#<- behold! new tags!

[elkkiel]

ELKKIE MY LOVE

imagine dad iv is a volunteer coach for flora's soccer team and all the other moms are down so horrendously bad for him. he's so kind, supportive of the girls, and not to mention ATHLETIC and GOOD LOOKING. they know he's divorced, but none of them can possibly imagine why any woman would leave that perfect man, especially seeing how good he is with his daughter. they all assume he's single (no ring, they only see him and flora together, etc.) and a couple of them try to seduce him on more than one occassion. then one game III shows up dressed in full team colors to obnoxiously cheer for this youth soccer game (i'm thinking flora's like. 10-12), walking straight up to him and planting the sloppiest kiss on his lips (he had to let these ladies know that he is not available 👍)

anyways lunch break is over i must pretend to be normal🫡

Sure, the moms show up to practice for their kids, but that's not what has their attention most of the time. They'll sit together with their little camp chairs and totally-not-travel-wine-tumblers to... observe and discuss how well the coach is doing with their kids. It drives them absolutely wild to watch him lift up the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat off his forehead, or to see how gentle he is with the kids when they fall and scuff up their knees.

I'm all for a hot mom feeling herself lol, so I love the visual of these older women fawning all over Ivy during breaks and after practice. They'll show up in low-cut shirts in the team colours, find every excuse to talk about their "kid's performance" with the coach, and make sure they get in a little squeeze on his bicep or forearm.

Occasionally, some of the married moms will have their husbands tag along, but this means the dads catch onto what exactly has the ladies so enraptured on the field. Poor Ivy has had to deal with a dad or two puffing up their chests at him, jealous that their wives seemed a little toooo interested in meeting with the coach. He's able to shut them down politely, but they always leave with their tail tucked between their legs and a wife who's somehow even redder in the face than before.

Despite their efforts, Ivy never fails to be anything but friendly and professional with the moms. It's soooooo frustrating when none of their tactics seem to stick, and they'll scheme with each other on the best way to get a piece of that hot dad ass. He's single(?) and they're practically throwing themselves at him, so why isn't anything working?

And that's where our lovely III comes in. He easily worms his way into the mom group when he shows up to watch practice one day (he gives me vibes that he would be oddly good with that type of crowd. the pink whitney shooters he sneaks in with him also help to endear him to the ladies). They're all too eager to include him in their antics, if a tad confused as to why/who he's here for. After an hour and juuuust a bit of liquid confidence, the ladies "manage" to egg him on to make a move on the coach.

He goes along with their nudges and "wanna do something ~baaad~? 🤭🤭" attitude, finally getting up and approaching the coach while the moms watch and giggle in the background. III's such a little tease and they can smell the fruit salad on him from a mile away; while they're certain he won't make it any further than they've gotten, at least it'll be fun to watch their new friend strut his stuff.

IV is turning around to grab some water after chatting with a couple of the kiddos, and he looks up to see III sauntering over. III's got cheesiest, most mischievous little grin plastered all over his face, but it melts into something so fond and happy when he makes eye contact with his boy. IV visibly lights up and jogs over to close the distance, lightly holding III by his waist as IV smiles up at him. Subtly (not so subtly) turning them a bit so the moms get a clear view, III makes a show of gently grabbing IV's face with both hands, leaning down, and planting the fattest smooch on those pretty lips of his.

IV pulls away after a couple seconds, blushing and looking over his shoulder to make sure none of the kids saw (they totally did, and are currently making exaggerated gagging noises and shrieking in the background). He has to get back on the field after their water break is over, so he gives III a quick kiss on the cheek before turning around to resume practice. Before IV has the chance to jog off, III gives him a light smack on the butt and blows him a kiss when IV briefly whips around to give him a scolding (playfully) look.

III makes sure to throw a smug glance and wink over his shoulder to the moms, heading off to IV's minivan to grab snacks and water for Flora after practice. The ladies can't help but stare at him in awe as he walks away with a proud little swing in his hips, their jaws practically hitting the ground at both this new development and III's shameless audacity.

