Amherst College Department of Theater and Dance Presents "Gossamer"
Amherst College Department of Theater and Dance Presents “Gossamer”
The Amherst College Department of Theater and Dance presents, Gossamer, written and directed by Sophina Flores ’20, on February 27-29, at 8 p.m. in the Holden Theater.
Gossamer follows three children and their mother through a dissociative fantasy world they have created as a response to trauma, trapped in the liminal space between death and life. Through surrealist movement, Gossamer carries us…
Amherst College Department of Theater and Dance Presents "Gossamer"
Amherst College Department of Theater and Dance Presents “Gossamer”
The Amherst College Department of Theater and Dance presents, Gossamer, written and directed by Sophina Flores ’20, on February 27-29, at 8 p.m. in the Holden Theater.
Gossamer follows three children and their mother through a dissociative fantasy world they have created as a response to trauma, trapped in the liminal space between death and life. Through surrealist movement, Gossamer carries us…
by Euripides, in a version by Ben Power
October 31-November 2
8PM, Kirby Theater
The Amherst Colege Department of Theater and Dance presents Medea by Euripides, in a version by Ben Power. This new production blurs the lines between theater, film, and reality. Conceived by Maki Ybarra-Young — who plays the title role — and director Ron Bashford, the show imagines Medea as one of the strong…
“Your sister, she was the primary caretaker after the loss of your parents?” Alistair said, flicking through the leaves of paper.
“Yep. She was pretty good at it, too. It was Robert who was the pain. Always bringing drunk chicks back for a quick fling or for taking something or other. I guess Amy finally got sick of him and told him to leave, because one morning I woke up and he wasn’t there anymore.”
“When was that?”
“When I was fifteen.”
“And you never saw him again?”
“Not until he came back when he was high on bath salts and killed Amy with a knife.”
Alistair felt a strange sensation in his chest. He would have described it as sympathy but he didn’t want to feel sympathy for this monster. The girl sitting before him had almost completely destroyed Ontario in a murderous rampage several years ago and now he was listening to her describe her upbringing like he was her psychiatrist. A traitorous voice in the back of his head whispered you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Shut up, he replied, trying desperately to forget the image that flashed up again.
“You there, doc?” Eleanor asked.
“Uh, yes. Right. Now, when your sister was killed, what happened next?”
“Nothing good. I spent a lot of time on the streets, some time in shelters. I don’t know which was worse.”
“Then you gained your powers and started a trail of destruction.”
Eleanor smiled. “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing, doc.”
“It is.”
“Have you ever had that feeling? Being able to do anything you want?”
“No. I can’t say I ever have the inclination to disregard the law.”
“Is that because you don’t want to or because you can’t? After all, you’re much easier to kill than I am.”
Alistair sighed. From experience, he knew that this was the time when he had to call it quits. Eleanor would relentlessly pester him with reminders that the only thing stopping her from snapping his neck or driving her fist through his body was the small collar around her neck. Or else it was answering every one of his questions with a question about himself, like she was trying to spin the interrogation on its head.
“I think that’s enough for today.” He said, packing up.
Eleanor protested weakly. “Don’t go, doc. I’m just getting started.”
“Well I’m finished.” With that, he left the room.
Alistair first saw how the others treated Eleanor when he arrived early to the interrogation, inspired by an early morning brainwave. He had long ago erased the line between work and leisure, finding that he could double his output by working on cases at home. At least it was better than drowning his sorrows in a local bar like many of his colleagues did.
When he arrived at the cell, he peered in the window, expecting to see Eleanor sitting by herself, waiting for him. Sometimes she would have an empty tray on the table, other times her meals were delivered partway through their interviews and she would eat as he asked her questions.
There was someone else in there. A man, Alistair could tell. He was tall and broad, wearing a jacket that had the words SWAT stencilled on the back.
At first, Alistair thought that the man was simply standing to talk to Eleanor. That assumption was broken when he drew his hand back and struck out. A vein of terror pulsed through Alistair, and he pushed the buzzer to be let in with panic, desperate to enter to intervene.
The time between the buzzer being pushed and the second buzzer sounding to denote that the door had been unlocked seemed like an eternity as Alistair stood outside the cell, helpless to stop the SWAT man beating on Eleanor.
He used his fists, mostly, with the back of the hand substituting every so often. The man’s body blocked Alistair’s view of Eleanor, but he could see her face sometimes when her head was struck to the side. Her nose leaked blood and there were several cuts across her face from the man’s knuckles. What disturbed Alistair, though, was the masochistic grin she wore the entire time.
The door unlocked and Alistair frantically pushed against it, rushing into the room and wrapping his arms around the SWAT man in a desperate attempt to stop him from harming Eleanor any further.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He shouted, dragging the man back with a great deal of difficulty. It was like trying to wrestle an angry bull, not that Alistair had ever done that. But he could imagine it to be hard, just like attempting to subdue the SWAT man was.
