Setanta retrospective part 1

No idea when other parts will be, these are just random thoughts and musings. Also, spoiler warning. Don’t read further if you haven’t read the story.

Wow, Jordan. Half of everything that went wrong with Setanta was because of him or me. Mostly me. But he’s responsible for a lot of it. Trying to write someone with that level of mental health issues may not have been wise. Putting myself into his mindset so often and for so long was not a good thing.

I don’t suffer from his brand of depression, but I’ve dealt with enough people who do. Most of the time, they don’t recognize that they have depression. Most men who suffer from it legitimately don’t even realize that something is wrong — I’ve heard some guys confess that they honestly didn’t understand that emotions were supposed to last for longer than seconds, or that they were supposed to feel anything.

I spent a long time figuring out how that would work for a main character. Things would have been easier for both myself and the readers if I’d been able to say it early on in the story — establish that he suffered from that and was low-key suicidal, and suddenly a lot of the story works in a new way. Someone once said that Jordan hated himself, and he genuinely doesn’t. He just doesn’t feel long enough for it to make a difference. And it isn’t something that happened because of what was done to him, or that he was exposed to. It’s just who he is.

In-universe, Jordan is obviously damaged. This is also why some people are attracted to him: here’s a guy who wants to help, who is a good person, and who will do everything he can for you, but is so horribly damaged. This is a universe where most people either have PTSD or have been close to someone who has it. Where physical contact is shunned. Someone like him is attractive to those who need someone to care for in order to validate themselves. He’s also attractive to those who want someone who can protect them.

Neither lead to a good relationship, incidentally. The “romantic” relationships that he attracts are doomed to failure. Well, maybe Gina. She knew what all was wrong with him and accepted him for that, but didn’t want to fix him or anything. He accepted her for who she was, encouraged and challenged her, and helped her feel like a complete person.

Interestingly, the best non-famial relationship that he has would be with Emi. John is a close second, but he’s too much of a liar and a manipulator to have a really good relationship with anyone. Emi is supportive while not accepting his bullshit once she understands that there is bullshit.

This was also why the early arcs were necessary. Jordan and his siblings have a good dynamic going on. I had to share the good, even if it meant that they willfully ignored or took a step back on certain things. They knew why he did certain things and gave him a pass on them, knew that things got worse if you stepped in, or gently kept him from sliding into bad habits. Bad habits that he yeeted himself into the moment that he wasn’t around them anymore. (I refuse to use yote.)

The gang was also good for him, in a different way. Jordan kept himself active for a reason. Not being active only made things worse. Being alone with that emptiness was a special hell, so he trained, researched, keep his body or mind active. The fact that if he pushed himself hard enough, he felt something for a little bit only encouraged the hyper training more. He’s an addict desperate to feel anything. And yes, he would have become an addict if anyone tried to convince him to try narcotics. But when you have a rep like he does…

Those same bad habits led to him undergoing a slow degradation. Most readers didn’t pick up on the small signs, but they did eventually notice the shift. Most people see the shift at some part in the story, when he’s given up on his dreams of being a hero, and is still, ultimately, clinging to the belief that triggering will make everything better.

To me, as the author, the central theme behind Setanta is lies. The lies the world operates on, the lies we tell, the lies we’re told, and the lies we tell ourselves. Jordan is firmly in the last camp. If anyone lies to themselves, it’s him. Even when he knows the truth, he’s perfectly willing to accept the comforting lie. In a way, that’s his main use for forgetting things. So that the lies remain the truth as far as he knows.

I was honestly surprised that people didn’t get that Jordan was an unreliable narrator. Not disappointed, as it meant that his internal logic made some sort of sense, but still surprised. Unreliable narrators are hard, because either you tip your hand too much, or not enough. I feel like a lot of people who described Jordan as a Mary Sue would have responded differently if they would have realized that not everything happens quite the way he tells you that it does. I still don’t know how I could have done that elegantly.

…I had so much more that I wanted to talk about, but I’m out of energy. I’m sorry.