They're jealous, don't get me wrong. But, while he's away, the moms are scheming on how to get just one or twl more shooters in him. You know, so he can gossip on aaaallll those juicy details about their pretty little coach

[steddiealltheway]

1984 is not Steve Harrington’s year.

Not only does he find out that his girlfriend doesn’t actually love him, but somehow the creepy monster thing that united his now ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend, came back in the form of some type of monster dog.

The highlight of his year might actually be befriending a nerdy middle schooler who introduced him to said monster dog - which he named Dart of all things... something to do with a candy bar.

He groans at the thought as the music from downstairs carries into his room. For some reason, Tommy Hagan decided to temporarily ignore the fact that he ditched Steve for the new keg king, Billy Hargrove, who managed to give Steve something else to worry about while literal Hell crawled its way into Hawkins, in favor of throwing a New Year's Eve party in the Harrington residence.

Typical for the year Steve's having. Why not end it horribly too?

He glances at the clock, relieved that it's already somewhat close to midnight. If it weren't for the noise, he would consider trying to sleep through this one. Instead, he lays back on his bed and hopes that no one tries to disturb him.

As if the universe can hear his thoughts, and then curse them, the door to his bedroom swings open.

Steve sits up with a huff and frowns at the person.

A guy with medium length curly hair and doe eyes stares back at him with a big smile that screams chaos.

"Sorry, dude," Steve says, "Bedroom is off limits. Go hookup, smoke, or whatever somewhere else."

Instead of leaving, the guy closes the door behind him and locks it.

Steve scoots back on the bed, hand reaching back to wrap around the nail bat he leaves behind his nightstand.

The dude raises his hands in mock surrender, silver rings glinting in the light streaming in from Steve's window - blinds open enough so he can make sure no one does anything weird in his pool. "Listen, man, I'm not here to hurt you or anything. Although you might hurt me when you hear why I'm here."

There's something about his voice that sounds familiar to Steve when it suddenly hits him - all the yelling and stomping around on tabletops. "You're Eddie Munson."

Eddie smiles and bows dramatically. "Guilty as charged."

Steve's frown deepens, and for a fleeting moment he thinks Dustin would really like the guy. "So, why would I hurt you if I hear you out?"

"Because, Steve," Eddie draws out his name as if it has a deeper meaning, "I was downstairs thinking about what a wonderful year I've had, and I decided that I might as well start the year with a little chaos."

Steve's grip tightens around the bat in case he's some sort of satanic serial killer or something, although his gut tells him that he shouldn't be scared of the man. "What do you mean by chaos?"

There's a strange glint in Eddie's eye when he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks on the feet as if he wants to move closer to Steve but has decided to plant himself by his door. "I mean... I came to this party to sell my supply and after my whole lunchbox was cleaned out, I started thinking about who I should kiss at midnight. Or more precisely, who would be the worse option, or rather, the option that would bring the most-"

"Chaos. Yeah, I got that part," Steve cuts him off.

Eddie's smile changes to something genuine for a moment as he comments, "Wow, Steve Harrington is actually listening to me."

Steve rolls his eyes, grip loosening on the bat. "I'd rather you not stand on my desk to get my attention." To Steve's surprise, Eddie actually laughs in response and pulls a strand of hair in front of his face to hide his smile. And to Steve's much greater surprise, his heart starts beating a little faster and he finds it harder to not smile back at him. "So, chaos?" Steve prompts.

"Right," Eddie says, rocking on his feet again, "Chaos." He ducks his head for a moment as if hyping himself up for the next thing he's going to say, which is when Steve entirely releases his grip on the bat, realizing that Eddie is more scared of him. "So, I thought, to start the year off with the most chaos, I would choose someone to kiss that would bring the most chaos. And I thought, why not the host of this party?"

