Somehow, you, a perfectly ordinary human, has ended up the alpha of a pack of werewolves.
A Little Bit
The trick, she discovers, is kindness.
~
Werewolves are notoriously violent. They are said to “lose all autonomy” on night of the full moon, and transforming on other days still results in “heightened levels of testosterone and violence.”
If you tell someone that they are something their whole lives– if you tell a little girl that the color white is purple, that she is dumb because she writes backwards, or that she is bad because her hair or her financial situation, she will believe that. She will grow into that. If you tell a werewolf that they are evil and violent when wolves, that at their freest they are their meanest: they will believe that. They will become that. They will expect that of other werewolves and become defensive, will have bred hatred for their brethren before they ever transform.
An outsider’s perspective is sometimes needed.
And it starts, as most things do, with a child.
~
“Look,” her brown fingers forcefully unfolded from the fist it had been making. “I know what I want. I want the child you said you couldn’t even find fosters for. I already signed the paperwork!”
The social worker sighed, skin washing out under the light and wrinkles deepening. “I have to make sure. I’ve been trying to find little Zora parents for years now, but…”
“The only issue would be health issues. I can afford an unhealthy or disabled child, so that’s not an issue for me at all. I don’t get why you’re being so–”
“Zora is a werewolf.”
Silence.
Hailey took a breath. Let it out.
“So?”
The social worker smiled, “Then one more signature, and in a few weeks you will have your child, and Zora will have her home.”
Neither of them mentioned his tears. They both talked over what she would need to buy to handle a werewolf child– her werewolf child. They drank tea. She signed papers.
She would never regret that.
~
Zora had the yellow eyes of all lycans. She grinned shyly with too-sharp teeth, and fiddled with her too-long nails.
Hailey gave Zora the softest blanket she could buy, and settled her down for hot chocolate as they watched the sun set from the porch.
She had dimples and threw her hands around and enjoyed talking. And loved the color green. And brown. And blue. Maybe red was her favorite color, but pink was certainly a close second. No, wait, purple. She liked ice cream and steak and chicken and flowers that grew between the cracks of the sidewalk.
Zora was perfect.
The doctor said that Zora would transform the next full moon. To lock her in a cage. To muzzle her. To chain her up.
Hailey looked at Zora. At her large yellow eyes so filled with hope. At the way she used her too-long nails to open bags of chips or used her too-long teeth to open cans. At the sundresses she wore; pictured the paint-stained overalls. The room they had painted like a galaxy, the glow-in-the-dark stars they’d taped and hung on her ceiling.
She thought about the small, lycan-run website she made, and some controversial, revolutionary ideas it proposed.
She snorted. Yeah, right. Lock and chain her child up? No.
~
The first transformation was always painful. An online forum said nothing more than a Aspirin or two could be taken for this first Shift.
“Mom?” Zora’s lips wobbled. Her bushy hair tangled from the nervous pulling it had endured that day. “I– I don’t want to be bad, mom. Will the Shift make me bad?”
Hailey could have said anything to that, and no one would blame her. She could say it’s not you, it’s the wolf, like one website recommended. She could say yes, and every second you have to fight against the evil inside you, like one Christian-extremist group urged. She could have said anything. She said,
“No. You are good, and the wolf is a part of you, so it must be good, too.”
And it was that simple.
The moon rose. A daughter screamed, a mother cried. A mother prepared to have to wrestle her child, so much stronger than her, to have to assert an unwanted dominance.
A werewolf– too large to be a real wolf, spine to straight, claws too split, to be something so mundane. It yipped. Saw the hesitation in the mother’s eyes. Rolled onto its back, tongue lolling, and yipped again.
Hailey laughed. “Good girl! I love you so much! Want pets, or play?” A yip, the lycan bounded off. More laughter. “Play it is, then!”
~
There’d been complaints. A neighbor said they “feared for their life” and that “the lycan had attacked” her. Zora didn’t leave the backyard, despite how much she wanted to. So, once a month, they drove to a werewolf forest-reserve. They hadn’t encountered any other lycans.
Until then.
A grey wolf burst out from the bushes, snarling and snapping. Intent on Zora. Zora.
“Zora!” Hailey didn’t need to think, she was moving before words could form.
“Don’t you DARE touch my daughter!” She stood in front of Zora, arms spread wide.
That did not deter the lycan, who prowled closer. Yellow eyes. She could not hurt yellow eyes. But she must.
~
Werewolves have exceptionally large forms. A younger, adolescent lycanthrope in its Shifted form can easily tower over an adult man. These large forms are one of their greatest assets: they can overpower their prey though sheer size. It is, however, also a weakness. For, you see, their vulnerable points are that much more exposed. Which is why, if one becomes cornered by a Shifted lycanthrope, it is recommend that you strike at their diaphragm or throat, if help cannot be contacted, before absconding away as quickly as humanly (or superhumanly) possible.
~
She rushed forward, swinging her elbow and digging it into the small hollow near the creatures chest. It yowled, falling to the side. It growled and backed away.
Zora whimpered, tail between her legs and ears down. She nuzzled at her mother worriedly, terrified of the bigger werewolf and scared for her mother’s life.
“It’s okay, baby.” she hushed, holding out a spray-bottle (Zola loved to try to bite the sprays of water) like it was a gun, eyes never leaving the (violent, evil, human) attacking lycan. “See? Mommy knows what she’s doing.”
She stepped forward once. Twice. Four steps and then she hit a stride. She stood nose-to-nose with the lycan, all five-feet of her stretching tall, towering in presence if not height.
“Bad.” The lycan growled. She sprayed it twice in quick succession. “Bad.”
It blinked. Surprised.
“Now, if you wanted to play, you could have just waited!” She turned, walking purposefully in Zora’s direction. “Come along, now.”
They did come along, by lunging. Zora howled, bunching up her muscles and preparing to attack, but Hailey whirled around, spraying their face. “Don’t be mean! We don’t want to fight. I have steak, and am willing to share. But only to those who play. Nice.” They considered, head tilting, before thumping to the ground and rolling over, whining.
Hailey laughed, but wiped the anxious sweat from her forehead. “Okay, let’s go!”
~
The next full moon, the black-and-white wolf found her, a pack behind them, all barking and waiting for plays and pets and meat.
~
The full moon after that, everyone fell asleep just before the sun rose, and Hailey met them as people.