“You know what this bitch did to my team?” The SWAT man yelled back and Alistair realised who it was. Nathaniel Daniels.
“I don’t care. She’s an unarmed captive,” Alistair said, still wrestling with the furious Nathan.
Eleanor piped up. “Yeah. Unarmed. You’d better listen to the doc, meathead.”
“You little bitch.” Nathan screamed, his fists clenching. He swung an elbow back in an attempt to hit Alistair, but Alistair managed to twist his head and it only glanced off his cheek.
The door buzzed again to denote it being unlocked and several of the guardsmen moved in, taking hold of Nathan and pulling him off Alistair. Nathan fought like a rabid dog, calming down only after several minutes of struggling.
He panted, glaring daggers at Eleanor, who sat smiling at the table still.
“You’d better figure out whether you’re on our side,” Nathan said to Alistair, “or theirs real quick. You always kill a traitor before an enemy in war.”
“We aren’t at war.” Alistair protested, trying to keep his voice calm and level. He wasn’t certain that he succeeded.
“If you think that then you’re an idiot.”
Alistair shrugged and the guardsmen escorted Nathan out of the cell. The door swung shut and Alistair took a seat in front of Eleanor. He ran his hands through his hair and sighed, before he glanced at her.
She looked terrible. Her face was more alabaster than ever, courtesy of being imprisoned for several weeks in a sunless environment. Now it was covered in a mixture of crimson rivers and purple hills, courtesy of Nathan’s fists. She was still grinning, though.
“’S that all he can do?” She asked.
Alistair shook his head in disbelief, then stood and left without saying a word.
Alistair had never really been much for drinking, but one late night after work he found himself in a bar on 53rd street called O’Malley’s. It was a traditional Irish pub translocated to Boston, the bartender a portly redhead who spoke with heavy Bostonian accent. Alistair knew his accent was recognisable but he didn’t think it was anything like this guy’s.
“What can I do ya for?” The bartender asked as Alistair took a seat at the bar.
It was mostly empty this time of night, the only patrons those who were either too drunk to move or simply those who were well practiced in the art of alcohol consumption and looking to drown their sorrows.
“I’ll just have a pint of Guinness.” Alistair mumbled.
He didn’t think that he had spoken loud enough for the bartender to hear him, but the man withdrew a glass from behind the bar and stuck it under the Guinness tap, filling the glass with that foamy black liquid. Alistair placed a ten-dollar note on the table and the bartender replaced it with the glass.
Alistair took a sip, relishing the bitter taste of the drink cascading down his throat. He didn’t know what he was up to with this case. Eleanor was being stubborn in every regard, refusing to answer his questions truthfully or simply dodging the questions in the first place. She would ask him personal details, goading him with comments on his masculinity or lineage until he grew frustrated enough that he would leave the interrogation room.
It wasn’t just the girl that was making the case difficult. It was his colleagues as well. Alistair was finding more and more that his attempts to find more information on the girl and her case were being stonewalled by higher-ups. He didn’t even know who was preventing him from getting the information.
The glass was empty before Alistair realised it, and he caught the bartender’s finger with a raised finger. Another ten-dollar note was replaced by a full glass of Guinness and Alistair lifted it into the air in a silent salute before draining that one too.
Over the next few hours Alistair lost count of the amount he spent but he knew that it was enough that he was able to make his way through almost a dozen glasses. He hadn’t been drunk since college, but he was starting to think that he might have been intoxicated.
The lights swirled over his head and the sounds of the night alternated between tumultuous and inaudible. At one point Alistair thought that he might have been speaking to the jukebox in the corner, asking it about strange girls with dark eyes and foreign voices. The night passed in a blur, individual events being stitched together like some grotesque simulacrum of time. He didn’t remember the end of the night other than bright lights flashing, blinding him.
Alistair was on the night shift when they brought her into the precinct. The media had called her Supergirl after the comic book character but Alistair had read the old comics from before the Fall and knew that the character was a heroine, a good person. The real one was more akin to Kali, the Hindu goddess of death and destruction.
Even surrounded by near on twenty heavily armed guardsmen and collared with a power inhibitor, the girl had an expression of nonchalance on her face. She observed her surroundings with a casual indifference, as if she were simply a bored guest on a tour. It was only when her eyes met with Alistair’s that she gave a wicked smile. He quickly broke eye contact, looking back to his computer to avoid looking at that evil gaze.
“Wonder how they did it, huh?” A voice came from beside him.
Alistair looked up to Geoff Branaghan, a veteran of thirty years. His greying hair was cut military standard short, accentuated by large muttonchops that made him look like a Civil War veteran transported to the current day. He wore a light brown shirt and held a mug of coffee in his hand as he leant against the divider between Alistair’s desk and Marian Staplewood’s.