Steve frowns. "Tommy's downstairs."

Eddie mirrors his frown. "You're not hosting?"

"Why would I be in my room if I'm hosting?"

"Why would the party be in your house if you're not hosting?"

It suddenly hits Steve. "Wait, you want to kiss me?"

Eddie takes a step back, hovering even closer to the door than he was before. "Consensually, of course."

It takes a moment for Steve to fully process what is being asked. "You think I'm the worst option to kiss?"

"That's what you're asking?" Eddie asks, trailing off to mutter something like, "The fragile ego of athletes, I swear."

"I got dumped this year. Of course my ego is low."

Eddie smiles bashfully. "Sorry, my uncle always tells me I'm not as quiet as I think I am." And there's something about Eddie's cheeks that are slightly flushed, the strand of hair he starts tugging at again, and the way he can't stop bouncing as if he's buzzing with energy and nerves that makes him so...

"Yes," Steve blurts out suddenly. For a moment, he wonders if the mindf- mind fly? mind... whatever evil thing from a few weeks ago has possessed him.

"Yes what?" Eddie asks sounding genuinely confused. As Steve stands up to look out his blinds and shut them, Eddie rambles, "Yes, I'm not as quiet as I think I am? Or yes, you're about to punch me, and I'm going to finally figure out how it felt when you got your face bashed in a few weeks ago?"

Steve rolls his eyes before holding up both of his hands, mimicking Eddie's pose when he first came into the room. "Yes, I'll kiss you."

It's as if Eddie has forgotten he's asked the question the way his jaw drops, and he stares at Steve like he's said the most confusing thing he's ever heard. Which... to be fair... is highly likely.

"You want to kiss me?"

Steve takes a small step closer to Eddie. "I want to give you your chaos."' When Eddie doesn't look convinced, Steve takes a step closer to him, hand running through his hair as he continues, "Who knows, maybe it'll give me good luck or something for next year by cancelling out the chaos from this year."

Eddie nods. "Okay. You're giving me your chaos. Yeah. That makes sense."

"And you're taking my chaos away," Steve agrees, trying to tell himself that this is a rational decision. "This makes sense."

"You're not going to beat me up?" Eddie asks, risking a small step away from the door.

Steve shakes his head. "Seems like a bad way to start the year, don't you think?"

Eddie nods as Steve steps closer to him, slowly, as if not to startle him away. "You know, I thought just asking you would be chaotic enough as is and then I could run away and pretend you hallucinated or something when you tried to beat me up."

"Should've asked Hargrove then," Steve says, cocking his head to the side. "Does that mean you don't actually want to kiss me?"

Eddie swallows and shakes his head. "I didn't say that."

Just as Steve gets in front of Eddie, he hears people downstairs counting down from ten. "Good," Steve says, "Because there isn't enough time to find someone else."

Eddie scoffs, the countdown now at eight, "That's not true for you."

"Maybe, but I'm not really looking to find anyone else right now. Are you?" Five.

Eddie smiles and takes a step forward. "No." Three.

Steve reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind Eddie's ear. "Good." One.

Steve's not really sure who moves first or if they move together, but the yells of, "Happy New Year" are drowned out as Eddie's lips meet his in a kiss that feels more desperate than Steve expected. He's not sure why they're kissing as if the countdown was for the end of the world, but he really doesn't care.

It's only when Steve's gets a little carried away, Eddie's back slams against Steve's door with a thud that's loud enough to alert anyone that something's happening in Steve's room, that Steve breaks away with a gasp, seeking the air Eddie's stolen from him. He wonders if - hopes - it's the chaos he's taken.

"Happy New Year," Steve whispers, hands cupping Eddie's face while Eddie's are tangled in the mess he's made of Steve's hair. He's not sure when either of those things happened.

"Happy fucking New Year, Steve," Eddie mutters, hands slowly dropping from his hair.