Hardin was the black-and-white, and she was alpha. Or rather, she had been.
“What.” Hailey couldn’t comprehend.
“My name used to be Phir’Hilaaya, but now it is Hardin. Normal pack members are given two-syllable names. The Alpha gets three-syllables. As previous Alpha, I name you Melora.” Hardin was gigantic in her human form, as well. Hulking muscles, and she stood at least at six-foot. Her yellow eyes had become softer than when Hailey– Melora?–
“Okay, yeah. I get that part. But how did I become Alpha?” She bit her lip, held Zora closer to her.
Hardin gave her a look like she was particular stupid, but humored her regardless. “That first night, I showed my belly to you. An Alpha can never submit to an opponent, else they lose their place. I submitted to you, so you are Alpha.”
Hailey hunched in on herself, and whispered, “I don’t know how to be Alpha.”
“That’s okay,” Hardin put an arm around her shoulders, giving her a kind smile, “I’ll help you get on your feet.”
Melora stood taller. Looked at her daughter. And knew.
~
Melora’s pack was not the first to fight for werewolf rights. No, they were simply the first to have a human leading the pack, and for that human-Alpha to be dating the previous Alpha.
As they strode towards a better world, a better life, Melora suggested, “Maybe we can help the vampire community, once we make more progress here.”
Hardin, bouncing Zora on her hip, barked a laugh, “You’re too good. But wherever you go, we’ll follow.” Howls broke out around the Alpha.
Hailey, now Melora, had known she wouldn’t regret this.
A little bit of kindness goes a long way.
~Fin~
Oh, geeze. This was supposed to be a little thing, but I wrote six pages on google docs for this and hrrrggghhh. I didn’t get to include everything I wanted, otherwise it would have taken hours longer! I hope this is something like you were imagining for your prompt idea. I wish I had more time to do things for this, but it wasn’t meant to be D:
This isn’t written in my usual style, but it was fun. I hope anyone reading this enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
In unrelated news, Boromir is the only member of the fellowship of the ring that would have Valid Driver’s License in a Modern AU.
Sam has a Driver’s License but they drive on the other side of the road in Hobbiton so his isn’t valid in the rest of Middle Earth.
Frodo and Merry are Gays That Can Do Math, and therefore can’t Drive.
Pippin HAD a license but got it revoked due to Aggravated Shenanigans.
Gandalf CAN drive but is an insane paranoid hippie that hates both petrolum-based transportation and government paperwork. He does have a pilot’s license though. Don’t ask him to justify it unless you want a four-hour lecture on civil rights that sounds like it’s quoting law from another dimension.
Aragon can drive, quite well, but it never occured to him that he might need a license to do so on public roads. He doesn’t know about taxes either.
Gimli travels frequently but as a diplomet and royal, never was the one in the driver’s seat.
Legolas can’t be trusted to operate a blender, much less a motor vehicle. He will attempt to do so anyway.
I don’t know if you might’ve meant “taxis” in keeping with the driving theme but I am thoroughly and absolutely LOSING MY SHIT at the concept of Aragorn doesn’t know about taxes, Aragorn you’re gonna be king, Aragorn you’re supposed to know how to do these things, Aragorn this is THE MOST BASIC OF BASIC STATESMANSHIP.
And THE THING IS, I’m not certain it doesn’t also work canonically. Because like we can infer that Aragorn got most of his How To Be A King For Dummies lessons from the elves, and, well, do elves… have… taxes? It seems unlikely. (Do elves even have currency? There’s probably an answer to that one and I just don’t know it.) Somehow I can’t quite picture Galadriel going around Lothlorien like okay suckers pay up you’ve gotta pay a property tax on that tree you know.
So then he gets to Gondor and gets crowned and a few months later someone comes by and is like “how much are we taxing the peasants this year” and Aragorn panics and is just like “f…five? ……. too high? Too low?”
And I mean, who can blame the guy, he’s basically been wandering the wilderness for the majority of his life, it’s not like he’s ever really had personal property besides an improbable number of weapons, so he’s probably never, you know, paid taxes
Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Elessar, Isildur’s heir and rightful king of Gondor, is a tax dodger
You. You get this.
Like this is a Modern AU where Aragon becomes Mayor of a medium-sized mountain town*, but tbh this still holds in canonverse too imho. the first like. 3 years of Aragon Having A Real Job For The First Time That Happens To Coincidentally Be A Political Position, is him listening to people making suggestions about “So what are we taxing the pesants?” and “What’s this years Budget?” and him Turning to Arwen, one of like 4 people in all of Middle-earth with any damn sense, and saying
“Hey Babe? What’s a Budget?”
*In this AU The Riders of Rohan are a Biker Gang and Edoras is a really nice mom-and-pop convience store/bar/mechanic/tourist trap that’s been run by “King” Teddy’s family for as long as anyone can remember.
**I think i might have come up with a “Great Westen American Roadtrip LotR AU”
Help.
***The Hobbits are Canadians. I know canadians drive on the same side of the road but the Idea of Sam having an invalid lisence is hysterical.
****They found the ring in the idyllic Waterton-Galcier International peace Park/The Shire, over the border where nobody thought to look for it, and end up on a quest to take it to the hellish land of raging Monsters and unlivable condiiotns known as Mount Doom/ Phoenix Arizona.
The Prancing Pony is the Pie Place in St. Mary, Montan- IT’STWO IN THE GODDMAN MORING I KNOW AO3 GOT NOMINATED FOR A HUGO BUT I DO NOT NEED TO BE WRITING THIS RIGHT NOW.
i totally am, later, but like. when the sun is out.
Elves basically invented feudalism in Middle Earth, but like. They’re so crazy long-lived it’d be easy for an elf to amass material wealth by just not being an utter dumbass, and plus they have magic so. Do the elf-kings actually NEED anything from their vassals other than the assurance that they’ll show up with a weapon when it’s time for the next attack on Literal Satan and his Black Castle of Evil?? Do elves need to levy taxes?
And even if they do, I bet Galadriel had to go through the exact same process Aragorn did in the post above, because SHE was born in the Undying Lands where life is beautiful all the time and the trees are somehow constantly both in flower AND bearing fruit at the same time, and nobody does any labor unless they like it.
