InterNutter

There’s more than a little casual-brutality-against-women scattered throughout the pages of Girl Genius. Even with the fact that ladies are capable of fighting back I found it… disturbing.

So I flipped the tables a little too heavily there. I wanted Klaus to go from Lord-in-his-own-right to dirt-beneath-the-sandals and figure how he’d manage to turn this to his advantage in the fulness of time. That, and highlight the turning point where Klaus changes from Being Along For The Ride to getting some agency of his own.

Writing it made me slightly uncomfortable, too. In recognising the unholy glee I had in turning those tables on the brutal edge, I had to face why I wanted a man in general and Klaus in particular punished retroactively. Yes, I am mad at Klaus for being horrible to Agatha. I’m also mad at the whole darn world for perpetuating male privilege and rigid gender roles. And I’m mad at the whole damn world for having that culture exist for so long.

All humans, no matter their skin colour or plumbing, are capable of wonderful things. All humans can work together as teams. The fact that we allow plumbing and skin colour to factor into whether we actually do this is… abhorrent to me.

And a lot of it came out in that fic. When the casual abuse, racism and status structure is upturned on a white man (the “natural” peak of our society as it stands) we feel uncomfortable, uneasy, and unwell. I’m sure that if I was worthy of Neckbeard notice, I’d be doxxed in no short order and threatened for that story.

But when it happens to a woman, or a person of colour? Business as usual. Move along, nothing more to see here.

And it’s very sickening to me that I have to condense all the evil in the world, and make it happen to a white man, in order to prompt a discussion on those exact evils.

Or I could be pissed off because Cashmas makes me cross. I don’t always know what’s going on inside my head. But I think this one’s a compound metaphorical fracture.

So thanks for giving me a story prompt so I could get it out of my head and not, say, aim it at my family. I’ll try to keep my Dark Side on a shorter leash in future.

(#00345)

Scott adjusted his tie before he rounded the corner. There was Sam Adrien, looking his usual dapper self, and another man in the kind of suit that didn’t need much in the way of thought. Black and white. With a black tie.

He was too short and too muscular to be the urban horror figure of Slenderman, and too relaxed to be FBI. Or at least, FBI on duty.

“Ah, Scott. This is the young fellow I was

(#00343)

The view out the window and the scent of the air. There was no doubt about it. This was the lost civilisation of Skifander. A low-quality brigadoon one could only stumble onto when one became lost in the southern Americas.

“Good. You are awake. You are in luck, stranger. The Queen Herself has selected you as her mate. Should you survive your injuries.”

This was one of the Interpreters. Those who had picked up the languages of lost travellers

(#00341)

Ow.

It wasn’t the usual “one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor” kind of headache. Those could usually be dealt with by a Tums, a Tylenol, and two bottles of gatorade.

This was knives-in-the-head painful.

Euw. Her entire left side was sticky.

And she was lying on a lot of sharpish, hard, painful objects.

Did she fall asleep in a Lego bin again?

She risked opening an eye.

An abominably cheerful metal face was staring back at

Sorry. That’s not one of mine.

Anyone out there know of this fic?