Steve's hands hold onto Eddie's face a little tighter for a moment, and he sees the moment a bit of fear sparks in Eddie's eyes. Steve quickly shakes his head. "No, I'm not about to beat you up. It's just... I kind of slammed you against the door a little hard there, and if someone else is up here and they see you..."

"Chaos," Eddie fills in with a nod, "And not the good kind."

"Yeah," Steve sighs, "Not the good kind." He glances to his window where the blinds are firmly shut - thank you Jonathan for teaching him that lesson - and down at the locked doorknob before looking back at Eddie. He glances at his lips momentarily before blurting out, "Stay with me."

Eddie's jaw drops, mouth opening slightly in shock.

Steve steps back, hands reluctantly leaving Eddie's face. "Stay until everyone clears out at least. No ulterior motive."

Eddie shoves his hands into his pockets and moves back into Steve's space. "What if I want there to be an ulterior motive?" He tilts his head down and gives Steve a case of lethal puppy dog eyes. "Fully take your chaos away, remember?"

Steve is absolutely sure that this in no way will take away the chaos of his previous year and will likely only invite questions, confusion, and further chaos into 1985.

"Yeah, I remember," Steve says, pulling Eddie into another desperate kiss.

Maybe Eddie was onto something about starting the year with a little chaos. And maybe 1985 will be his year.

(i accidentally wrote a tiny epilogue later in the tags that i really like)

[st7arlight]

so i was wondering where jmart would be after s5,,,,,, then thought about them as full avatars who hunt together,,,,,,,,,

[marmalice]

when the sandwing in your winglet says something so rainbow you gotta hit em with that first circle stare

Finished Winter Turning in my 'reread WoF at an acceptable pace' journey. Lemme tell you reading fanfiction has really evolved(?)/ruined the original concept of him as a character.

His original story revolves around this process of tearing down the ideas that were carved into you by the people that were around you when you really didn't have a choice who was around you.

And it's this process that god knows I had to drag myself through. I've learned and am still learning to be a lot kinder to myself and the people around me.

It really breaks my heart to see him not being fast enough in this journey to change himself to allow him to get the happy ending he so desperately (in my opinion) deserves, and I don't know what this says about myself and my own journey.

Anyway writing this down because it's something I want to remember.

[pantspissedinreverse]

okay okay, im sorry, i could not fucking stop myself from drawing medic tf2 playing table tennis with medimedes xbox 360 kinect sports style

[thebrainrotsreal]

Connected the dots between two of my fav characters of all time. They're in a little club now.

[strong-with-the-sarcasm]

Part 1: what's lost can be found

"She won't make a sound, alone in this fight with herself and the fears whispering if she stands she'll fall down. She wants to be found, the only way out is through everything she's running from wants to give up and lie down. So stand in the rain, stand your ground. Stand up when it's all crashing down. You stand through the pain, you won't drown. And one day, what's lost can be found."  -Stand in the Rain by Superchick

Regent Masterlist Part 2

The decayed ghost siren echoed through the abandoned streets of Amity Park's Witching Hours. Its residents were well acquainted with what that sound meant, fear and exasperation a potent (strange) mix to keep them tucked in their homes, their beds, as the Fentonworks building seemed to come alive.  

Of course, figuratively speaking. 

(Nothing was truly alive there anymore.)

Jasmine Fenton had just arrived back from the Infinite Realms, muscles pleasantly sore from training with Pandora and very much looking forward to hugging her little brother before he begun his nightly patrol. The siren caught her attention before she’d stepped fully out of her portal, dread filling her gut like a rock dropped into a lake. 

Oh no. 