And then just to make things even worse Galadriel learned rulership from Melian, who is a Literal Angel like Gandalf and ALSO pulled all kinds of magical bullshit on her elven husband’s kingdom. What I’m saying here is the first hundred years or so of Galadriel trying to rule on her own were A Very Rocky Time for Everybody.
Which is why she made sure her daughter and grandchildren got a firm grounding in stewardship and economic theory, so they’d never have to go through that embarrassment. And lucky she did too, or Gondor’s post-war recovery would’ve been completely FUCKED.
#aragorn: hey babe what’s a budget #arwen (already dragging him off to the bedroom): god estel you’re so fucking stupid
DRAKE YOUR TAGS
well it’s 3 AM and I made coffee, and i think this Great Western Road trip AU has legs , so I did a bad overlay and discovered the Hobbits are NOT Canadians:
THEY’RE CALIFORNIANS. I like this map becuase it puts the trip in some really fun places if you fudge the route a bit:
The Shire is near Mendicino, CA
Tom Bombadil probably lives in Jackson State Forest which is a old-growth redwoods kind of place.
Bree is now Yuba City, CA
Weathertop is Smartsville, a “Historic” ghost town that seems like a place that would harbour Nazgul
Rivendell is about in Lake Tahoe, maybe Trukee.
I CAN HEAR YOU, PERSNICKETY TOLKIEN CARTOGRAPHY PEOPLE. WE’RE FUDgING THE ROUTE. WHAT? YOU WANT RIVENDELL IN FUCKING *squints at map* FALLON, NV?? IT’S WAY TO PICTURESQUE TO BE THAT FAR OUT OF THE SIERRA NEVADAS.
moving right along
Moria can literally be an abandoned uranium mine. it’s terrific.
Lothlorien is probably the
Humboldt-Toiyabe National Forest, on account of that’s the one place in Nevada that I can verify has trees.
…I think othornac is in Bakersfield, CA, which puts Fangorn in Sequoia National Park. Appropriate.
Also Rohan is mostly in the Death Valley Area. Kickass. Helms deep can be an abandonded nuclear missle silo, it’s awesome.
This does make most of Gondor the Los Angeles Basin tho. Minas Tirith is now the bustling metropolis of… Palm Springs. Hm. eh, Gondor’s kind of a shit country as is. DOES put the cave fulla ghosts in the middle of LA tho, so that’s fun.
Shelob lives in the Kofa Nat’l Wildlife refuge, which is IRL famous for it’s tarantulas.
Mt. Doom is still, of course. Phoenix, AZ.
goddamit i’m actually going to have to write this thing now.
Have been to both Fallon, NV, and Lake Tahoe, I agree that Tahoe is a MUCH more Rivendelly kind of place. Actually I went to high school in that part of Nevada (well, the first two years anyway) and it fucking sucked. That part of the southwest is, indeed, Nazgul Country.
Hey, does this mean the Easterlings Sauron imported for the final battle are, in fact, Mormons? 😀
2. @gaslightgallows uhhhhh… Well, I have pre-orders for the Family Lore Nonfiction Book out right now, but I was wondering what I was gonna do after those ship so I think I’m gonna do this. So expect Pre-orders to open Late 2019/early 2020?
Other things from the Notes:
I want to thank the Arizonians for coming out and telling me about Sunset Crater, an actual active volcano in the right part of AZ to be Mount Doom. This means that Phoenix is actually Barad-dûr.
God bless the people in the notes trying to figure out if Canon!Aragorn would actually know anything about taxes, how or even IF taxes happen in Middle-earth, and what schooling Elrond could have foisted upon Estel during intermittent and extremely distracted visits to Arwen.
Apparently drivers lisences are intenrationally Valid no matter what side of the road you learned to drive on which given my family’s expirience driving in Ireland, seems like a terrible Idea.
I’m playing it extremely fast and lose with travel times, distances, what governments may or may not exist, what year it even is and when the apocalypse occured.
JRRT built so much world he built fantasy for the next fucking century and a half so I don’t have to. Thank you, Jonald.
There was at least one Apocalypse in this AU becuase the original Series is post-apocalyptic: fallen kingdoms, fading magic, long-forgotten statuary etc. but the details of which apocalypse and how it went down have been lost to time and the collapse of widespread governance. Maybe it was a nuclear event, maybe the Wyoming Supervolcano, Maybe the Second American Civil War, maybe all 3 at the same time. Who knows? Not the Fellowship, which can barely collectively remember to not leave Frodo at the gas station.
Aragorn is a Transguy and tried out like, a zillion names before settling on Aragorn, which is why everyone he meets calls him something different
Barkeep, gesturing to the mysterious dude in the corner wearing sunglasses at night and indoors: Nobody really knows who he is, but I’ve heard him called… Strider. Pippin: what, like Homestuck?
Boromir has a VW bus that’s older than his crap father and has what he thinks are cool modifications to make it intoa camper van, but in reality he ripped out the seats and adhered coleman products to the walls with duct tape
Aragorn: “You fell!“
Gandalf: “Through fire. And water.”
Gandalf: “From the lowest dungeon to the highest peak, I fought him, the Balrog of Morgoth.”
Gimil: “For the LAST TIME-” Legolas: “Dude, don’t interrupt!” Gandalf: “Until at last, I threw down my enemy and smote his ruin upon the mountainside. Darkness took me. And I strayed out of thought and time.
Stars wheeled overhead, and every day was as long as the life age of the earth.” Everyone: “Oooooh!” Gandalf: “But it was not the end. I felt light in me again. I’ve been sent back until my task is done.”
Aragorn: “Not to be a buzzkill, but I think you got high and went to a laundromat.” Gandalf: “Well. I did that too. Wonderous things they do with Bleach these days, took 30 years of grime right out!”
Boromir re-appears at the coronation wearing a sombrero and explaining that “Yeah, OK, I got shot a lot and blacked out but I got Better! Also really lost for a while.”
“Aragorn is a Transguy and tried out like, a zillion names before settling on Aragorn, which is why everyone he meets calls him something different”
@takiki16 I was gonna put the Dwimorberg pass in the abandoned, decayed and slightly readioactive remains of Disneyland
Becuase that’s the creepiest place I can think of in LA. But it also fits with the Dunlendings beign prosperous but backstabby jerks, so that’s neat.
I haven’t actually been near Yuba County in like. 15 years? so I’ve missed the drama with Yuba City/Marysville, and I’m thinking of fudging around that part of the route for more dynamic scenery anyway if you have suggestions.
