in reclining, glum and alone, on a sofa in a corner of the bar, when the group of women erupted into the main area of the bar, bursting from the doors of the women’s lavatory.

Walt didn’t remember having seen them enter the bathroom, or having seen them at all; yet he had been here for quite some time. They didn’t look anything like the bar’s other clientele. In fact, they didn’t look like much of anything at all. One was quite respectably dressed, while another wore bloomers and a bowler hat, and another what looked like a garland of flowers.

They all seemed quite content: gossiping and giggling like a pack of schoolgirls, thought Whitman. As they exited the washroom, they scanned the room with their eyes. Then, as if of one mind, the group began to drift towards what looked like the bar, as if completely unfazed by the environment which, at least to Walt, seemed very foreign and wholly incomprehensible.

When the barman offered them beers, they eagerly assented, asking for several different brands before realizing that this place wasn’t going to serve them anything they recognized. Eventually, they all settled on the same brand.

The women found themselves seats at the bar and at tables nearby, gathering in clumps and clusters, and - for the most part - drank without hesitation. Far from repulsing Whitman, their boldness drew him in. Finally someone wearing something one could call clothing; and yet, how bizarre, how fascinating, the behaviour of these women!

In his contemplations, Walt had begun to understand his own situation. Flung from his house in New Jersey, projected far from the comfort of the year of our Lord 1882, he was lost… somewhere, in a place where timelines collided and rebounded and merged, in perpetual confoundment. Considering the wide array of their dress, these women seemed also to have been brought here by whatever fateful event it was that had brought together Oscar, Auden and himself. He stepped nervously up to the group, wondering how to initiate a conversation with such strange and varied creatures.

Luckily, one of them did it for him, reaching out to shake his hand. “Hello, kind sir... Virginia, Virginia Woolf. Are you quite alright?”

Before Whitman could say anything, there was a great outcry from the table behind him. One of the girls - the one wearing flowers - had managed to get her hands on some vodka. She and her friend, shot glasses raised, were giving what seemed to be a toast. She spoke with great gusto, in a language unrecognizable to Walt. Virginia frowned disapprovingly.

“Oh dear, she’s been trying to get her drunk since we came in. I doubt this will end well. Frida? Is that right? And Rosa? Yes. Perhaps give it a minute? I know it’s all very exciting, but you may want to take at least a few moments to get your bearings, before you both end up blind drunk…” The two looked back blankly. “Do you understand me? No? Vodka. Da? Nyet. Nyet vodka. Nyet… bolshoi… vodka. Good?”

The pair finally lowered their voices, albeit only a little, and Virginia turned back to Walt, an apologetic smile on her face.

“Sorry about that. We’re having a couple of issues with, ah, language barriers. None of us are quite sure how we got here, and… well. You know.” She trailed off. “What’s put you in such low spirits? Care for a drink?” asked Virginia, offering him a beer.

Walt had spent his evening watching men kiss men and women kiss women without even a glance to see who was watching. Feeling the situation to be bizarre beyond the limits of reality, he decided to bypass all the usual mechanisms of censorship. Graciously accepting the beer, he began the arduous task of explanation.

“I met an old flame, a poet friend of mine… we used to be very close, on “thee and thou terms”, as he likes to say. Tonight, after we all ended up here, we got into a bit of a quarrel over, if you’ll permit the term, the courtship of a certain handsome newcomer, a man with a talent for versification and, uh, rather good taste in art...”

“Which of the two do you fancy?” Virginia giggled. “You seem to be after them both.”

Walt sighed. “Later on, my friend got into another fight, with the stranger himself, over a breach of his honour. I defended him without hesitation. That was when it all came clear to me... but the newcomer apologized, and my dear old friend ended up following him out. He’s left me all alone.” Whitman whimpered. “I don’t quite know where to turn.”

Another woman leaned over to them from a table to their right, at which a small cluster of fairly respectably-dressed women had gathered. “Excuse me, Willa Cather here, pleasure to meet you. I couldn’t help but eavesdrop a little - if you ask me, I would stick with your friend. This stranger seems like nothing but trouble.”

“Oh, let the man decide for himself,” a woman behind her scolded.

“Miss Emily! I was only trying to help,” Willa laughed.

“I truly am ever so fond Oscar - that is, my old acquaintance. But this other man, I must say…” Walt continued.

“The charm of the exotic?” Willa raised an eyebrow.

“So it would appear…” A giggle from the aforementioned Miss Emily.

“Does he seem… perhaps as if he comes from a different century? A world apart from your own?” cut in Virginia.

“My goodness, yes!” exclaimed Whitman. “How did you know?”

“A lot of us seem to be from very different places and… times. See that lovely lady to the left - adorable, is she not? She’s from France. Born twenty years from now. She says her name is Simone. Simone… isn’t that a beautiful name? A beautiful name for a beautiful person. The pair of us have a lot in common besides.” Virginia smiled dreamily. “In politics, especially.”