Team Phantom were young, no one could ever argue that, with some scars to show for all their battles to protect Amity from those that would claim their haunt- but no one outside the team understood just how paranoid they’d become since Pariah Dark and Dark Dan

The contingencies had begun when Jazz started to remember bits and pieces of a timeline that Danny himself had erased using the reality gauntlet. He’d never told anyone of what had happened, with Freakshow’s plan to make himself ‘ringmaster of all reality’ and all, but Jazz had somehow recalled flashes of sheer panic at watching her little brother accidentally reveal himself as Phantom on live tv, in the Fentonworks kitchen on that little box set. The white rings of light that emerged from his core to switch from half-alive to half-dead and vice versa damned him. 

The elder fentons had gone on the offense immediately, Jack’s screech of ghost! Echoing in the house and they raced down to the lab to get whatever latest weapon they’d built to capture Phantom. 

It didn’t matter that their son was dead, that he had died, that their ‘greatest work’ was Danny’s grave. That Jasmine was…well, she wasn’t entirely human anymore, not when she turned on her heel to follow her progenitors down down down into the darkness, sword tightly grasped in hand as her teal eyes glowed a sickly green.  

She hadn’t hesitated then, to protect her little brother. One slash, two, three

Danny hadn’t known she killed their parents in that timeline. She would never tell him. 

She would never tell him how they hadn’t even noticed her presence, her ever loyal weapon Faithkeeper about to take their lives, how she hadn’t even needed to summon her armor. She would never tell him how they begged for their lives, not to protect their children, but to kill the ghostly menace. 

Danny never knew she’d dumped their corpses in the landfill.

(Right where they belonged.) 

WIth the rewrite of the timeline, reset to the same day of the ill-fated Humpty Dumpty concert, Jack and Maddy Fenton’s deaths were undone, but not the blood on Jasmine’s hands. 

With Danny’s defeat of Pariah Dark, came another revelation. 

Jasmine was still mostly alive. Somehow she’d survived her childhood, but Danny hadn’t. She’d looked away for five minutes, forgotten to lock the lab after their parents left and he’d died for it. 

With the weight of being schrodinger’s hero, could her little brother withstand becoming king of the infinite realms? 

Perhaps not while he was still learning, still gaining his own grip on his strange existence. In time, he would become a great king- one of mercy and benevolence, but he still had a long ways to go. 

Jasmine had borrowed ancient ghost law books from Ghostwriter and locked herself away for three days, cycling between crying for her and Danny, reading through the complicated laws of ye olden times, and writing down her findings- just in case another reality rewrite was due. 

Jasmine had accepted Regency on Danny’s behalf with a grace she didn’t know she possessed. 

It had been a small ceremony, with Danny and his friends present and Pandora, Jasmine’s mentor, acting as sentry as she accepted the Crown of Fire. She knew it was a long road till she could pass it down to its rightful owner, but Jasmine was prepared to shoulder the burden for her little brother. 

Pandora had simply laid one of her many hands on Jasmine’s shoulder with a solemn air, in understanding. There was work to be done before any of them could have peace. (Not even the afterlife was safe from paperwork.)

Her favorite journal contained the scraps of her hope and dreams bound in maroon leather, soft with age and imprinted with every emotion Jazz had unwittingly (and later knowingly) poured into every word. 

Its pages were a kaleidoscope of her life. 

Sure, it began with the soft tinge of curiosity-exasperation-fondness, some sentiment of better times before her progenitors began working on that damned portal, constructing the future grave of their son without the slightest clue. 

The emotions began turning a darker turn when the work turned into an obsession. Jazz had plunged into her schoolwork and part-time jobs to afford whatever was needed for the siblings to survive, fondness becoming slowly poisoned by anger. Anger for the portal. Anger for the food other kids had, that they didn’t have to work so hard for. Anger that she knew what starving felt like. 

Anger that she was so weak. 

Then the day of Danny’s death. 

The darkest part of her history, the last embers of her hopes and dreams, of the siblings escaping smothered. Danny’s death scream forever etched into her brain. 

(It should’ve been her.) 

She hated those pages of her journal, the emotions of grief-anger on her tongue, but she couldn’t bring herself to rip them out. No more than she could destroy the confessions of protect-rage-grief, the confessions of the darker timeline she shouldn’t remember. 