Pippin: “I think I can see my house from here!” Merry: “You can probably see where the elves are schlepping off to from here.” Treebeard: “You’re facing East guys.” Saruman, in his Coroporate Skyscraper in Bakersfield, realizing Treebeard is about eye-to-roof-level: I May Have Made A Slight Miscalculation.
For those youngsters who don’t know, the Eye of Argon is a legendary badfic relic from 1970, written by Jim Theis. It is, quite possibly, one of the worst things ever written.
It was originally published in a fanzine, the precursor of Fictionpress and A03.
However bad you are as a writer, you’ve only to read Eye of Argon and realize ‘oh huh maybe I suck, but I don’t suck this hard.’
So in the tradition of our nerd fore-bearers, let’s make fun of it. The original text I will put in italics. My comments will be regular text. All spelling errors from the original text are preserved.
The weather beaten trail wound ahead into the dust racked climes of the baren land which dominates large portions of the Norgolian empire. Age worn hoof prints smothered by the sifting sands of time shone dully against the dust splattered crust of earth. The tireless sun cast its parching rays of incandescense from overhead, half way through its daily revolution. Small rodents scampered about, occupying themselves in the daily accomplishments of their dismal lives. Dust sprayed over three heaving mounts in blinding clouds, while they bore the burdonsome cargoes of their struggling overseers.
Oh man. Oh boy oh man oh boy.
Oh, Eye of Argon. First paragraph and there’s so much to unpack already.
The last time I saw prose this purple I was reading Lord of the Rings Legolas romances written by 14 year old girls.
Also, here we see why, sometimes, you should put the damn thesaurus down.
Arriving after dusk in Gorzom,grignr descended down a dismal alley, reining his horse before a beaten tavern. The redhaired giant strode into the dimly lit hostelry reeking of foul odors, and cheap wine. The air was heavy with chocking fumes spewing from smolderingtorches encased within theden’s earthen packed walls. Tables were clustered with groups of drunken thieves, and cutthroats, tossing dice, or making love to willing prostitutes.
Consciousness returned to Grignr in stygmatic pools as his mind gradually cleared of the cobwebs cluttering its inner recesses, yet the stygian cloud of charcoal ebony remained. An incompatible shield of blackness, enhanced by the bleak abscense of sound.
He then vomited, because nausea is one of the lingering effects of a concussion severe enough to cause loss of consciousness.
Yes, really! Legitimately this is how Jim Theis chose to number his chapters! I shit you not!
A tightly rung elliptical circle or torches cast their wavering shafts prancing morbidly over the smooth surface of a rectangular, ridged alter. Expertly chisled forms of grotesque gargoyles graced the oblique rim protruberating the length of the grim orifice of death, staring forever ahead into nothingness in complete ignorance of the bloody rites enacted in their prescence. Brown flaking stains decorated the golden surface of the ridge surrounding the alter, which banked to a small slit at the lower right hand corner of the altar. The slit stood above a crudely pounded pail which had several silver meshed chalices hanging at its sides. Dangling at the rimof golden mallet, the handle of which was engraved with images of twisted faces and groved at its far end with slots designed for a snug hand grip. The head of the mallet was slightly larger than a clenched fist and shaped into a smooth oval mass.
God damn cultists these days. Clean your damn sacrificial alter after a sacrifice, you lazy bastards. Letting it get all caked in dried nasty blood is disrespectful. Fuck’s sake.
All knowledge of measuring time had escaped Grignr. When a person is deprived of the sun, moon, and stars, he looses all conception of time as he had previously understood it. It seemed as if years had passed if time were being measured by terms of misery and mental anguish, yet he estimated that his stay had only been a few days in length. He has slept three times and had been fed five times since his awakening in the crypt. However, when the actions of the body are restricted its needs are also affected. The need for nourishmnet and slumber are directly proportional to the functions the body has performed, meaning that when free and active Grignr may become hungry every six hours and witness the desire for sleep every fifteen hours, whereas in his present condition he may encounter the need for food every ten hours, and the want for rest every twenty hours. All methods he had before depended upon were extinct in the dismal pit. Hence, he may have been imprisoned for ten minutes or ten years, he did not know, resulting in a disheartened emotion deep within his being.
I’m going to refer to naptime as “Witnessing the desire for sleep” from now on.
“Up to the altar and be done with it wench;” ordered a fidgeting shaman as he gave the female a grim stare accompanied by the wrinkling of his lips to a mirthful grin of delight.
Yes please hop up on the alter so that we can sacrifice you please and thank you.
The girl burst into a slow steady whimper, stooping shakily to her knees and cringing woefully from the priest with both arms wound snake-like around the bulging jade jade shin rising before her scantily attired figure. Her face was redly inflamed from the salty flow of tears spouting from her glassy dilated eyeballs.
Jim stop jerking off to your mental picture of this terrified girl cowering in nothing but golden chains and type with both hands. You perv.
“Take hold of this rope,” said the first soldier, “and climb out from your pit, slut. Your presence is requested in another far deeper hell hole.”
Grignr slipped his right hand to his thigh, concealing a small opaque object beneath the folds of the g-string wrapped about his waist. Brine wells swelled in Grignr’s cold, jade squinting eyes, which grown accustomed to the gloom of the stygian pools of ebony engulfing him, were bedazzled and blinded by flickerering radiance cast forth by the second soldiers’s resin torch.
Guys guys guys Grignr is WEARING A G STRING
HE’S NOT A BARBARIAN HE’S JUST A VERY LOST MALE STRIPPER
As to “What is the difference between this and Conan the Barbarian” the answer is “Robert E. Howard was better at spelling.”
Chapter 7
WE’RE GETTING TO THE END!
With wobbling knees and swimming head, the priest that had lapsed into an epileptic siezure rose unsteadily to his feet. While enacting his choking fit in writhing agony, the shaman was overlooked by Grignr. The barbarian had mistaken the siezure for the death throes of the acolyte, allowing the priest to avoid his stinging blade. The sight that met the priests inflamed eyes nearly served to sprawl him upon the floor once more. The sacrificial sat it grim, blood splattered silence all around him, broken only by the occasional yelps and howles of his maimed and butchered fellows. Above his head rose the hideous idol, its empty socket holding the shaman’s ifurbished infuriated gaze.