Something for you

I’ve sworn off fanfiction, but that doesn’t stop my brain from thinking.  Mostly because I live with an asshole who likes to plant seeds in my head.  For example, Errant Vagrant once asked me how I would do a Judge Dredd fanfilm.  I love the socialist fascist setting of Judge Dredd, so I couldn’t let it go.  After some thought, I came up with the following:

Open with a couple of people talking in the locker room.  Your typical “Just average people” kind of thing.  Once they put their helmets on, though, they’re Judges.  We follow one as he reports for his first duty of the day: a riot is forming.  On his way to the riot, he passes someone sleeping in an alley.  He addresses the rioters, and learns that they’re desperate for work.  It doesn’t show his judgement, just him walking away, but this time without any yelling in the background.  Maybe some crying, though.  As he does so, he casually shoots the hobo, killing the man.  From there, we follow his day, usually not showing his judgements, but with the usual evidence… pretty clear.

The “climax” is him getting into a bad scrape, having to rely on trickery and wits to survive.  He even pretends to be Dredd at one point.

After this, he’s in the locker room, somberly removing his gear when another Judge approaches him.  He turns, knowing full and well that she’s there to cast judgement on his actions, and states that he’s willing to receive his punishment, no matter what it might be.  She’s silent for a moment before asking him to recount his day to her.  With a deep breath, he does.

We’re taken back through his day.  As he passes the hobo, he silently begins running an ID check.  He then addresses the rioters, and we see his judgement: Disturbing the peace, five years mining labor.  He informs them that it’s one of the better mining camps, and that they will be paid for their labor, better than the government handout.  They’re thankful to him for this.  On his way out, he checks the results of the ID of the hobo — known murderer and rapist.  He dispenses judgement.

We see instead of the cold man who relied on his guns, a man who is trying to do right by the community through creative “punishments” that leave the people thankful to him.  All of those apparently lethal judgements are now cast in a different light.

His recounting of the last incident is just him walking through the incident, clips shown as he mentions them.  He’s very clear about his crimes.  In the end, it cuts back to the locker room.  The other Judge stands there, regarding him silently, her mouth a stern line.  He confesses that he knows that he would never have become a Judge had the requirements not been lowered so far recently “due to the troubles,” and that he can never stand up to the stellar example of “Judges like you.”  And that he, once again, will abide by her judgement without hesitation.  He never pleads, he knows he did wrong, and he’s willing to take it on the chin, so to speak.

She would stay silent for a moment longer, before sternly declaring “I’m ready to cast judgement.”  Cut to black, roll credits.  Let the audience decide her judgement.

Feel free to steal that.  Goodness knows, I stole the “rioters happily going to labor camps” directly from the comics themselves.  I started writing it briefly for Errant Vagrant before my disgust got the better of me.

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Today, Errant Vagrant saw the Venom movie, describing it as “fun but forgettable.”  Knowing that I’m not-quite a fan, he asked me how I’d do a Venom story.  I told him that I wouldn’t.  Then he asked me the more important question: “How would you do a symbiote story?”  That’s a question that haunts me.

If I were to do a symbiote story, I think that I’d follow my personal favorite interpretation of the symbiotes.  Depending on which retcon you follow, they dominate and burn out their hosts.  Venom is the outcast for not doing this.  They also feed on adrenaline.  This, I can work with.

A new superhero is making waves in Chicago.  Athletic, wearing an eyeless dark outfit that changes colors regularly as he’s “trying to find what works best.”  He’s a decent hero — doesn’t kill or maim, works with the police but asks no favoritism, and handles the local super villains with grace.  Flashy and does dangerous things, but is always mindful of civilians.  His powers are the standard strength and durability.  Nothing that stands out, according to news reports.

Naturally, it’s someone bonded to a symbiote.  Someone who suffers from anxiety, and is a nebbish, awkward sort.  Plays the clarinet.  His relationship with his symbiote is… complicated.  Everything that the symbiote does as a hero scares the crap out of the guy, almost like the symbiote is purposefully pressing all of his buttons.  The symbiote is in control as the hero, but otherwise just helps out the poor guy the rest of the time.