On very last page was the contingency plan Jazz herself had created.

Code Graverobber.

That siren wasn’t any ordinary ghost siren, no, it was the one Tucker had programmed himself- it was the quickest way to alert every member of Team Phantom and Tucker had made sure that none of them could mistake it for a Fenton ghost alarm. No, Code Graverobber was in effect. 

Phantom had been captured by the elder Fentons. 

(Fate has a way of setting itself right.) (Death wants its due.) With a bleeding, sobbing and vivisected Danny cradled in her arms, Jazz left Amity Park behind for what she prayed to the Ancients was forever. The Fentons died that night, though the official records would claim they were killed in a explosion due to the highly unstable inventions they created, taking the lives of their children as well. No one really dug around in the wreckage of Fentonworks, not for the bodies of the family within, with the chance of another explosion happening should rubble be shifted the wrong way. 

Jack and Maddie Fenton died.. 

But Jasmine and Danny Nightingale lived on, in Gotham City.

The last of those three days she spent locked in her room, Jasmine wrote a letter to a future version of herself, tucked inside one of her favorite books now lost in the destruction of Fentonworks. To my future self, Forget me in your happiness.    Love, your past

A/N: BEHOLD!

Ahem. This is the original chapter 1 that I never finished or published. It's not my favorite or my best, but I unburied it for the 300 milestones. Thanks for reading!

[swordmaid]

i am wide awake thinking about that post canon jb au again when I should be sleeping …!!! such is the nature of the jbrainrot…

[mettywiththenotes]

Hear me out. These two becoming friends

The boy on the left who was abused and wandered aimlessly afterwards just like Tomura did and Dai is "weak" and loves heroes just like Izuku. Except the boy on the left is like the version of Tomura who got saved on the street and is now training to be a hero, and Dai is like Izuku if he had a quirk back then and was told straight away that he could be a hero

The babies

[chiropteracupola]

FINALLY! AT LAST! GRANDDAD’S HORNBLOWER BOOK COLLECTION!!

[rollerderbydropout]

[ MISSION DEBRIEF, CORSAIR-A004. ]

[ LOG #004-1, POST-DEPLOYMENT INTERVIEW WITH CORSAIR "BISHOP, MYLES", CALLSIGN "LAND-SHARK" "SHARKO". ]

[ BEGIN LOG; ]

((CW // DESCRIPTION OF INJURY AND ADDICTION.))

[ Sallow and sunken-looking, the unmistakable silhouette of Myles Bishop sits, folded over himself, on the edge of a cot. His slipsuit hangs off of his almost skeletal frame, half-removed down to his waist, exposing gaunt ribs and red, inflamed chemical ports. His skin blisters and welts around the black circlets embedded into his wrists. With each breath, his chest makes a sickly rattling sound; With each exhale, his face regains an ounce of color. Thick, black hair sticks to his slick forehead, partially obscuring wide, bloodshot eyes. Each breath seems to cause his shivering to quell for little more than a fleeting instant. Trembling, shaking, pulling at the edges of his fingernails until his nailbeds become pink and puffy, Myles chokes down another gulp of air. ]

HANDLER — "After that, Bishop? Do you remember what happened after Frontliner was jammed?"

[ Just off screen, the Handler's voice is level, laced with practiced calm and the delicate, precise way that one speaks to a reactive dog. Confident, infallible, devoid of weakness. Myles's fingers twitch as she speaks, a hitch in his shoulders indicating surprise- and little else. It's as though he assumed that, if he sat still and silent for long enough, she might move along. Forget about him. ]

MYLES — "...No. Not really. The cockpit got hot— really hot— and it all seemed to just, pan out. Pull away, you know? Like at the end of a movie, where everything starts to, uh, fade out. The music gets real faint and distant, whatever conversation the characters are having becomes background noise, and their faces get smaller, smaller, smaller... until they, pop!-"