Of course Grignr can’t tell the difference between a seizure disorder and death. He probably thinks wound care is “rinse in the nearest sewer”.
“Hey, how is it that we’ve all managed faster-than-light interstellar travel and it’s relatively commonplace?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I never really paid attention in school.”
“Oh, well, it’s simple, really. All it takes is—”
[LOUD TRAIN NOISES]
“Wow! Really? That’s incredible! What an amazing technology. Thank you for telling me this.”
Alternatively:
“Hey, how are you able to make this interstellar voyage in an amount of time comparable to sailing a ship across an ocean?”
“I have no idea. I sit at the controls, put on a blindfold, and start pressing buttons and hoping for the best.”
“That seems… unwise…”
“It hasn’t failed me yet.”
“How do you make this thing go thousands of times faster than the speed of light?”
“Oh, you know. I just press some buttons and hope the laws of physics look the other way.”
“That’s insane.”
“It helps if I’m really wasted.”
“How do you make FTL travel work?”
“Well, this button sends us into a dimension of darkness and horror inhabited by todash monsters incomprehensible to the human brain, where the laws of reality do not dare to set foot for fear of corruption.”
“That sounds… bad…”
“Yeah. On second thought, let’s stay put. One habitable planet is just as good as the next, I think.”
“Yeah. Space is a silly place.”
“I can’t believe the ancients used to have spacefaring technology. That was thousands of years ago! How did we lose that? Where did we go wrong?”
“Are you referring to the dilithium crystal myth?”
“Yeah. They used them to power their starships.”
“You know ‘starship’ was a euphemism, right? They didn’t actually travel through interstellar space. They just ground up dilithium crystals into a psychoactive ointment and applied it between their legs and the resulting trip probably made them feel like they went to the stars. The idea that they ‘rode’ on ‘starships’ actually just means they used—”
“Stop. I don’t want to hear it. History majors ruin everything.”
“How do you expect to get a ship of this size to the other side of the galaxy in such a short period of time? I don’t see any cryosleep chambers, so I can only surmise you’ve discovered FTL travel.”
“Very astute, my dear fellow. It operates under a simple mechanism that I’m sure you’re already familiar with, in some crude fashion. May I ask you a personal question? Good. Do you accept that the universe is a cruel and spiteful place?”
“Well… I uh… I don’t know. I guess I’m agnostic, when it comes down to it, but…”
“But it sure seems as though the cosmos at large seek at all times to punish hubris, yes? To elevate heroes only as an excuse to dash them against the rocks? Surely you’ve heard the saying ‘no good deed goes unpunished’?”
“Of course.”
“It’s true. Nature abhors a vacuum of retribution. This is the theory I have developed and upon which I have based my life’s work. All the pilot of this vessel has to do is declare, “Boy howdy, I sure am glad this ship will never leave the planet and its crew dragged across the galaxy to land safely on Egoni Beta c! I am too good of a pilot for that to ever happen!” and the universe will take care of the rest out of spite.”
“You’re exploiting the Universal Law of Situational Irony?”
“Exploiting? I am obeying it in the only way I know how.”
“You’re an accomplished starship pilot. May I ask you how FTL travel works?”
“To be honest, I have no idea. The computer takes care of that. Nobody likes to admit it, but there isn’t a human alive who could tell you the means by which we achieved warp speed. Computers have been designing themselves for generations and we don’t really know how they work, just that they do.”
“Oh. Then… then why do you have this control room? You’ve got all kinds of buttons and wheels and algorithms in here! Surely you must do something to make this ship go.”
“It’s all for show. It doesn’t actually matter what I do in here, but pressing buttons makes my monkey brain feel accomplished. You see, the computers take care of absolutely everything for us, but they’re programmed to prioritize keeping the essential human spirit alive through trials and hardship. Nothing too difficult, mind you, but just tricky enough to make us feel invigorated when we ‘solve’ our problems. I’m pretty sure they engineer dangerous situations just so we can rescue ourselves in the nick of time. Otherwise we’ll become complacent, and the spark of enterprising humanity that brought us here will fade. Not sure if I believe that, but the computers do, and that’s what matters. So I press some buttons at random, put on my captain’s hat, spin the wheel, and pretend I am having some kind of effect upon the universe.”
“But that’s so depressing!”
“Is it? Sounds like you just need to press some buttons. Look – they’re bright and colorful and they go ‘beep beep’! What more could you want?”
And here I thought we could go without romanticizing one more white male villain smh
I would argue there is a difference between acknowledging that a character is a fantastic, multifaceted villain and romanticizing them.
Pierce is cold. He is calculating. He knows how to manipulate people into doing what he wants. He’s not afraid to use pawns and sacrifice them accordingly. God, he is an awful person. A terrible one. He’s an abuser and unapologetic and willing to take out millions of people for his vision, however fucked up that vision is, of the greater good.
Recognizing that he is one of the most terrifying villains that marvel has rolled out with does not equal romanticizing him. He’s the kind of evil that creeps up without you noticing and by the time you do it’s too late. He’s smiling as he stabs you in the back. Pierce is important because he’s the bad guy who can actually exist in the world today. There aren’t people building giant robots, there aren’t Norse gods or nazis peeling their faces off. What there are in this world are politicians in positions of power who abuse that power and nothing is more dangerous than that.
Those tags are great because if you go against Pierce in a battle of wits you WILL NOT WIN. Plain and simple. Literally the only way to stop him was pure force.
TLDR – pierce is a despicable human being but recognizing why and how he is an excellent villain for this day and age does not equal romanticizing him.
I actually just used the wrong word, I meant glorifying not romanticizing
I’d still argue though that he’s not being glorified? Everything within the post is canon.
I think everything you need to know about Pierce is in the line “the man turned down a Nobel Peace Prize.” He had literally everyone so fooled that not even NICK FURY suspected him until far too late. I’m not trying to put Pierce on a pedestal or anything like that, but he was winning at a game that no one else even knew they were playing.
Like I hate Pierce. I HATE him. Like I said, he is an abuser and a terrorist and a terrible person. But Talking about his effectiveness as a villain in context of a movie still doesn’t equal glorifying him.
For a villain to be effective, they must be the hero of their own story.