As Virginia spoke, Simone rose from her seat to join them. She wore a pink dress shirt, a blue tie and a seductive smile, and seemed far more interested in Virginia than in anything around her. It was this feature that had begun to come to Walt’s attention: this bizarre new society seemed so full of homosexual activity. It must have been some aspect of this peculiar bar.

“Bonsoir again, ma belle,” began Simone. The two appeared very comfortable with one another, though they could not have met more than an hour ago. She paused to look up at Walt, stretching out her right hand: “Simone de Beauvoir. Delighted.” Then, turning back to Virginia: “What seems to be ze issue with this gentleman?”

“Only the eternal issue: romance. He has had some problems since involving himself with… well, who else? Men.” The girls smiled knowingly at each other. Whitman was slightly put off by such open mockery, but all things considered, he supposed it was well-deserved. Brushing off the insult, he explained his situation again, this time to the Frenchwoman.

“Oscar Wilde, an old… partner… of mine, just left with a man we’d only just met. I’m afraid I’ve been struck by a current of melancholia.”

Virginia gaped. “Do you speak French?” Simone, drawn in by the very scent of drama, leaned closer to Walt, oblivious to the incredulous look that had come over Virginia’s face at the mention of Oscar’s name.

Walt shook his head. Simone rolled her eyes. “Fine, in English then. What do you desire? What eez eet you want?” this oddly-dressed foreigner was more enigmatic than empathetic.

“I want,” he stammered, “I want them both to love me.”

Simone laughed. “Zat’s men isn’t it. Your lover eez off with someone else. You cannot hold on to zee one, so you decide you want zee both of them.”

“But did you hear what he said?” Virginia interrupted, gazing in awe first at Simone and then at Whitman himself. “You did say your lover’s name was - “

“Oscar Wilde. The very same.” Walt sighed. “What a spectacular prize to have misplaced, so to speak… you must understand. It is a great blow to anyone... to lose someone who thinks they’re the mind of the century. Whether it is true or not.” He chuckled grimly.

“I understand completely. It is for this very reason zat I avoid most men like zee plague,” joked Simone. Virginia smiled. Walt rolled his eyes and continued his explanations.

“As for this other man, well, I’m not certain of his identity. Could certainly hold his own on most forms of poetry. Some strange sod named Wystan Hugh Auden, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Oh mon dieu, eet never ends! Auden? Why, Auden must be one of the greatest American poets of this century, if not the greatest tout court. Unsurprising you and Monsieur Wilde both fell for him so swiftly.”

Walt found his view of Wystan forcibly shifted, suddenly and drastically. The greatest American poet of our century… Whitman, accustomed to throwing around such titles himself, sensed something deeply fatalistic about this remark. Wystan, perhaps, was destined to succeed him, to surpass him… perhaps it was meant to be this way. Perhaps Wystan would make Oscar happy. Walt began to believe he would never win his flame back.

Virginia, reading the despair in Walt’s features, reached out to comfort him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “But you said you were an old friend of his, of Wilde’s,” she recalled. “I’m sure you are extremely renowned as well. I don’t believe I ever asked your name?”

“Walter Whitman,” sighed the American, “although I much prefer Walt.” He said it in the certainty that he would go unrecognized, forgotten and unimportant beneath the grand and sweeping gestures of history. That beyond the fleeting glory he had known, he would inevitably be overwritten by the legacies of those more charming and better educated than he, the Wystan Hugh Audens of the days to come...

“Truly? Whitman? Why, how could you have doubted yourself for a moment?” exclaimed Woolf. “I simply adore your verse. Your Leaves of Grass is one of those rare pieces of art that speaks honestly of men; most poetry published in our day and age is either full of lies cover to cover, or else about women,” Virginia laughed. “But what you have created in your work - it’s the sort of real, earthy beauty that leaves the room around you feeling all cold and breathless, so that one must read it on the balcony in the sun, or not at all…”

“Goodness. I really am pleasantly surprised. And flattered, of course, though I don’t presume myself worthy of your praise.” Walt began to wonder if one or the other of them might be attempting some form of courtship of him, only to be cut short by Simone: all of a sudden, the Frenchwoman planted a light, spontaneous kiss on Virginia’s cheek. Both blushed.

Reconsidering, Walt stuck out his right hand. “I’m sure you both are the diamonds of your epoch. A pleasure.” The hand was duly shaken, and the three took a look around them. The others seemed all to have formed clumps, gathering in pairs or groups. Frida Kahlo and Rosa Luxemburg sat apart from the rest; Frida was pouring Rosa yet another shot of vodka, the next instalment in a series already numbering close to half a dozen. Both were breaking, at intervals, into fits of giggles, cutting off their otherwise grandiose declamations.

