#[ Either way I do just generally need to utilize my test muses ]

[wolfpackmuses]

Ok, hear me out: What if I decided to make a starter call specifically for some of my test muses to actually try and utilize them a bit more? I have a few in mind that would be on there (with Dark Urge and possibly Delgado or The Ghoul being frontrunners) and I believe this could actually get me into writing some of my other muses more.

Because despite how many test muses I actually have, I think I've used most of them only, what? Maybe a handful of times?

[recurring-polynya]

Apparently, if you send someone an ask, but then deactivate your Tumblr, the ask gets deleted. I got this from our old friend k-rukias, and fortunately, I already had it copied over, but anyway, that’s why this isn’t in the standard ask format. Anyway, k-rukias, I hope you’re still out there somewhere and there’s some way you can see this!

k-rukias asked:

you grasp byakuya’s character SO PERFECTLY it always makes me laugh out loud, especially your “Uncle B” stories. i’d love it if you could write more of the kuchiki-abarai family+ichika(maybe throw in some byakuya&toshiro being bffs) I SWEAR YOU DO THE DOMESTIC GENRE SO WELL one can tell you have kiddos 🥺💕

“Give Uncle Byakuya a big hug, Ichika,” Rukia instructed, stifling a yawn. “You’ll see him again on Saturday.” Despite the cheer in her voice, the second Ichika’s tiny face was buried in Byakuya’s chest, she shot her brother a thumbs up and a quizzical look.

Byakuya gave a very firm thumbs up in return. His inconsiderate adjutant was having yet another birthday, and Rukia had asked if they might hold a small family celebration at the manor this year. Byakuya wasn’t sure why. Surely the man would prefer not to see his commanding officer on his own birthday, but Byakuya loved his sister and had made the arrangements she requested.

Ichika finished rubbing her sticky cheeks all over the silk of his kimono. “Here, Uncle B,” she said, handing him a folded piece of paper. “It has to be just like this, okay?”

“Of course, my blossom,” he promised.

“No, it doesn’t,” Rukia mouthed to him behind Ichika’s back. “Okay, kiddo, you ready to go home and see if Daddy missed us?”

“I bet he fell asleep on the couch again!”

“We’ll find out! See you, Saturday, Brother!”

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Sister,” Byakuya entreated her.

“If you have any questions, please call me,” she begged. “Or send a Hell Butterfly, or however you communicate with people these days.”

“I am very good at Text Messaging,” Byakuya assured her.

Rukia gave him an Extremely Disrespectful Look, which he tolerated, because she looked very much like Hisana when she made it.

“I will not have any questions.”

As his beloved sister and niece took their leave, he unfolded Ichika’s piece of paper.

He stared at it.

He had so many questions.

--

“I do appreciate that you texted before you came over,” Captain Hitsugaya informed him stonily. “But next time, could you text, like, more than a minute before you show up? Maybe wait for a reply?”

“Is now not a good time?” Byakuya asked. “Have I interrupted Squad 10 napping hours?”

“I just… would have picked up first,” Hitsugaya grumbled, trying to keep a stack of paper from falling off his desk. “And it’s always Squad 10 napping hours.”

Currently, Lieutenants Matsumoto and Kuna were sprawled out on the Squad 10 couches, snoring quite loudly.

“I have seen it worse in here,” Byakuya replied. “I am your,” he swallowed, “friend, and I accept your imperfections.”

Hitsugaya glowered at him. “What do you need?”

Byakuya spread Ichika’s instructions out on Hitsugaya’s desk. “Can you tell what this is?”

Hitsugaya’s eyes scanned the drawing: the lumpy creatures that might be rabbits, the crayon scribbles, the puddle of glitter. “Is this a test?”

“If it is, I am in danger of failing it,” Byakuya admitted.

“Ichika made this?” Hitsugaya guessed.

“I imagine the glitter gave it away.”

“Can’t you get Abarai to decipher it for you?”