THAT’s what makes a good villain. THAT’s what makes a villain terrifying. THAT’s what makes Pierce terrifying. Because Pierce is the best villain Marvel has given us because he is real. He’s in congress; he’s leading our troops; he’s in the Senate; he’s sitting in the UN; he’s at the head of a multi-billion dollar corporation and he’s drafting laws and hey, did we forget that we already have a project insight? Because what’s the difference between the helicarriers and drones?
What makes CA: TWS such an amazing piece of storytelling is that it is absolutely a sociopolitical thriller disguised as a superhero movie. And if Pierce wasn’t the cold, smart, dispassionate, well-spoken, insidious bastard that he is, he wouldn’t be nowhere as effective. Even after Steve gives his passionate speech at the Triskelion, even when the World Security Council turns against him, Pierce still thinks he can win by spinning things his way. He absolutely believes he’s doing this for the greater good. No villain worth his screen time ever looks at the things they do and thinks ‘ah yes I am such a terrible person, doing these evil, awful and morally wrong things.’ Every single villain must absolutely think they are absolutely in the right, and the hero is their villain. Or they become stereotypes and caricatures.
Discussing the type of villain Pierce is has nothing to do with glorifying him or romanticizing him. It has everything to do with recognizing the Russos’ clever, brilliant writing, which shows us that real, true evil doesn’t need to have a red skull or an army of chitauri. Real evil exists, we are steeped in it, and we don’t even fucking know it until it’s too late.
also, don’t think for ONE INSTANT that casting Robert motherfucking Redford — All-American roguish Good (white, blond, CLONE OF CAPTAIN AMERICA) Guy Robert Redford — wasn’t possibly the most deliberate casting choice made in this movie. Robert Redford is a Good Guy, and you know it. How do you know? Why, just look at him! Look at his blond good looks! Look at his nice suit! Look how perfectly uber-American and…and…and he just LOOKS like he should be in charge, um, because he’s so. White. And Perfect. And. Rich. And uber-American and…we let those kinds of people get anything they want…oh.
whoops.
Reblogging for commentary.
Alexander Pierce really is the absolute best villain Marvel’s done to date, and could well be the best they’ll every do, because of this. He’s utterly terrifying, and hits far too close to home.
All of this — I love Alexander Pierce, in the sense that I fear and loathe him: He is the real deal; he is the kind of person you do find in glass-and-steel high-rises, in backrooms of clubs with panels of dark wood, in all the exclusive places where powerful people gather. Because these people, these people are still mostly older white men with the “right” kind of origin story and, yes, looks. Not to mention the whole meta commentary of casting Robert freakin’ Redford: this idea of, beyond the sheer acting, of what he can evoke in others. Someone else commented that had Captain America been made almost fifty years ago, this would have been Steve Rogers.
The thing that works about him, really, is that he’s like the villains we have in real life America. Slick and wealthy and powerful and white.
Making Robert Redford the villain was possibly the most terrifying casting choice because he is usually Mister Hero, or at least not a bad guy. And You can’t really go into this movie without knowing at least a little who he is (or like me both on & off screen) and that plays into your expectations of his character. And then his villainous aspects just hit that much harder, and you realize that (to quote above) it is absolutely a sociopolitical thriller disguised as a superhero movie.
I think Pierce is terrible, he is clearly irredeemable, and I think his ending was the only way to take him out of play. I love how he was portrayed, but not him.
So (according to the concept art book) as the Fellowship travels deeper into Middle Earth, the places they pass through become inspired by progressively older periods of history. The farther along you are in the story, the more ancient the design influences
We begin in The Shire: which feels so familiar because, with its tea-kettles and cozy fireplaces, it’s inspired by the relatively recent era of rural England in the 1800s
But when we leave Hobbiton, we also leave that familiar 1800s-England aesthetic behind and start going farther back in time.
Bree is based on late 1600s English architecture
Rohan is even farther back, based on old anglo-saxon era architecture (400s-700s? ce)
Gondor is way back, and no longer the familiar English or Anglo-Saxon: its design comes from classical Greek and Roman architecture
And far far FAR back is Mordor. It’s a land of tents and huts: prehistoric, primitive, primeval. Cavemen times
And the heart of Mordor is a barren lifeless hellscape of volcanic rock…like a relic from the ages when the world was still being formed, and life didn’t yet exist
And then they finally reach Mount Doom, which one artist described as
“where the ring was made, which represents, in a sense, the moment of creation itself”
Literal text (notice the naked man in Tony’s bed):
A male (!) villain insinuating Tony can’t resist him (because of his “playboy” reputation, which is a big “hmm”):
This speaks for itself:
Tony waxes poetic about Steve’s attractiveness:
Actually Tony calls Steve handsome a lot; it’s kind of a thing:
Oh and that time Namor called out Tony for sleeping with Madame Masque (after Tony said she looked like Doctor Doom) and Tony trying to swerve the convo:
That time the media was openly suspecting Tony Stark was HIV positive (this is from a comic in 1992 when AIDs was still thought of as a disease that primarily afflicted gay/bisexual men):
… Just saying, the subtext (and even the text) has been there for a long-ass time. Tony’s dating profile being set to woman and men was just more evidence on top of the pile.
Tony is so obviously bi, T’Challa knew.
Even the evilness of Victor Von Doom isn’t enough to keep tony from acknowledging how handsome he is.
More of Tony swooning over Doom (added by @i-gotta-go-good-day-bitch in the replies but i wanted to keep the ones above too).
Also added by @i-gotta-go-good-day-bitch, implications Tony and Rhodey were/are more than friends:
And I forgot to add this classic. A gutter note during the development of Iron Man vol 3 implied Tiberius and Tony had slept together (given their relationship was very much portrayed like them having been exes, this isn’t a shocker). (Link to @whatjanesays‘s blog who originally posted these images)
“better roll” meaning “roll around the hay” (so saying sexual partner). The “Ru” here is talking about Rumiko Fujikawa (who, while broken up with Tony, slept with Tiberius).
“I miss when comics weren’t political!!” the dudebros whine, apparently unaware that manly-man playboy Tony Stark has been canonically bisexual since THE 80S, a time when the majority of Americans were still quite homophobic.
“‘No’?” echoed the space emperor. “‘No’?! No one. Ever. Tells me. ‘No’.”
He advanced, close enough that the threads on his rich robes could be counted by the naked eye. After a furtive glance over his shoulder, he dropped his voice to a desperate whisper and said, “Could you… could you do it again? Please?”