Walt spotted the lady who had introduced herself as Willa Cather, who had so kindly offered him her advice in matters of romance. She was engaged in intense conversation with a woman Walt could have sworn was Emily Brontë. At this point, he figured there was no reason it shouldn’t be, and briefly considered simply walking up to her and explaining that he admired her work; for reasons of caution, however, he decided against it.

Walt guessed that quite a few of the pairs that had formed would go home together. Home… he wondered, struck again suddenly with melancholia, if he would ever be able to return to New Jersey. Of course, this place had its own appeal, but there were some people he would have liked to say goodbye to… at least Oscar was here. It was Walt’s task, then, to win him back: resolute, he decided to leave Virginia and Simone to their own affairs, and walked over to the closest group of what looked to be Virginia’s compatriots.

“Good evening. Excuse my interruption, but seeing as I seem to have found myself unaccompanied, I supposed I would introduce myself. I’m Walter Whitman, but you may refer to me as Walt.” He was almost entirely sure he recognized the faces before him. “And you lovely ladies are?”

The lady closest to him introduced herself as Charlotte Brontë. “From Hampshire,” she added. Of course! “Your novels are marvels,” breathed Walt. Brontë smiled. Her hand was resting on the leg of another woman. She, in turn, revealed herself to be Jane Austen. How formidable!

“If you’ll permit me - your biting irony, and your sense of realism, make for the rarest breed of social commentary…” Whitman found himself stammering. He struggled to contain his excitement. These women had written fantastically creative literary masterpieces, the jewels of past centuries.

Perhaps, he thought suddenly, a few of them would have some advice on the romantic worth their two cents.

“I wonder - did you happen to overhear any of my explanations to Miss Woolf over there? I’ve been having a bit of trouble,” he began.

“Yes, it is quite the pickle, isn’t it? You should at the very least find them, and go to them... ” Charlotte suggested.

“We would be most honored to join you,” added Austen, then whispered into Charlotte’s ear hoping Walt wouldn’t hear: “perhaps we could… find the means to… procure a room for ourselves as well.” Charlotte giggled like a schoolgirl. The liberty they had now, their agency in their own decisions - they had a feeling of liberation like never before. They were free. In the societies they were accustomed to, all things were inevitably dictated by men, whether it be a father, a brother or a husband. Fooling around with a woman, having an intellectual conversation with her… it was simply not the done thing.

“Well then, that seems as good a plan as any. I do believe they received their recommendation for whatever guest-house they’ve drifted off to from that man over there - I’ll take it upon myself to ask, if you ladies will prepare yourselves for departure. I was becoming heartily sick of this place anyhow.”

Charlotte graciously accepted the offer to depart - she was beginning to find all the lights and music a little overwhelming. She went to fetch her sister.

“This man thinks he knows where we can find a hotel. Why don’t you bring Willa, and we can all settle down for the night.” suggested Charlotte.

Of course, when the four of them got up to leave, the others decided they all would come too. So, the procession carried its giggles and dialectic out the swinging double doors of the bar, and into the open air.

May 24 Blurr’s Horror Stream - The Host (2006 film)

Prowl wasn’t there. Not a whole lot happened. Film was pretty good though.