“I cannot. I am hosting a ‘Surprise Birthday Party’ for him this weekend, and this represents Ichika’s vision of it. I need to identify the items in the picture so I can have them for the party.”

Hitsugaya nodded slowly. “Ah. These are probably balloons, then?”

Byakuya straightened up. “Balloons or lanterns? Or possibly the overhanging blooms of the wisteria?”

“You’re overthinking it. She’s five. It’s balloons. Can you ask Rukia?”

Byakuya’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Ichika’s art style bears a certain… resemblance to her mother’s. I am worried that if I ask for help…” he trailed off.

“Gotcha,” Hitsugaya replied brusquely. He sucked his teeth, and poked a finger at the page. “Well, this is obviously Abarai.”

“Yes, he is always distinguishable by virtue of the fact that she draws him three times as large as the rest of us.”

“Also, he’s the only one with pink hair and stripes,” Hitsugaya replied, raising an eyebrow. “Oversensitive, much?”

“I am only three inches shorter than he,” Byakuya grumbled. “The hair makes him look taller.”

“You are not getting any sympathy here, give it up,” Hitsugaya grumbled back. “He’s got a hat on, I think? A party hat?”

“Yes, I did get that far. We are all wearing hats.”

“Abarai also appears to either be wearing a lei, or he is in bankai.”

“A lei?”

“A flower necklace? We should have some around here, from the last time Matsumoto threw a luau.”

“Ah, thank you,” Byakuya replied. He had not actually expected Hitsugaya to be quite this helpful, and he wondered how he was going to repay the man’s patience in this matter.

“All this stuff on the table is… food, maybe? Gosh, I cannot tell what any of this is. These things look like fish, but they’re brown… taiyaki, maybe?”

“Oh, yes, I had figured that part out as well. Even I know that taiyaki is Abarai’s preferred celebratory food. I actually have a specially made mold--”

“You should make normal ones. Fish ones.”

“He likes Admiral Seaweed taiyaki.”

“It’s the man’s birthday, don’t make him pretend to like your weird taiyaki.”

“They have more crispy bits because of the arms and legs! He told me that specifically, in a complimentary manner!”

Hitsugaya gave him an Extremely Disrespectful Look. Unfortunately, the young man did not have the advantage of resembling Byakuya’s beautiful late wife.

--

Byakuya was distinctly Not Sure About This, but Hitsugaya had hit a wall and decided they needed to bring in ‘a bigger gun.’

Byakuya hadn’t actually set foot in the Squad 5 offices since Aizen’s departure. He didn’t have a lot of nice things to say about Aizen, generally, but at least the man had a classical taste in decor. Now, his former workspace more closely resembled the interior of an eclectic Living World coffee establishment for beatniks. One wall (but not the others) was painted orange, and covered in strange, stylized art that appeared to have been done by the captain and lieutenant themselves. The rug hurt his eyes. There was a beaded curtain.

“I don’t know why you thought I was going to have any insight on this, Shirou,” Lieutenant Hinamori grumped, squinting at the picture. “Renji’s the only one who can decipher these things.”

Byakuya could not help feeling the tiniest bit smug that he was not the only one who was sassed by his loved ones.

“Well, I figured you’d been to an Abarai birthday party or two,” Hitsugaya excused.

“Yeah,” Hinamori replied. “The grown-up ones. Unless this thing over here is supposed to be a tokkuri, and Captain and Lieutenant Kuchiki are arm wrestling, I can’t help you.” She frowned. “You’ve been to an Abarai birthday party, haven’t you?”

“They’re a little wild for my blood,” Hitsugaya excused. “And nobody likes drinking around their captain. I’ve been, but I usually leave before he starts bench-pressing people.”

“There are captains who come,” Momo pointed out. “And I doubt your presence would slow Matsumoto down, anyway, she’s impervious to that judgemental thing you do with your eyebrows.” She contemplated the paper. “What are these weird marks? Is this a speech bubble?”