[ Myles pushes his palms together in front of him, his arms crossed over his bent knees, and lowers his head until he's eye-level with his fingertips. With a rather lackluster, anticlimactic gesture- he abruptly parts his hands, only an inch or two. ]

MYLES — "-Blip out, cut to credits. Then, you're staring at yourself through a black screen, trying to see your own eyes past the white text to figure out, uh, if it's too late- or, erm- if you can go another episode. Right? Late night, watching movies on your shitty old Omnihook, Cradle movies, if you're lucky, because they really don't make them like they used to. Movies about huge monsters and shitty boyfriends and the magic of holidays that nobody really celebrates anymore. I just watched one, one movie, something about a princess and— I mean, the importance of that is lost on me, I haven't got the slightest idea what a princess actually is, but sh—"

HANDLER — "Bishop."

[ Sharp, like the crack of a whip, or a ruler to the back of a child's outstretched hand. Myles winces back as though he had been struck. His eyes dart upwards, not towards the Handler, but towards her lips. The source of the sound. Feverish, bloodshot, hallowed eyes watch her mouth as though expecting more, but nothing follows. ]

MYLES — "Everything... pans out. The cockpit is heating up, the walls are starting to glow, my fingers lift from the controls and come away wet and sticky. I put my hand on my face, to try my helmet's internal commslink, but that's dead too. My fingers come away wet and sticky. I breathe in, and it's, wet and sticky. The cockpit smells like slag and blood and I can't pick out if those smell the same, or different somehow. In front of me, the glow of plasma and automatic gunfire; Behind me, motion, a collection of blips on the sensors and they're all moving, moving towards me."

HANDLER — "Your squadmates."

[ Though she doesn't mean for it to be, her tone is accusatory. Explorative, too, in a similar fashion to a mother trying to gode a confession out of her guilty child. ]

[ This time, Myles doesn't flinch. He only parts his fingers, and holds them like that. Open. Splayed in front of his eyes as though he were parting the tall grass. ]

MYLES — "Yeah, but I didn't know that at the time. I mean, I did know that, sort of. But not right then. Not when it started to heat up, started to stink like iron. I think my nose was bleeding, but you can lose a lot of blood when you're wired into one of those things— an Enkidu, a warmachine, whatever— and the stims will keep you awake. It took R&D two weeks to find a chemical concoction I wasn't resistant to, did you know that? Opiates don't work on me anymore. Adrenaline, I've been told, too; Not that I've built a resistance to adrenaline, I mean, but that taking it in a concentrated form might be what finally puts my heart out of its misery. 'Horse with a broken leg', someone said; An Enkidu pilot who can't take concentrated adrenaline, is like a horse with a broken leg. I laughed— you can laugh, too, it's okay— but I don't think they were joking. They looked sad. Sorrowful. Like they felt sorry for me. Like-"

HANDLER — "Don't start. Stay on topic."

MYLES — "-like they hoped I'd never touch the field. Okay, there's four targets behind me, and three in front of me. The cockpit starts to heat up, and, by now, my blood is probably 30% methamphetamine. For the first time in a good few years, I'm not in pain. I'm focused. Breathing deeply, eyes forwards, counting each round the blip in front of me fires until, finally, his gun clicks dry. Then, he looks at me. Lifts the helm of his mech, I mean. It was half the size of me, maybe less, probably the size of a Caliban but that's not really what I'm looking at. I'm looking at him. Looking at me."