Welcome to the 'speedxstealer' room. The chat room has been cleared by the moderator. Scorponock: [ he is settled in the middle of the floor, gears turning in circles in his back ] ItsyBitsySpyers: *Soundwave trudges in and sits a little to one side of his usual spot. He doesn't know if Prowl will show in the state he's in, but if he does, Soundwave means to obey the "nothing".* Scorponock: [ clicks claws at Soundwave in greeting. Chitters ] ItsyBitsySpyers: *Rumble and Frenzy trudge in tiredly after. The birds are absent getting repaints and everyone else is working.* ItsyBitsySpyers: *Soundwave nods hello to Scorponok.* Scorponock: [ blinks all four optics. Huddles back on the floor. ] ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Back again?]] Scorponock: [ looks around. Blinks] Me? ItsyBitsySpyers: *Nod.* Scorponock: Yez. Scorponock: I ztay with Blurr, yeez. Whirl: *trots on in and makes his way for the hammock* Hey, Scorp. Where ya been? Scorponock: Deeging for mateeerialz ItsyBitsySpyers: *Soundwave twitches at this song. If looks could kill, he would be thinking about murdering someone right now.* Bevel: *trundles in finally* ItsyBitsySpyers: *Memories of that human who connected it to Jazz all the time. Bah.* Scorponock: [ taps claws on the ground ] But had to ztop deeging... Whirl: *flops back and gets settled* Teach's got you on mining duty? Lame. Scorponock: ... [tips helm this way and then that ] Nooo. I like to deeg! [ happy chitter] But Captain zaid no more! Whirl: *shrugs with one arm* Suit yourself. What're you lot up to, now? Scorponock: Zitting... not allowed to leeave zhe zhip! Scorponock: Part of deal. Scorponock: [ curves tail upward and then flexes it back down. Swish swish side to side ] Scorponock: (( lemme know when yall are ready. ) Whirl: ((i am!)) Bevel: [[ready ItsyBitsySpyers: ((ready)) FakeProwl: ((ye)) Scorponock: [ wiggles a little closer to Soundwave's pedes. Going to settle here and chitter ] Whirl: *sticks one leg out to push himself, rocking the hammock idly* Scorponock: Thankz for comeeng to moovie. Iz fun, yeez? ItsyBitsySpyers: *Will rest his fingertips on Scorponock's back. The twins make their way over to the hammock and knock on Whirl's back from below. Mind?* ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Yes. A good break from work.]] Scorponock: [ chitters and rolls helm under the fingertips for pets ] ItsyBitsySpyers: *Pets he will get.* Whirl: Sure thing, Scorp. *sticks his neck over the edge of the hammock and nods at the twins, shifting to make room for them. Scorponock: [ yes good. He might huddle closer ] ItsyBitsySpyers: *They hop in and get comfy, each giving a tired punch hello.* Whirl: *snorts and returns the gesture with his claws* You two look whooped. ItsyBitsySpyers: //Jus' a li'l.// Rumble lifts his head and squints. //Yo, Big Bit.// Scorponock: ( a perfect representation of me falling )) Bevel: Hey, Lil' Bit. ItsyBitsySpyers: *Sticks his tongue out at her and blows a raspberry* Whirl: *gonna swivel his helm in Bevel's direction as she's indicated and bob it at her in greeting* Bevel: *returns the gesture and waves to Whirl* Scorponock: [ climbs onto the couchand wiggles to Soundwave suddenly. Yes good. This sneak attack is going well. ] Scorponock: [ no one suspects athing ] ItsyBitsySpyers: *Can see Scorponock doing this. Doesn't mind.* ItsyBitsySpyers: //Always wanted to try that scrap.// Whirl: Alcohol? Or archery? Scorponock: [ half crawls on Soundwave and chitters at for nuzzles ] ItsyBitsySpyers: \\PFFFT.\\ //Archerin'. I had plenty of booze before, ptch.// FakeProwl: ((it's gorgeous and i love it)) Scorponock: (( yas! )) Whirl: *snickers* I was more referring to HUMAN high-grade. ItsyBitsySpyers: *Soundwave doesn't nuzzle, but he'll rest his arm on Scorponock in a half-afted not-quite-hug and scritch.* Whirl: And, hey, I know a guy. *pauses. ...Whirl's dispoisition towards Atomizer has gotten complicated recently* Whirl: I could /probably/ snag ya something. Scorponock: [ he will take this hug and whatever he can ] Whirl: ((the beb)) Whirl: ...holy damn, look at it. ItsyBitsySpyers: [[It's disgusting.]] Whirl: Kinda reminds me of Killer, in a weird way. Scorponock: [ chitters and wiggles claws ] Is monzteer! Scorponock: eet lookz cool! ItsyBitsySpyers: //Yeah? Like what?// Whirl: I think it's the face. That sort of unfolding... beaky thing. Whirl: I dig it. ItsyBitsySpyers: \\LOOKS LIKE THEM TREMOR WORMS.\\ FakeProwl: ((lmao what is this guy, a captain america knock off)) Whirl: Aww, what a face! Scorponock: (( he sure was )) FakeProwl: ((stupidly strong american heroic dude in a tight shirt)) ItsyBitsySpyers: \\KID'S DEAD.\\ Bevel: Oh no. Whirl: What a graceful leap! Scorponock: [ crawling more onto Soundwave to snuggle on him. Yes good ] Scorponock: I kneew feesh like deez. ItsyBitsySpyers: *Oof. Okay. Well. Not so much unlike Zori.* ItsyBitsySpyers: [[They ate humans?]] Scorponock: I keeled them! But not eat. That waz more of dee otherz jobz. ItsyBitsySpyers: //Nasty. Who wants t' eat fleshies?// Bevel: Lots of things. :( ItsyBitsySpyers: ((is this a horror or a comedy))' Bevel: [[I'm not sure at this point Scorponock: (( both )) Scorponock: Zhe Fallen keeled lotz of deez humanz. Scorponock: Not zhure if hee ate zem. ItsyBitsySpyers: \\HE AIN'T EATIN' 'EM NO MORE.\\ ItsyBitsySpyers: //Not without a face, heh.// Scorponock: He eez dead! [ clicks claws ] I deedn't like heem anyway Scorponock: (( me )) Scorponock: (( thats me )) Whirl: Yeah, Optimus relived him of that burden, didn't he? *dryly* Scorponock: Yeez... [ pouty tone ] He ruinz everyzhing. ItsyBitsySpyers: \\DUNNO. HE GOT DYIN' RIGHT.