“We couldn’t figure those out,” Hitsugaya admitted.

“Lemme take a look,” Captain Hirako, who was unfortunately present, announced. “Sometimes you gotta look at things from a different perspective.”

He turned the paper upside down. He turned it backwards. He turned it right side up, and turned his head sideways.

“I got nothing,” he replied. “Kid’s got good style though. And I think Momo may be onto something, actually. I went to Abarai’s last birthday party, and Kuchiki the Younger beat me at arm wrestling in an embarrassingly short amount of time.”

“It’s your noodle arms, sir,” Hinamori supplied. She stuck out her lower lip. “A different perspective, though, is not a bad idea. You know who you should go ask?”

Byakuya did not want to hear the answer.

--

“This is dango. This is katsudon. This is shaved ice.”

Byakuya was frantically taking notes.

“How… how can you tell?” Hitsugaya gaped.

Hachigou Nemuri regarded him with her serious, dark green eyes. “I have seen many of Abarai-chan’s drawings.”

Akon made a grumbling noise. “Abarai-chan’s drawing fuuuuu---udged up Nemu’s image recognition subroutines for months. I mean, it was a good thing, in the long run, I ended up implementing an entire art appreciation suite of dynamically created subroutines. It took me forever to figure out why she couldn’t recognize normal drawings of things, though.”

“What are these marks?” Byakuya asked, pointing to the funny squiggles hanging above everyone’s heads.

“Abarai-chan can’t write yet,” Nemu explained.

“Yes, I know that,” Byakuya replied.

“Writing is a form of communication that utilizes mutually understood symbols to convey an idea from one party to another,” Nemu recited. “Abarai-chan does not yet grasp the importance of a common dictionary in the delivery of information.”

Akon scratched his neck. “You’re saying Abarai-chan doesn’t know very many kana, so she just makes them up.”

“Correct,” Nemu agreed.

“Can you read them?” Hitsugaya asked hopefully.

“She does not employ a self-consistent character set.”

Byakuya and Hitsugaya’s eyes darted to Akon, who was unwrapping a piece of nicotine gum.

“She makes it up as she goes along,” he elaborated, cramming the gum in his mouth. “There is no translation.”

“Momo thought it might be a voice bubble, like in a cartoon,” Hitsugaya mused.

“Maybe it’s just a title to the piece,” Byakuya surmised. “Father’s Birthday Celebration’, for example.”

“Abarai-chan calls Lieutenant Abarai ‘Daddy’, not ‘Father’,” Nemu corrected.

“It was an example,” Byakuya bit off testily.

“This could be cherry shaved ice or strawberry shaved ice,” Nemu added hopefully. “Abarai-chan likes strawberry shaved ice, but I prefer cherry.”

“You are not attending this party,” Akon reminded her.

“I just thought Captain Kuchiki might be interested to know,” Nemu sniffed. “In case he felt like buying me a shaved ice. As a thank you for my services.”

--

Byakuya examined Ichika’s diagram and compared it to the celebratory items currently marring the beauty of his garden. He had the balloons. The hats. The dango. The taiyaki. Both strawberry and cherry shaved ice. “I think I have replicated everything,” he declared. “Have I missed anything?”

“You don’t have rabbit ears,” Hitsugaya replied dryly.

“The rabbit ears are symbolic,” Byakuya explained. “I am wearing the lei. You should put on a lei.”

“I am not putting on a lei. I am not in the picture at all, actually, so I think I should probably scram.”

“You could stay,” Byakuya replied, feeling a little odd about it.

Hitsugaya raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t this a family thing?”

Byakuya blinked. “Family gatherings are large, mandatory, and unpleasant. This is a small party and I am very fond of the Abarai.”

Hitsugaya just stared at him.

Byakuya squirmed. “The fact is… I am not good at things like this.”