“No.”
The space emperor’s eyes shone like embers as he leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of his face. “So this… this ‘democracy’ you speak of. You’re telling me that people might… disobey me? They wouldn’t have to do everything I tell them to?”
“Not if they disagree with you.”
“They can do that?!” He licked his lips, trembling with excitement. “And voting! You say I… you say I could lose?!”
“Yeah, uh. And you probably would.”
“Incredible,” he breathed. “Why, I could kiss you!” With a surprised laugh, he stopped himself mid-step. “But—you wouldn’t like that! Right? You’d have an ‘opinion’? Gosh… do you think other people have those?!”
The space emperor let out a long, melancholy sigh and turned to the hero, his lip trembling with delicate misery. “I’m going to miss you,” he sniffed. “I don’t think I’ll watch, you know, when they… when they do it.” The tear that had been clinging valiantly to his eyelashes finally broke free and rolled down his cheek. “Oh!” he cried, and threw his arms around the hero’s neck with a great, shuddering sob. “Yours will be the only skull I drink from ever again—I promise! I will think of you every time, and I’ll pretend you’re still here with me!”
“Or you could just… not have me executed.”
The space emperor inhaled sharply and took a step back, his face red and puffy from crying. “That’s an option?!”
The serving-woman stood with her back ramrod straight and her eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Every muscle in her body looked tense, and only the rapid rise and fall of her shoulders betrayed her terror.
“You’ve ruined my gown,” said the space emperor, regarding the growing purple stain on his sleeve. “These fibers were harvested on Lutoya-29, a planet that was demolished six units ago. There is no other like it in the galaxy. I could have you harvested for washing-water for this.” He looked up and met the hero’s eyes, his thoughtful expression melting into a delighted grin. “But I don’t have to, do I?”
“No, Your Incandecense,” whispered the woman. Her sweat-beaded skin had grown translucent with fear.
“I don’t even have to have you killed at all!” he exclaimed. “I could… I could…” he cast around the chamber, as though searching for inspiration in the lavish furnishings.
“Please, Your Incandecense.” The woman’s voice was low and unsteady, but her gaze remained fixed on the floor. “I’ll do anything, please, forgive—”
“Anything! You’re right!” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, stamping his feet in a little dance. “I could do anything! In fact—” he reached over the table and clasped the hero’s hand in his own. “Nothing is anything! I could do nothing! Nothing at all!” He giggled merrily and then froze, gingerly releasing the hero’s hand and leaning back. He tapped one bejeweled finger against his temple and gave an exaggerated wink. “Oh, right. Consent.”
The serving-woman’s eyes flickered to the hero’s for a moment, nervous questions burning in them. The hero gave a barely-imperceptible shrug and a very tiny, reassuring smile. The emperor did not seem to notice.
“Is there more wine?” he asked. “Splendid. Please. Do it again.”
“What…?” The woman’s skin flashed an alarming yellow.
The emperor gestured enthusiastically between himself and the crystal pitcher. “The wine. My gown. I think you should reacquaint them.”
“He wants you to spill the wine on him again,” explained the hero. “No, really. He’s, uh… he’s having an interesting day.”
“I am learning so many things,” said the emperor. “Did you know that you have feelings, too? It’s not just me! My new friend has feelings, that man over there has feelings, that… whatever that thing is has feelings!” He stood up and threw his arms wide in a sudden, emphatic motion, flinging droplets of purple liquid from his soiled sleeve. “Maybe everyone has feelings! Maybe robots! Maybe my enemies! Maybe—” he stopped, and the delirious grin vanished from his face. “Maybe the Lutoyans have feelings…” His voice dropped to a whisper, and he stared at the hero with a strange expression. “But… there aren’t any more Lutoyans…”
The space emperor took his breakfast in bed, bathed in sweet oils, allowed his hair to be combed and coiffed and his face painted with rare minerals, and then sighed in delicate frustration.
“None of this seems right,” he confessed to his wardrober, after rejecting the seventh gown he was presented with. It was deep blue silk, studded all over with crystals that glinted and sparkled like a night sky. “It’s just not working for me today.”
“That is one of the finest gowns in the galaxy, Your Incandescence,” said the wardrober. “It is an accurate starmap of the constellations as seen from your boyhood home, rivaled in beauty and quality only by your other raiments. But perhaps this is more to your impeccable tastes–” It offered an eighth gown, a trailing cascade of iridescent blue-green fabric layered with shimmering, diaphanous beetle wings. “A species of rare insect went extinct for the construction of this one,” it said. “It was considered sacred to the inhabitants of that world. Wearing this gown declares your might and majesty to the galaxy.”
The space emperor pursed his lips. “Hmm,” he said. “Not that one, I think.” There was an unfamiliar twisting sensation in his gut when he looked at the gown.
“I hope the feast is to your pleasure, Your Incandescence. We did not have much time to prepare before–”
“It is not to my pleasure!” cried the space emperor, lashing out and knocking the platter to the floor. The attendant winced as the tureen shattered and bent to clean it up. “I want to go back!”
“That would be inadvisable,” said the war magnate, rolling her eyes. “It is not yet safe for you to return planetside; there may be traps or other assassins lying in wait. I’m sure your friend is fine.”
The entire palace was climate-controlled, including the military wing, so there was no reason for the space emperor to feel so cold as he walked through the halls. It was just another concern to bring up with his doctor later that evening, along with the pain in his chest and difficulty swallowing around the tightness in his throat. He so rarely fell ill–even as a child, the diseases of the common rabble had never touched him.
The doctor would have to wait. He had more important business to attend to.
He ran his thumb along the special weapon the General had given him. It was simple in design, as unlike the ornate ceremonial laser he always wore at his hip as it was possible to be. He didn’t understand exactly how it functioned, but he didn’t need to; all that mattered was that it worked. The General assured him that it would be a most fitting punishment.
“What?” said the space emperor. “What just… happened?”
The General bowed his head and held out his arm. The space emperor took it numbly and allowed himself to be led from the room, away from the acrid smoke rising from the dead robot. “You must forgive me, Your Incandescence. I will bear the blame for this… unfortunate oversight. Walk with me, if you please, and I will explain.”