\\ Scorponock: No, hee came back. [pouts more ] Whirl: Need help killing him again? ItsyBitsySpyers: \\OURS AIN'T. PROBABLY ON ACCOUNT OF YA CAN'T BRING BACK SCRAP EARTHQUAKES SMASHED.\\ Scorponock: No... [huff] Scorponock: I leev wizh Blurr now. ItsyBitsySpyers: *Rumble gives Frenzy a solid punch in the jaw and points at Bevel with a hiss* ItsyBitsySpyers: *For once, Frenzy shuts up.* Scorponock: Beezidez.... wee might be in trouble. Scorponock: [ clicks claws and chitters at Soundwave ] Bevel: *very obviously trying to pretend she didn't hear that* ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Let him guess. The bounty.]] Scorponock: [ shakes helm ] Landed on wrong planeet. FakeProwl: ((pet humans)) Scorponock: I don't zhink zhey know about zhe bountee. ItsyBitsySpyers: [[Then why trouble?]] Scorponock: Captain eez de... dee [chitters and hisses in his Cybertronian. Clicks and whirrs and screeches] Deetained. Whirl: *tilts his head* By who? ItsyBitsySpyers: *Soundwave's free hand rubs at his temple. Of course Blurr got detained. Starscream's going to be upset.* Scorponock: [ clicks claws and looks at Whirl ] I zheenk he can talk heez way out. Scorponock: Blue mech took heem away. Whirl: That doesn't answer my question. Scorponock: He hazn't come back. Whirl: Blue mech? Scorponock: [ taps claws and chitters ] I recognize... but hee lookz deeferent. Scorponock: Zhey call heem Dreeft now. Whirl: Drift. Like--the one from your dimension? Scorponock: Zimilar, but not mine. Scorponock: Zame verze, deeferent deemenzion Whirl: *nods* Whirl: Well, I guess if he needs a rescue, he'll say something. Probably. Scorponock: Heez commz don't work.But hee can talk heez way out. Scorponock: [ snickering ] Hee made zhe Prime very mad! Make Capteen very exzited! Whirl: *snickers back* Hell, I'll BET. Maybe he'll get stepped on, like he always wanted. Scorponock: Maybee! Whirl: ((I like this movie but it's been mostly a slideshow urgh, and it's getting late)) Whirl: ((I'm gonna duck out, but assume Whirl stays, at least; he'll conk out on the hammock)) FakeProwl: ((man, don't kill it. eave it alive so you can follow it back to the girl)) FakeProwl: ((*leave)) Bevel: [[Seriously Bevel: [[I still don't get this monster's motivations. Is it keeping people for food? FakeProwl: ((that's my best guess)) FakeProwl: ((... if there's no virus then why are they cutting him up.)) FakeProwl: ((like, what is the benefit and who is benefitting from spreading a fiction about a virus)) Scorponock: Maybe it'll seem like less of a mistake? That guy poured that crap down the drain so that's probs the cause )) Bevel: [[...to keep him from telling anyone? Bevel: [[I want to know how these kids haven't starved tbh FakeProwl: ((was HE the guy that poured crap down the drain?)) Bevel: [[Maybe??? Scorponock: (( I don't know. The guy had like the mask on so I didn't really see his face)) FakeProwl: ((even so, tho, pretending that there's a virus doesn't cover up the fact that there's a mutant monster running around?)) Scorponock: (( mmm true )) FakeProwl: ((and also, who cares if he tells people that there's a virus? it wouldn't matter if he told people there's not a virus if they hadn't said there was a virus when there wasn't in the first place)) FakeProwl: ((**that there's NOT a virus)) Bevel: [[Ok so it is eating them. FakeProwl: ((apparently!)) Bevel: [[I thought they lobotomized him? FakeProwl: ((maybe he actually HAS been mutated and they just don't know that it's for real yet)) FakeProwl: ((he also didn't respond to anesthesia right)) Bevel: [[The dad did say he'd been, I guess addled or something that's probably not the right word at all, so maybe that impacted him somehow? FakeProwl: ((you would think that being brain damaged as a kid would, yknow, make things worse if he gets lobotomized as an adult. not cancel it out.)) Bevel: [[Just a little yeah FakeProwl: ((~fuzzy movie psychology~)) Bevel: [[Is Agent Yellow a joke on Agent Orange because this movie's been pretty anti-American with all the horrible US people and I would buy it FakeProwl: ((probably yeah)) Bevel: [[the blond guy at the beginning throwing the stone like a disc is still my favorite Scorponock: (( you mean mini Captain America? )) Bevel: [[yes FakeProwl: ((Private America)) Bevel: [[this whole family is a bunch of superheroes or something like wtf they're just sitting in the agent yellow cloud just fine while a bunch of other people are like vomiting blood Scorponock: (( right ? )) FakeProwl: ((i think the brother was vomiting too?)) Scorponock: (( I dig this guy throwing these endless cocktails )) FakeProwl: ((and he's bleeding out his ears)) Scorponock: (( it's like he has an inventory )) Bevel: [[isn't that the brother throwing cocktails? FakeProwl: ((yeah but wasn't he also bleeding earlier)) Scorponock: i believe so )) Scorponock: he is bleeding out his ears )) Bevel: [[Oh so he was Bevel: [[I missed that. It's skipping a bit Bevel: [[Aw yes archer to save the day FakeProwl: ((mmmm. barbecued mutant)) Scorponock: (( its probably gonna drop in a minute )) Bevel: [[I'm so proud of this *** up family avenging the little girl and the dad Scorponock: Right? )) Bevel: [[Sucks the kid died tho like dang way to break movie rules as I know them FakeProwl: ((maybe get the kids out of the cloud before trying to wake them up)) Scorponock: (( He's a cute kid )) Bevel: [[and they killed river monsters happily ever after Scorponock: (( yee )) Bevel: [[That was genuinely enjoyable Bevel: [[Not what I was expecting but still really fun FakeProwl: ((I liked it.)) Scorponock: It was fun )) Bevel: [[Thanks so much for streaming! Scorponock: Sure! ))