“Of course you are. Ichika adores you. Rukia and Renji do, too.”

A normal person would have wrinkled their nose, or sucked their teeth, but Byakuya wasn’t really into making facial expressions, so he just made his usual one and stared off into the middle distance briefly. “Hisana was very good with people. At these times, I often think about how easily she would host a birthday party for a brother-in-law, how natural she would have been with Ichika. She loved children.” He contemplated the drawing. “I am sure she would have interpreted this perfectly, text and all.”

Hitsugaya, who did make facial expressions, blew air out of his cheeks. “If it makes you feel better, I can stay.”

“I would, very much, appreciate it.”

Seike, Byakuya’s chief retainer, shuffled out onto the engawa. “Lord Kuchiki, the Abarai are here.”

“Please escort them out here,” Byakuya replied, plunking a hat on Captain Hitsugaya’s head, and one on his own.

“It’s so unusual for Uncle Byakuya to invite us over on a Saturday,” Byakuya could hear Rukia’s voice before he could see her. His impression was that the ‘surprise’ involved in this party was a figleaf for Ichika’s sake. Abarai was a fool, but he wasn’t an idiot.

“What is this?” Abarai exclaimed as he and his family stepped through the doorway, although he did a genuine double-take at Byakuya’s flower necklace.

Ichika’s face lit up as she took in the decorations, the food. But then her expression turned to dismay at her uncle, standing still and awkward. He had missed something. It was the text. It was important after all.

Hitsugaya’s elbow jammed into his ribs. “Surprise!” the younger captain yelled. A voice bubble! Of course!

“Surprise!” Byakuya added, belatedly.

“Happy Birthday!” they shouted together, with Rukia and Ichika joining in a beat later.

“Well, I’ll be!” Abarai did his best impression of a surprised person.

“Were you surprised, Daddy!” Ichika asked, jumping up and down and tugging on her father’s hand. “Were you?”

“I was very surprised,” Abarai reassured her.

“Why is Captain Hitsugaya here?” Rukia asked, utterly befuddled.

“I heard there was shaved ice,” Hitsugaya excused very quickly.

“Uncle B did all of it, Daddy, just for you! Isn’t it perfect?”

“Of course it is,” Abarai snorted. “If Uncle B did it, how could it be otherwise?”

[pokkop15]

(Ok so I was a fool and had had a lot of this meta written up yesterday and instead of saving it as a draft while I watched critical role, I, like a fool, just left all the tabs open and then went to bed after the episode. Then firefox crashed in the night and everything was lost. Press F to pay respects I guess cause here I go again.)

First off, Aradia is best girl and I am so happy she's RELEVANT again. I had a whole preamble the last time I wrote this post, but I can't remember what it said other than mentioning that this is gonna be a long post beneath the cut and that I have other metas that will kind of overlap with what I'm saying in this one so I will try to keep my discussion of the narrative styles of the The Prince and The Muse to only what is relevant to this post and to what is RELEVANT. Also previous metas should be reblogged directly before I post this to make it easier to check them out before hand or to reference them more easily.

The main points of focus will be: The differences between how the two Time gods interact with The Muse and her narrative, as well as the general level of metatextual awareness of characters within Candy. | The juxtaposition of the Knight and the Maid. | The possible suppression of the Ultimate nature of The Knight, and by extension The Seer. | The Muse's unique state of power and presumed Awakening | I swear there was more but I flat out don't remember what they were.