The sprawling facility seemed to become oppressively small. The space emperor sucked in an unsteady breath and discovered that oxygen had suddenly stopped working while he was distracted by the screen. “Air,” he wheezed, stumbling toward the turbolift. “I need air.”
Fierce heat rippled across his cheeks and all the way down his spine. The space emperor tore his gaze away from the Lutoyan, gritting his teeth against the unwelcome feeling. He adjusted the circlet furiously until he was sure that his entire head was protected by its energy shield.
“How kind of you to join me,” he forced out, squeezing his eyes shut and trying not to think about the way the muscles in the other man’s arms flexed when he tested his restraints. “I hope you are enjoying our imperial hospitality.” It was not the self-assured and dangerous voice he had planned to use, but something strained and uneven.
“Not really, no. This kind of stuff isn’t my cup of tea,” said the Lutoyan dryly. “Speaking of which… is that a coffee machine?”
One of the greatest joys I know is the delight in offering a sacrifice to your god(s); to know that something from your hands has been given over to one you adore in total faithfulness is bliss.
The first murder in the Bible was fueled by jealousy; from anger and distress that a sacrifice was not good enough. Cain saw that God rested his favor on the offering of his brother, and that broke him- to know that his gift to God was second-rate was unbearable. That this is one of the first stories in Abrahamic belief is no coincidence. Our offerings are not trivial. The gifts we give to our god(s) aren’t just for shits and giggles.
I’m honestly having trouble thinking of a religion WITHOUT an example on the importance of ritual sacrifice. One of the first acts of Prometheus was to steal from a sacrificial meal to the gods. In a Vedic Hymn, there is a tale of creation based out of the ritualistic dismemberment of man. Mayan culture is famous for its practice of bloodletting ceremonies to appease the gods. In fact, the entirety of the Christian religion itself is based upon the idea of a perfect sacrifice that was worthy enough to redeem all mankind; one that is still replicated every hour of every day in Masses throughout the world.
Clearly, the presentation of offerings to god(s)- whether for appeasement by tribute or out of love and devotion- is a crucial aspect of religions across the world. However, these sorts of sacrificies have dwindled as cultures become homogenized (due greatly to colonization) and as people become displaced from their faiths. This is especially noticeable in America, where religions that traditionally make sacrifices- such as Judaism and Hinduism, notably- are demonized, thanks much to the aggressive sanitation carried out by white Protestants.
As a result of this, I see a whole lot of people on tumblr who are diving into religion with absolutely no idea of how to make sacrifices or other offerings to their god(s). Now, this is by no means a definitive guide that you MUST follow to make any sort of worthy offering, but it is, i think, a good start to understanding the nature of the gifts we give.
(Of course, if your religion has a historical precedence of giving offerings a certain way, I totally encourage looking into that first! This is all based on my own personal experience and observation, and I’m absolutely open to criticism and other opinions here!)
TYPES OF OFFERINGS AND THE MOTIVATION BEHIND THEM
I’ve found that most offerings that I give can be sorted neatly into three groups- all regarding the nature of the gift’s presentation. I’ve tentatively named these categories “Flower”, “Flame”, and “Flesh”.
Flower: Something that can grow; a living offering and constant sacrifice, either by deed or through cultivation
Flame: A sacrifice that has value to the god(s) despite its lack of “usefulness” toward humans; often one whose merit lies in its beauty alone
Flesh: A sacrifice of death; of snuffing out a life to give it over to the god(s)
Expanding upon them a little more, each type of offering has its own notable features that make it pleasing to the recipient. Though the mind and will of our god(s) is/are far out of our range of understanding, these types of sacrifices stay constant across many cultures and religions.
FLOWER
A flowering offering is one that expands to reach others, or one that betters the person giving it. It’s named as a nod to how one might upkeep a garden; though it has merit in its beauty and is pleasing to the eye, it can also serve for food or for meditation. Flowers may be cultivated to bloom into a great offering over a period of time and, though it may take a lot of effort, the steady blooming will be of great honor to both you and those you wish to devote the work to. Some examples of a flower offering are:
Regularly donating to or working with a charity that exemplifies the values of your god(s)
Educating yourself on a craft or skill that better prepares you to serve your god(s)
For example, if one worships a war god, one might wish to work out and hone your body to be capable of defending yourself. On your end, you get totally ripped. On your god’s end, you’re now able to serve them more dutifully and more in-line with what they require.
FLAME
A flame offering is one that has little practical use and is made primarily for the joy of the god(s). It’s named in honor of the practice of keeping an eternal fire burning in a temple- an act that is present in ancient and modern religions worldwide. Some examples of a flame offering are:
Keeping a literal fire going throughout your worship time
Curating and maintaining a shrine
Watching over a sacred space
For example, if there is a place that you feel particularly connected to your god(s), set that aside as a holy space just for them. Mark it appropriately and turn it into a space of adoration and devotion. Keep it clean, pure, and make it an example of your relationship with your god(s).
FLESH
A flesh offering is a literal sacrifice. It’s named, quite obviously, in homage to the practice of placing a living (or once-living) thing before one’s god(s). Now, this doesn’t necessarily mean that blood MUST be shed to constitute a flesh offering; it can be as peaceful as plucking a rose and putting it in a vase at their altar. Some examples of a flesh offering are:
Literally making a blood offering
Preparing a meal for your god(s)
Giving over the first fruits of your labor- the first flower of spring or the first apple on your tree
For example, If one is an adept cook, they might decide to take a portion of the beef they were about to grill and set it aside as an offering. Though the specifics of how to actually “offer” it vary by culture and tradition, the act of giving something up from your hands and into the arms of your god(s) is a beautiful thing.
WHAT OFFERINGS ARENT:
Your leftovers.
Offerings are not an afterthought. Though there’s really truly no WRONG way to go about honoring your god(s) with offerings when it’s done in sincerity, there’s a clear difference between, say, offering them the last dregs of your can of Sprite and pouring some inexpensive wine in a glass at their altar. Offerings do not have to be extravagant to be of value, but they do have to be made in love and with respect.
Bearing this all in mind, the relationship you have between you and your god(s) is between you and them, period. Your own experience with them is paramount, and I encourage you to delve into the mysteries of what they enjoy and what delights them. Look into historical precedence, if such resources are available. Use your own discernment. Above all, though, offer them the respect that is due. An offering of sincere loving prayer can be treasured above all the wine and riches in the world.