Chapter Five: A Unifying Force

Walt Whitman was occupied in reclining, glum and alone, on a sofa in a corner of the bar, when the group of women erupted into the main area of the bar, bursting from the doors of the women’s lavatory. 

Walt didn’t remember having seen them enter the bathroom, or having seen them at all; yet he had been here for quite some time. They didn’t look anything like the bar’s other clientele. In fact, they didn’t look like much of anything at all. One was quite respectably dressed, while another wore bloomers and a bowler hat, and another what looked like a garland of flowers.

They all seemed quite content: gossiping and giggling like a pack of schoolgirls, thought Whitman. As they exited the washroom, they scanned the room with their eyes. Then, as if of one mind, the group began to drift towards what looked like the bar, as if completely unfazed by the environment which, at least to Walt, seemed very foreign and wholly incomprehensible.

When the barman offered them beers, they eagerly assented, asking for several different brands before realizing that this place wasn’t going to serve them anything they recognized. Eventually, they all settled on the same brand.

The women found themselves seats at the bar and at tables nearby, gathering in clumps and clusters, and - for the most part - drank without hesitation. Far from repulsing Whitman, their boldness drew him in. Finally someone wearing something one could call clothing; and yet, how bizarre, how fascinating, the behaviour of these women!

In his contemplations, Walt had begun to understand his own situation. Flung from his house in New Jersey, projected far from the comfort of the year of our Lord 1882, he was lost… somewhere, in a place where timelines collided and rebounded and merged, in perpetual confoundment. Considering the wide array of their dress, these women seemed also to have been brought here by whatever fateful event it was that had brought together Oscar, Auden and himself. He stepped nervously up to the group, wondering how to initiate a conversation with such strange and varied creatures.

Luckily, one of them did it for him, reaching out to shake his hand. “Hello, kind sir... Virginia, Virginia Woolf. Are you quite alright?”

Before Whitman could say anything, there was a great outcry from the table behind him. One of the girls - the one wearing flowers - had managed to get her hands on some vodka. She and her friend, shot glasses raised, were giving what seemed to be a toast. She spoke with great gusto, in a language unrecognizable to Walt. Virginia frowned disapprovingly. 

“Oh dear, she’s been trying to get her drunk since we came in. I doubt this will end well. Frida? Is that right? And Rosa? Yes. Perhaps give it a minute? I know it’s all very exciting, but you may want to take at least a few moments to get your bearings, before you both end up blind drunk…” The two looked back blankly. “Do you understand me? No? Vodka. Da? Nyet. Nyet vodka. Nyet… bolshoi… vodka. Good?”

The pair finally lowered their voices, albeit only a little, and Virginia turned back to Walt, an apologetic smile on her face.

“Sorry about that. We’re having a couple of issues with, ah, language barriers. None of us are quite sure how we got here, and… well. You know.” She trailed off. “What’s put you in such low spirits? Care for a drink?” asked Virginia, offering him a beer.

Walt had spent his evening watching men kiss men and women kiss women without even a glance to see who was watching. Feeling the situation to be bizarre beyond the limits of reality, he decided to bypass all the usual mechanisms of censorship. Graciously accepting the beer, he began the arduous task of explanation.