They act like old friends in many ways.  They argue over the proper pronunciation of symbiote, then data, then potato, then tomato, before they both sing “Let’s call the whole thing off” with a chuckle.

During the day, the symbiote helps him by whispering words of encouragement into the guy’s ear.  It helps him with his crummy job, deal with his mother (who’s very upset that he isn’t using his expensive degree), and day-to-day issues with his anxiety.  At one point, it even “takes over,” appearing as tattoo lines criss-crossing the guy’s body after he bemoans never going on a date.  It goes on a club for him (not really getting it, but doing passably well), finding a person that the guy is interested in and doing all the talking and moving for the guy.  And after a rough day of superheroing, the guy curls up with an old black and white movie to help him relax, with the symbiote covering him with a blanket after he passes out in the middle of the movie, wishing him pleasant dreams.

In exchange, the symbiote does the superhero thing, but this time the roles are reversed.  The guy is still terrified out of his mind, but he pushes the symbiote to do things that would terrify him more in order to feed it.  They also use the heroics to supplement the guys pathetic income.

It would eventually come out (perhaps when dealing with some other hero who finally identifies the symbiote) that it was a test subject in a lab, and when its “kin” tried to escape, a self-destruct was activated.  As it tried to escape before the place was scoured clean by fire, it came across the guy (a junior lab tech) cowering in fear.  Originally, it thought that it would have one last meal before dying, but it turned out that the guy knew how to escape, but was too terrified to take it.  So the symbiote helped, saving both their lives.  They’ve since bonded as close as they can get, taking care of each other.  It doesn’t dominate except when it has to and always releases control as soon as it’s safe to do so.  In exchange, the guy helps feed the symbiote and helps to keep it away from both the government and anyone that might come after it for being what it is.

While it would focus on two people who are ultimately comfortable with the other one, there’s all sorts of ways that it could be taken.  Maybe the guy gets into turmoil over the person that they’re dating not being into him at all but the symbiote, with the symbiote not actually understanding the difference.  Maybe someone does find out and comes after them, only to learn that its weakness to sound has been nullified — the symbiote filters out the guy’s anxiety medication, partially so that it can feed, but also because it helps with the sound issue for some reason.

“Me and him, we’re both outcasts.  He is outcast by a society that can’t understand what it does to him, excluding him by merely existing.  I am outcast because… I like my hosts.  I always have, and that’s a sin for my kind.”

“But together, we can be more than we were alone.  We aren’t outcasts now.  We have someone that we can rely on completely.”

“If you try to separate us… I will violate my no-kill rule.”

“And I’ll let him.”

I think that it could be an interesting story.  It isn’t my ideal kind of symbiote story, but rather the one that I’d rather existed in public.  I won’t write it, but that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t think it was awesome if someone else did.  I just love the alien mind and the nervous wreck showing genuine affection for the other, trying to help the other one as best they can.  Neither one really understands the other, but they’re doing their best.  Plus, it leaves the possibility of meeting the real Venom, which would give one line that amuses me far too much.

“He’s a good symbiote, Brock.  He’s trying the best that he can.”

Please, take care of yourself

I’m not suicidal.  I’ve never been suicidal.  But I have hoped that it would just end.  That I’d fall asleep, and I simply wouldn’t wake up.  Or that some random person on the street would just end me, or…

Well, anything.

That’s the depression talking.  It’s a corrupting element.  It subverts your thoughts and logic.  It makes you think things that aren’t true, and makes you ignore the truth.  It can get crushing.  It can be impossible to deal with.  It can make even the smallest of things into an endless slog.  Boulders on your chest, a dull ache that’s everywhere and nowhere.

It’s terrible.

Suicide, or even the thought that you wish that you could be dead, is never the answer.  If you feel these things, please either visit the Suicide Prevention Lifeline or call their hotline.  You don’t have to be on the edge of a bridge or at the end of your rope.  Sometimes, just talking with someone who is nothing but an anonymous voice at the other end of the phone is such a relief.

Like I said, I’ve never even contemplated suicide, but I have called them in the past just to reach out to someone.  When I can’t admit that I wanted to just be dead to anyone that I can see face to face, they can talk.  Just admitting it out loud to someone who has volunteered specifically not to judge you but to help you can help take the edge off.  It’s a moment of catharsis.