One last thing. I am a rambly motherfucker so if you haven't read my previous metas, here's your warning to expect a very long and very chaotic mess of a post beneath the cut. Also for anyone confused anytime I emphasize someone as 'The Class' it's referring to their actions as a potential narrator and as an Ultimate Self. For example, the difference between The Muse and the Muse is that 'the Muse' would be for character moments like when the dead cherub possessing Jade's corpse in Candy is just talking with Davebot and Aradia, while 'The Muse' is for when talking about her influence over the narrative. (There's a lot of different ways I put emphasis on words or phrases, but “The Class” was the one I felt really might need clarification)

I find it interesting how Davebot acknowledges and shows distaste for The Muse interjecting her narration and thus inhibiting his ability to live in the moment. I find this interesting because as an Awakened god of Time, he is simultaneously living in every moment but as a Knight, and as The Knight, he is also intrinsically separate from those moments as he is the Ultimate One who Wields Time. Aradia on the other hand is the Maid of Time, who while almost assuredly having reached the pinnacle of her god tier after the hundreds of years we now know her to have lived, is not ascended to her Ultimate Self. As a Maid, Aradia literally embodies her aspect. As such she doesn't worry about living in the moment because she is the moment. Because of this Aradia is more prone to just accept, agree, and repeat the sentiments The Muse dictates in her constant exposition. However, despite acknowledging the narration, Davebot still ends up being incredibly passive in the face of it. Even though he has an Active class and is a dreamer of the Active moon, Dave himself has always come off as an incredibly passive character to me in a lot of ways. (Even the aspect of Time itself and its heroes are specifically denoted as incredibly Active in the {official and Canon} extended zodiac test [which means its contents are NECESSARY, RELEVANT, and TRUE]). Always acting under the direction of other characters, subject to The Lord's rule over Time, and constantly struggling with his seeming lack of control. Here, even after reaching his Ultimate Self, he still only makes passive-aggressive remarks instead leaving the flow of the story and the big decisions to others. (In my last post I went into deeper detail about the nature of, and relationship between Aradia and Dave's classes and how that affected their sessions, but I can't remember what the tie in was unfortunately so for now I'll leave it at this and move on)

Among the human players of sburb, the Strilondes have always been the most genre savvy and possessed the most awareness of the narrative and its' influence, (although Dave was never near the levels of Dirk and Rose). But up until this upd8, direct interactions with the narrative have been few and far between in Candy (at least as far as I can recall). I mentioned this in my previous meta as being a result of The Muse being the type to inspire characters to action whereas The Prince is far more heavy handed in is dictation and rarely attempts to hide his presence in the narration these days. But we see here once again, that not only is The Muse bad for the people under her influence, she's also just really not good at constructing a story. She relies too heavily on tropes and cliches, on plot contrivances; she tells too much and doesn't show enough, (something that should literally be her greatest strength as a Muse). Yet despite this, Davebot and Aradia are seen multiple times to interact with her dictations directly and Aradia even points out on page 284 that she is aware of The Muse “observing (their) every action and noting its relevance : )” (the emphasis on 'relevance' being mine). As such we can infer that it doesn't take an Ultimate Self to recognize The Muse's narration. But if not that, then what? If it was just pre-disposition of character that let them notice, then between her own abilities and self awareness, surely Candy!Rose would have by now, but she hasn't. Then is it proximity? Maybe The Muse is getting complacent and starting to unknowingly imitate The Prince and his methods? Or is it because both Davebot and Aradia are Heroes of Time? The aspect opposite The Muse's. After all, The Muse did express that the way (either Aradia specifically or that the both of them) experience time is “woefully unfamiliar” to her. Perhaps that makes it difficult for her to write a story that resonates with them fully. Whatever it may be, all the information up until this point doesn't come to a head so much as it is something that I believe to be RELEVANT.