“I met an old flame, a poet friend of mine… we used to be very close, on “thee and thou terms”, as he likes to say. Tonight, after we all ended up here, we got into a bit of a quarrel over, if you’ll permit the term, the courtship of a certain handsome newcomer, a man with a talent for versification and, uh, rather good taste in art...”

“Which of the two do you fancy?” Virginia giggled. “You seem rather to like them both.”

Walt sighed. “Later on, my friend got into another fight, with the stranger himself, over a breach of his honour. I defended him without hesitation. That was when it all came clear to me... but the newcomer apologized, and my dear old friend ended up following him out. He’s left me all alone.” Whitman whimpered. “I don’t quite know where to turn.”

Another woman leaned over to them from a table to their right, at which a small cluster of fairly respectably-dressed women had gathered. “Excuse me, Willa Cather here, pleasure to meet you. I couldn’t help but eavesdrop a little - if you ask me, I would stick with your friend. This stranger seems like nothing but trouble.”

“Oh, let the man decide for himself,” a woman behind her scolded.

“Miss Emily! I was only trying to help,” Willa laughed. The two returned to their conversation.

“I truly am ever so fond Oscar - that is, my old acquaintance. But this other man, I must say…”

“The charm of the exotic?” a lady sitting across from Willa suggested. Her neighbour, a pale woman in a powdered wig, blushed and giggled discreetly into her handkerchief.

“So it would appear…”

“Does he seem… perhaps as if he comes from a different century? A world apart from your own?” cut in Virginia.

“My goodness, yes!” exclaimed Whitman. “How did you know?”

“A lot of us seem to be from very different places and… times. See that lovely lady to the left - simply adorable, is she not? She’s from France. She says her name is Simone. Simone… isn’t that a beautiful name? A beautiful name for a beautiful person. The pair of us have a lot in common besides.” Virginia smiled. “In politics, especially.”

As Virginia spoke, Simone rose from her seat to join them. She wore a pink dress shirt, a blue tie and a seductive smile, and seemed far more interested in Virginia than in Whitman. It was this feature that had begun to come to Walt’s attention: this bizarre new society seemed so full of homosexual activity. It must have been some aspect of this peculiar bar.

“Bonsoir again, my beautiful Virginia,” began Simone. The two appeared very comfortable with one another, though they could not have met more than an hour ago. She paused to look up at Walt, stretching out her right hand: “Simone de Beauvoir. Delighted.” Then, turning back to Virginia: “What seems to be ze issue with this gentleman?”

“The eternal problem: he’s gotten into trouble with romance. He has decided to involve himself with… well, who else? Men.” The girls smiled knowingly at each other. Whitman was slightly put off by such open mockery, but all things considered, he supposed it was well-deserved. Brushing off the insult, he explained his situation again, this time to the Frenchwoman.

“Oscar Wilde, an old… partner… of mine, just left with a man we’d only just met. I’m afraid I’ve been struck by a current of melancholia. 

“Do you speak French?” Simone, drawn in by the faintest scent of drama, leaned closer to Walt, oblivious to the incredulous look that had come over Virginia’s face at the mention of Oscar’s name.

Walt shook his head. Simone rolled her eyes. “Fine, in English then. What do you desire? What eez eet you want?” this oddly-dressed foreigner responded, more enigmatic than empathetic.

“I want,” he stammered, “I want them both to love me.”

Simone laughed. “Zat’s men isn’t it. Your lover eez off with someone else. You cannot hold on to zee one, so you decide you want zee both of them.”

“But did you hear what he said?” Virginia interrupted, gazing in awe first at Simone and then at Whitman himself. “You did say your lover’s name was - “

“Oscar Wilde. The very same.” Walt sighed. “What a spectacular prize to have misplaced, so to speak… you must understand. It is a great blow to anyone to lose someone who thinks they’re the mind of the century... whether it is true or not.” He chuckled grimly.

“I understand completely. It is for this very reason zat I avoid most men like zee plague,” joked Simone. Virginia smiled. Walt rolled his eyes and continued his explanations.

“As for this other man, well, I’m not certain of his identity. Could certainly hold his own on most forms of poetry. Some strange sod named Wystan Hugh Auden, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Oh mon dieu, eet never ends! Auden? Why, Auden must be one of the greatest American poets of this century, if not the greatest tout court. Unsurprising you and Monsieur Wilde both fell for him so swiftly. 

Walt found his view of Wystan forcibly shifted, suddenly and drastically. The greatest American poet of our century… Whitman, accustomed to throwing around such titles himself, sensed something deeply fatalistic about this remark. Wystan, perhaps, was destined to succeed him, to surpass him… perhaps it was meant to be this way. Perhaps Wystan would make Oscar happy. Walt began to believe he would never win his flame back. 