Geoff was looking at Alistair, and he realised with a start that Geoff was expecting a response.
“Did what?” Alistair asked.
Geoff pointed with the mug to the direction the girl had been escorted. “Caught Supergirl. I read that she was seen lifting the CN Tower in Ontario once.”
“Huh.”
Geoff continued, unaware of Alistair’s interruption. “So, I figure she either got caught unawares, they were really lucky or one of the others helped them.”
“Why would they do that?” Alistair asked, more wondering aloud than actually asking Geoff.
Geoff shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe she got too big for her britches, bit off more than she could chew. It’s not unheard of amongst these supers. I heard something like that happened in France, some guy called, uh, Major Steel or something controlled the entire region around Paris. He had an argument with another one called Obelisk over territory or something. Next thing you know, Major Steel is in the middle of a big public statement, right? He’s talking to his subjects like he’s the King of France, which I guess he kinda is. Anyway, next thing you know, a giant spike comes out of the ground and sticks through him, kills him instantly.”
Geoff settled back, a lazy smile on his face as if he had just provided some ingenious insight to Alistair.
Alistair refrained from responding, only smiling and nodding back to the man. Of course he had heard about what they called the Paris Incident. Paris, August 18th 2015. The super called Fer Majeur had an argument with the super called Obélisque over him encroaching onto her territory in nearby Versailles. During an address to a crowd of his subjects, a large granite obelisk impales Fer Majeur in the midst of his speech, killing him instantly. It had been the first public display of super-on-super combat in the world, quickly showing everyone that they weren’t any different to anyone else without powers.
Geoff had continued, his attention still more on his words than whether Alistair was actually listening. “So, the way I see it, Supergirl might have had an argument with another super. Maybe that guy in New York. What’s his name?”
“Devastator,” Alistair answered absentmindedly.
“That’s it. Devastator. Anyway, Supergirl might have had an argument with him, probably over her not putting out or something. Kinda weird, though, what with the way she dresses.”
Alistair glanced at Geoff, raising his eyebrow at the statement. Geoff noticed it and raised his hands, putting on an expression of innocence.
“Hey, I’m just saying. Dress like that, especially when you’re flying around where everyone can see underneath you, well it sends a message, doesn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Alistair said.
Just like that, his appetite for the conversation vanished and he excused himself to the toilet. Geoff took it with good natured humour, patting Alistair on the back and saying, “You’re one of the good ones Alistair. Don’t forget that.”
When Alistair returned from the toilet, the thought of the girl had slipped from his mind, replaced by the question of what to have to eat when he got home.
——
The next time that he saw her was when he was assigned to the case by Commissioner Phillips.
“Why me?” Alistair asked, genuinely confused.
The Commissioner was a tough man, raised in the midst of the Uprising in the sixties and seventies, becoming a cop during the Fall and managing to climb through the ranks rather quickly due to his bulldog-like determination and natural charisma. He had stagnated, though, once reaching his current position. Alistair suspected, though, that the Commissioner didn’t really mind being stuck at the precinct, however. He seemed to think of himself as a father figure for his subordinates, though one wouldn’t know it by looking at his gruff and hardened exterior.
“Because. You’re one of the better officers here, Alistair. You know the law and stick to it, unlike some. You have a nose for justice and the truth. Hell, you’re the best analyst this side of Chicago and you’re well read in the field of supers and their crimes.”
Alistair opened his mouth to protest, but the Commissioner silenced him with a hand.
“Don’t try to deny it. I can see it in your eyes, even if I didn’t have access to your little forays into the archives. You’re fascinated by them, aren’t you? Men and women given god-like power who always seem to turn into the worst versions of themselves. It’s a riddle to you, isn’t it?”
Alistair hung his head, unable to deny the accusation.
“That’s not a bad thing,” the Commissioner said, his tone slightly warmer than it had been, “It’s what we need in the world, really. More understanding of the other side.”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. Now, your assignment is to interview the prisoner, find out exactly why she decided to do the things she did. She’ll have the collar on at all times and you’ll have a squad of guardsmen stationed outside incase she tries anything funny. Just remember Alistair. Whatever she looks like, she isn’t. She looks like the type of girl you’d meet at the club, shoot the shit with for a few hours before taking her back to your place and having the best fuck of your life? She isn’t that. She’s a weapon of mass destruction, a natural disaster that we managed to subdue by the narrowest of margins.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, sir, how exactly was she captured?”
The Commissioner tapped the ashes from his cigarette into the glass ashtray on his desk as he considered the question. After taking another drag from the cigarette, he looked Alistair dead in the eye and said, “That’s a need to know basis. You understand, of course, that the law binds me as much as it binds all of us. I legally can’t tell you, even though I would like nothing more than to recount the blow-by-blow account of how exactly we took that bitch down.”