Please, take care of yourself, and if you can’t be well, then know that there are people willing to at least listen when you feel that nobody else will.

Five Minutes With Muldoon

I was squirming in my seat as I watched the clock.  A late teacher meant one important possibility.  One vital possibility that I clung to with every single hope that I could.  And a possibility that came true as the door opened, and the professor walked in.

“Sit the gorram heck down and shut the frack up,” Muldoon barked as he briskly marched down the stairs past the rows of students,  words pouring out of his mouth a mile a minute.  “Professor Jordan is sick today, on the first day of class!  How ridiculous!  So rather than make you all wonder what the flub is going on and miss a day of the education you’re paying out the cloaca for, they’ve assigned me to be your substitute teacher for you all today.  Oh goody!”

He reached the head of the class and sat on the desk, unceremoniously tossing his briefcase to the side.  “I am Professor Muldoon, as many of you know.  But I’m seeing plenty of new faces here, so I’ll give my bleeding spiel.  I’m a professional sub here at the Institute, and the only one who doesn’t have a specialty.  I do things a little differently than everyone else.

“First of all, I curse like a blanking sailor, but when you might teach people of any age group, they kind of frown on you dropping an F-bomb every three words for some strange reason.  Stupid, no?”  A soft chorus of chuckles went through the student body, me along with them.  Some people were too busy trying to get a handle on this madman to see the humor, or maybe they just didn’t find him funny.  Their loss, in my opinion.

“Long story short, your substitute substitute words because what the blip not?”  He didn’t smile or smirk, but that got even more chuckles out of us.  “Secondly, I believe firmly in the idea that you should be learning.  Sitting in a class listening to a teacher drone on about something that you’re being burning forced to is absolute birdseed!  So, here’s the deal.  I start off every class with five, count them, five minutes where you can ask me any frakking question that you want, and I’ll answer.  So get ready…”  He looked at his watch.  “Go!”

Students’ hands all went up, and I was no exception.  I wanted to try something.  Sadly, he didn’t point at me, but another girl higher up.  “You, with the skin!”

“How much did your grandfather bribe Flora Neumann?”

I wanted to facepalm.  Probably one of those tumblr types.  This was neither the time nor the place to be making accusations like that.  I was familiar enough with Muldoon’s reputation outside of the Institute to expect one hell of a bitterly explosive response.

Muldoon, though, only looked around the class before answering in the same tone as before.

“Alright, listen.  For those of you not in the know, yes, I’m that Robert Muldoon.  No, I didn’t pay for my job here, I fought for it the old fashioned way, through smarts and hard work.  And no, believe it or not, my grandfather argued against what let him build up our empire.  The thing that most people don’t realize is that Flora Neumann wasn’t brilliant in the way that the cult who suckles at her legend would have you believe.  Years before she even hinted that she’d like to become Chancellor, she was hiring people to research and debate possible policy changes.  That was her strength, to listen to well-educated debates and then do her own research based off of them.  So, no, she wasn’t the goddess of politics that people thought she was, she was more of a manager who knew who to listen to.

“My grandfather didn’t think it was wise for corporations to be able to buy as much land as they wanted for a lot of reasons.  He argued that they should only own four or five plots of land, and rent or lease another ten, tops.  That would continue to encourage competition, which he saw as vital to the continued growth of the nation.  It was partially spite that made him expand the way that he did under Muldoon Corp.  Muldoon Towers had their own banks and pretty much everything that they needed, and he had always planned on expanding those.  So he had already built up an infrastructure to expand.  But when she let her debaters know which way the wind was blowing, he capitalized on it.  He hired the people and got the equipment together so that a week after the law was passed, the various businesses of Muldoon Corp had new locations open and operating.”

His arm waved around the class again.  “Next question.”

Hands went up again, only for him to ignore me.  “You, the dude with the hair.”

A boy pointed to himself, and Muldoon nodded vigorously.  “Uh, why…  Why does DISO do patrols like cops?  Isn’t that a waste of time?”