[ Myles stops to take a breath. His chest seems to heave slightly, his collarbones a little deeper than they should be; His lips are colorless, the same shade of porcelain gray as his eyes. A bead of sweat rolls off of his shivering jaw. ]

MYLES — "When I was still attached to my Tokugawa, the only way my old squad could get me on the field was a fancy, hand-adjusted Full Subjectivity Sync. They spent a few weeks making sure it was as finely-tuned as possible to minimize the shock between perspectives, otherwise I'd spiral again. I protested, even then, and insisted I never wanted to spend a waking moment trapped in the claustrophobic gullet of a mech's cockpit, but the Sync made it- manageable. Too manageable, probably. It eased some of the pain of my still-healing burns, lessened the ache in what little Fireman left of my legs. So, I broke it. Pulled a few cables, cut a few wires, and made it so I couldn't feel my body at all while I was tapped in. Made it so I only saw what the Toku saw, felt what the Toku felt. That's why my burns never healed, I guess; I kept reopening old wounds, baking my abandoned body on the inside of my new, shiny chassis until the arteries in my stumps burst and I had to relearn how to walk for a third, agonizing time. After that, they removed my Sync port; Drilled the metal right out of the scrapheap of my spine, melted it down, and filled the holes in my teeth with it."

[ Myles snaps his teeth as though punctuating his words. His head remains low on his shoulders, bent over his lap, eyes averted towards some unseen point in the room, or, perhaps, just outside of it. ]

MYLES — "No Subjectivity Sync. No reason to look for the pilot in front of me's eyes, but I find them nonetheless. He's looking at me, and I'm looking at him, but neither of us can really see eachother through the stained glass, so when I lunge, I wonder if he even saw it coming. Nobody does, I guess. Plasma Talons move faster than the human eye can immediately register, if you get them going fast enough. It's the after image you remember. Like a crack of lightning, where it's burned into your retinas, and you can remember the path its branches took- but that's an afterthought. A blur. Motion, light, a flash!—"

[ The Handler makes a quiet, stifled sound. Clearing her throat, shifting her boots, she doesn't bother reminding him a third time. Though Myles doesn't know it, this interview is already over. ]

MYLES — "It's hot. Really hot. My fingertips are slick and I don't know if it's sweat, blood, or whatever is leaking out of the port in my inner elbow. The glow dims just enough for me to look out through the central HUD, and the blip on my motion detector disappears. Everything goes still. If a mech could breathe, Frontliner would be panting, shaking, swallowing the air like a rabies-ridden hunting dog. My own shaking quells a little. Each kill, you know, floods your system with, uh, 'endorphins'. The stuff that makes you feel like you just snorted a line. I don't know if that's the drugs, or just an effect this particular machine has on your mind. Feels good, either way. Keeps you moving. So the shaking starts up again, and I look back at the motion tracker. Can't hear nobody, and nobody can hear me. I look. Five blips, three behind me, two in front of me. I have a job to do, but, by then, I can't really remember what it is. Clear the board, I think. Take all the pieces off the table so that someone else can come in after and clean everything up. Become the last thing moving. I think if you put an Enkidu— all riled up, two or three kills in— in front of a mirror, it would try to attack its own reflection."

[ Silence lingers in the air. An expectant expression lingers in Myles's eyes, as though he were expecting some specific response. The Handler, however, doesn't seem willing to give it to him. ]

HANDLER — "Do you remember, Bishop, what happened after you got jammed?"

MYLES — "I already told you, I don't."

[ END LOG. ]

[martianbugsbunny]

The absolute fruitiness of this man

[ernest-shackleton]

❗🔆 A SECOND BEAM OF TRANSMASCULINITY HAS JUST HIT THE REMAINING YOUNGER SIBLING 🔆❗

[fishpea]

THIS THRIFT FIND TODAY???!?!?

[delilah-briarwood]

Hitoshi Shinsou

If you know what you want your future to hold for you, you can't worry about what other people think.

For @fandoms-are-my-lifestyle

[thebrainrotsreal]

Love alternate realities, love diff dimensions, love thinking about all the different types of evil Mark there can be! I just had to design some ideas for it! :D It ended up being how subtle or not subtle I can nod to Nolan's design, haha, which was fun. btw: If you see any spelling errors: nuh uh, there aren't any and you can't trick me.