Virginia, reading the despair in Walt’s features, reached out to comfort him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “But you said you were an old friend of his, of Wilde’s,” she recalled. “I’m sure you are extremely renowned as well. I don’t believe I ever asked your name?”

“Walter Whitman,” sighed the American, “although I much prefer Walt.” He said it in the certainty that he would go unrecognized, forgotten and unimportant beneath the grand and sweeping gestures of history. That beyond the fleeting glory he had known, he would inevitably be overwritten by the legacies of those more charming and better educated than he, the Wystan Hugh Audens of the days to come...

“Truly? Whitman? Why, how could you have doubted yourself for a moment?” exclaimed Woolf. “I simply adore your verse. Your Leaves of Grass is one of those rare pieces of art that speaks honestly of men; most poetry published in our day and age is either full of lies cover to cover, or else about women,” Virginia laughed. “But what you have created in your work - it’s the sort of real, earthy beauty that leaves the room around you feeling all cold and breathless, so that one must read it on the balcony in the sun, or not at all…”

“Goodness. I really am pleasantly surprised. And flattered, of course, though I don’t presume myself worthy of your praise.” Walt began to wonder if one or the other of them might be attempting some form of courtship of him, only to be cut short by Simone: all of a sudden, the Frenchwoman planted a light, spontaneous kiss on Virginia’s cheek. Both blushed.

Reconsidering, Walt stuck out his right hand. “I’m sure you both are the diamonds of your epoch. A pleasure.” The hand was duly shaken, and the three took a look around them. The others seemed all to have formed clumps, gathering in pairs or groups. Frida Kahlo and Rosa Luxemburg sat apart from the rest; Frida was pouring Rosa yet another shot of vodka, the next instalment in a series already numbering close to half a dozen. Both were breaking, at intervals, into fits of giggles, cutting off their otherwise grandiose declamations.

Walt spotted the lady who had introduced herself as Willa Cather, who had so kindly offered him her advice in matters of romance. She was engaged in intense conversation with a woman Walt could have sworn was Emily Brontë. At this point, he figured there was no reason it shouldn’t be, and briefly considered simply walking up to her and explaining that he admired her work; for reasons of caution, however, he decided against it.

Walt guessed that quite a few of the pairs that had formed would go home together. Home… he wondered, struck again suddenly with melancholia, if he would ever be able to return to New Jersey. Of course, this place had its own appeal, but there were some people he would have liked to say goodbye to… at least Oscar was here. It was Walt’s task, then, to win him back: resolute, he decided to leave Virginia and Simone to their own affairs, and walked over to the closest group of what looked to be Virginia’s compatriots.

“Good evening. Excuse my interruption, but seeing as I seem to have found myself unaccompanied, I supposed I would introduce myself. I’m Walter Whitman, but you may refer to me as Walt.” He was almost entirely sure he recognized the faces before him. “And you lovely ladies are?”

The lady closest to him introduced herself as Charlotte Brontë. “From Hampshire,” she added. Of course! “Your novels are marvels,” breathed Walt. Brontë smiled. Her hand was resting on the leg of another woman. She, in turn, revealed herself to be Jane Austen. How formidable! 

“If you’ll permit me - your biting irony, and your sense of realism, make for the rarest breed of social commentary…” Whitman found himself stammering. He struggled to contain his excitement. These women had written fantastically creative literary masterpieces, the jewels of past centuries.

Perhaps, he thought suddenly, a few of them would have some advice on the romantic worth their two cents. 

“I wonder - did you happen to overhear any of my explanations to Miss Woolf over there? I’ve been having a bit of trouble,” he began. 

“Yes, it is quite the pickle, isn’t it? You should at the very least find them, and go to them... ” Charlotte suggested. 

“We would be most honored to join you,” added Austen, then whispered into Charlotte’s ear hoping Walt wouldn’t hear: “perhaps we could… find the means to… procure a room for ourselves as well.” Charlotte giggled like a schoolgirl. The liberty they had now, their agency in their own decisions - they had a feeling of liberation like never before. They were free. In the societies they were accustomed to, all things were inevitably dictated by men, whether it be a father, a brother or a husband. Fooling around with a woman, having an intellectual conversation with her… it was simply not the done thing. 

“Well then, that seems as good a plan as any. I do believe they received their recommendation for whatever guest-house they’ve drifted off to from that man over there - I’ll take it upon myself to ask, if you ladies will prepare yourselves for departure. I was becoming heartily sick of this place anyhow.” 

Charlotte graciously accepted the offer to depart - she was beginning to find all the lights and music a little overwhelming. She went to fetch her sister.

“This man thinks he knows where we can find a hotel. Why don’t you bring Willa, and we can all settle down for the night.” suggested Charlotte.

Of course, when the four of them got up to leave, the others decided they all would come too. So, the procession carried its giggles and dialectic out the swinging double doors of the bar, and into the open air.