Muldoon clapped his hands together.  “Excellent question!

“DISO, or the Department of Intelligence and Special Operations, originally started out as part of the police.  Back then, the police didn’t have as good of a budget as they do now, so their Specially Trained Armed Response teams, which is a name that I wish they’d kept in case there’s a zombie outbreak, had to do patrols alongside their more typical brethren.  When they were elevated to their own department, it was a matter of honor for them to keep doing patrols — remembering that their first priority is to serve and protect.  Rookies do a lot more patrols than the others, partially as a way to familiarize them with the city, and to encourage them to build street-level contacts.  After they become more familiar with the system, they usually only patrol once a week.  To this day, they still have to swear the exact same oath as the police, along with the other oaths of office that they have to make.  There’s actually little jurisdiction rivalry between them and the police because of this, and their willingness to help out the police.”

“Next question.”

This time, it was a middle-aged guy in the front row.  “From what you said before, you sound like you aren’t fond of…  Uh…”  Did he forget what he was asking about already?

Fortunately, Muldoon picked up on it and ran with it.

“No, despite my earlier statement, I don’t think any less of Flora Neumann.  We needed a leader who was willing to have a small army of people doing massive amounts of research on the big topics to determine what legislation to push through.  The fact that she was able to do this, often without having to pay those experts to debate, is an impressive deal.  I can only imagine what it would be like today if she were able to have access to the internet and real freaking computers.  By Crom, if we had a leader like her today, it would be an international panel of experts the likes of which have never been seen before!  So, no, her being more of a manager than a traditional politician thinking that they’re right doesn’t decrease my respect for her.  It increases it.

“Next!”

Hands went up again, only this time he pointed at me.  “You, with the cells.”

I took a deep breath, grinning from ear to ear.  “How is babby formed?”  I’d only recently discovered the meme, but I wanted to give it a go.

Muldoon blinked at me, and I immediately felt sheepish.  After a couple of seconds, he brushed his bangs back so he could put a hand to his ear, an expectant expression on his face.

Crap, it was too late for me to change my question, too.  He’d call me out on it.  “H-how is babby formed?”  He made a go on motion with his other hand.  “How girl get pregnant?”

Immediately, the professor was on his feet, fist held high in the air and yelling.  “They need to do way instain mother!  Who kill their babby, because these babby can’t frigth back?!  Next question!”

I couldn’t help but howl with laughter, as did a couple of others.  More were rolling their eyes or shaking their heads, but at least Muldoon had taken it in good spirits.  After a moment, he pointed at a guy way in the back.  “You with the carbon, for the last question!”

“Why does the government allow the Grims to exist?”

Muldoon crossed his arms, a thoughtful expression on his face for a moment.  “Huh, that’s a new one.  But I promised answers, so here you go!

“The Grims aren’t so much of a thing that’s allowed to exist as they are part of the natural way that economics work.  You have poor people.  Poor people need a place to live.  People with more money aren’t going to want the cheap housing that poor people can afford near them.  Poor people end up in clumps.  Crime rises, you get the Grims.  This isn’t the fault of anyone who lives there!  Except the people who do the crimes, of course.  Or the ones on drugs.  That does nothing to help the situation.  But if you’re on hard times, or not skilled for a good paying job, or just trapped in the poverty cycle, that’s not necessarially your fault.  Listen, this is a huge subject that I can’t condense down into something simple.  Swing by my desk at the end of class, I’ll have a simple-to-understand book that’s actually kind of funny and entertaining that will explain it for you.”

With that, he clapped his hands and moved around behind the desk and opening his briefcase.  “And that’s all the time for today.  If numbjoy is sick tomorrow, too, I’ll answer another round then.  So!  Intro to Avalonian History, or, this is gonna be the most boring and short freaking history class you’ve ever had.  But first, roll call!”

Greetings and Salutations

Welcome to my little corner of the internet.  When I feel like rambling about something, or adding supplementary information about one of my projects that doesn’t warrant its own chapter, I’ll go ahead and post it here.  For now, there isn’t much.  Eventually, though…

Well.  We’ll see.