Alistair nodded. “Of course sir. I’ll get started on the case right away, then.”
The Commissioner nodded and waved him off.
Alistair made his way out of the office and to the holding cells. He was buzzed in and made his way to cell A24, where the girl was being held. The cell in question was surrounded by about a dozen heavily armoured and armed guardsmen, each observing Alistair with indifference as he passed.
Pushing a buzzer next to the cell, Alistair heard the buzz that signalled the command centre had unlocked the door. He pushed it open and stepped inside the cell.
She looked younger than he had imagined. Perhaps around his own age. The orange jumpsuit she wore was baggy and concealed her form. Her dark hair was cut to shoulder length and her dark eyes studied him as he entered the room. She was wan, looking like the daughter of Dracula under the bright white light of the cell.
“Am I being detained?” she asked, the hint of a smile gracing her face. Her voice held a slight accent, and he imagined that it was from some part of Canada.
“Yes.” Alistair answered in complete seriousness. He’d never really understood sarcasm and today was no different.
Taking the seat opposite her, he pulled out some papers from his briefcase and set them in front of him, reading over them briefly to reacquaint himself with the basic facts of the prisoner.
“Miss Eleanor Bouchard. Twenty seven years of age, born in Montreal, Canada. Believed to have developed powers in the summer of 2013. Observed powers include superhuman strength, superhuman durability and flight. Nicknamed Supergirl by the media.”
“I prefer Eris,” Eleanor said.
The Greek goddess of strife, Alistair recalled. Fitting, really. He coughed, then tried to get back to his train of thought.
“Right. So, uh. The first question I have is why do you choose to do what you do? Cause destruction, terror and mayhem on such a scale?”
Eleanor shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I was just tired of everyone telling me what to do. Then I got my powers and could change my life. And everyone else’s.”
“Okay. Second question, how did you receive your powers? Most of the information on the subject is sadly lacking.”
Eleanor tilted her head, an expression of delight on her face. “You guys really don’t know? I would have thought someone might have figured it out at some point by now.”
“No, no one has. It might have something to do with the lack of cooperation by supers with any sort of law enforcement agency worldwide.”
“Wow. I’m honestly stunned. Everyone has a camera on their mobile phone and access to the internet and there’s never been any time when the moment one of us got our powers caught on camera? Wow.”
She shook her head, then said, “The answer to your little question, doc, is that when one of us is in a situation of extreme panic and fear, we have a little moment where the world suddenly makes sense. We see the bigger picture. Then we get our powers.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Are you speaking literally or metaphorically?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re being very obstinate and deliberately trying to obfuscate official proceedings.”
“Those are big words, Mister Thesaurus. You read it for fun?”
Alistair frowned, which made Eleanor only smile wider. She was enjoying this, he realised. Deciding to change tack, he started again.
“Do you feel any remorse for the damage you’ve caused and the fatalities that have resulted?”
“Nope. Not even a little bit.”
“Right. Have you ever been analysed by a psychiatrist, either before or after gaining powers?”
“Well, I did have one when I was a troubled teenager. But she was too distracted in our sessions to properly analyse me.”
“How so?”
Eleanor shrugged and adopted and expression of innocence. “I guess it’s hard to think when you have someone eating you out.”
Alistair looked down at the pages he’d brought, a flush suddenly starting to spread across his cheeks at the implication. He coughed, trying to forget the image that had flashed into his mind. He reread several of the notes.
“So, doc,” Eleanor said, interrupting his thoughts, "You seem to know everything about me and I don’t know anything about you. Let’s fix that, shall we?”
“No. That would be unprofessional. I’m going to ask one more question now and I’d appreciate it if you were to answer both truthfully and without attempting to cause any confusion.”
Eleanor nodded, a playful smile dancing across her face. “Sure, doc. Anything for you."
“How were you caught?”
“You’d better wine and dine me before trying to ask such personal questions, doc.”
Alistair sighed in frustration. He replaced his papers inside the briefcase and stood.
“I’ll be back tomorrow.” He said simply, before making his way to the door and pressing the buzzer to be let out.
To all the Selangor FC fans and website that stated JDT failed to get the services of Andik Vermansyah because he wants to continue his career at Selangor, stop these baseless speculations. Andik is an exceptional player but his services was never in JDT’s plans as currently with what JDT already has, we can get better players. Stop spreading rumours from dubious sources. Don’t hate us because…
DANIEL TING WILL STRENGTHEN JDT II DEFENCE LINE FOR NEXT SEASON
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Alistair Edwards, Johor Darul Ta’zim Sports Director
Hidup Johor Demi Johor
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