With that, let us switch gears while keeping the previous information in mind. As I said before, in spite of all the active components of Davebot's Mythological Role, his character has often been passive. And the precise story beat I want to focus on right now is his Awakening to his Ultimate Self. Candy!Dave was out on patrol with a wife who he loved, but who also had very much always been the driving force of their dynamic. He was pulled to the ancient bunker by the narrative where a hologram of Obama expertly guided him through a conversation like a true politician, somehow knowing a lot about Dave while at the same time withholding “classified” information as if that word had any meaning without a country or government holding Obama accountable. (Unless of course Obama was still answering to someone... *Cough cough*the authors*cough cough*). Look, all of this is me saying that Obama was a leftover contrivance of The Prince that The Muse utilized for her own means. Dirk was a skilled programmer and engineer. He had a deep understanding of how to build AIs that could easily impersonate someone. He had an even deeper grasp of how to manipulate Dave. Dirk built the bots. The Bots. The bots that are supposedly NECESSARY for one to Awaken to their Ultimate Self and survive. And yet even if that is TRUE, it isn't true. The Prince claims he was a special case but his powers are of the soul, not the body. And it is the body that breaks down. And we know that Rose really was suffering in her path to Awakening, but I will remind you that her poor condition was first established through narration that we know was under the control of The Prince. Further more it happened prior to the Meat/Candy split, in which the Canon still possessed TRUTH, which is why it still remained RELEVANT in Candy (and it was obviously NECESSARY in Meat for reasons about to be discussed). Both Rose and Dave ultimately played a passive role in their Awakenings, guided to their Ultimate Self by another even though they are both Active players. I believe that The Prince established these rules about Ultimate Selves and built the robot bodies as a way to give him an upper hand against the two characters most likely to overtake him. Because to reinforce a point from a previous post, Rose is the only full on published author among the players and Dave himself has written comics and presumably screenplays for his films, making them the two people who might not only do a better job than The Prince or The Muse, but just do a flat out GOOD job. The Seer especially, which is why The Prince went through the extra effort to disrupt her sense of self as she was coming into her Ultimate Self. If these two had played an Active part in their own Awakening and without The Prince’s influence I think they both would’ve been quite capable of giving The Prince a run for his money. But the humans are not the only players in this game...

As I've already alluded to, Lord English (The Lord), was almost certainly his Ultimate Self. Awakened and Empowered by the treasure (a juju so powerful that it enabled John to retcon things in a way that overrides the timeline instead of splitting it, and it did so without even granting him its actual power). When The Knight awakened, The Muse described it has having all of Time flow through his consciousness, allowing him to experience every instance of his own self. Conversely Jade described that her Ultimate Self would be “like... one ultimate self distributed across multiple bodies. so in multiple places and states at once. every jade that exists is like a light being shined through a thousand cracks in the timeline.” (Hey remember those cracks in the universe that had light peaking through them? Idk, seems RELEVANT if you ask me.) So if we reasonably assume that ones aspect heavily affects how one's Ultimate Self first Awakens and how it operates than that means there will be similarities between those who share aspects. If Awakening for a Hero of Time is an experience of everything that ever has, is, or will happen to a version of themselves, and Lord English possessed a juju that allows one to retcon and not split, than the combination of those powers would make it so he could be the singular instance of himself while at the same time always be “Already Here” than there is truly no difference between Lord English and the theoretical Ultimate version of himself. And since the Muse consumed Lord English at the end of Candy, granting her the power to punch a wormhole in the black hole. This is also presumably where she gained the power to “...exist in several narrative structures at once” (pg 286) (also see the above explanation of Jade's Ultimate Self for why that is RELEVANT). Because of this, we can assume that The Muse is just as indistinguishable from her theoretical Ultimate Self as The Lord was. But these powers and this simultaneous existence is not without consequences because the Muse's collapse at the end of this chapter is almost assuredly a result of Meat!Jade's rebelling against The Muse in chapter 6 (specifically the action on page 167/168). And finally, to tie this back to the imposition of bodily destruction to those who Awaken their Ultimate Self, it is worth noting that The Muse does not possess a body of her own to be destroyed. Instead inhabiting the body of various Jades.

Alright, so once again sorry if you thought there would be some big culmination to this post, and hey, what pumpkin?

[adultprivilege]

Musings on Electrical Engineering

Hello all, your friendly neighborhood ademainalors here, sometimes I’m around, sometimes I’m not around, and that’s mostly because I am majoring in Electrical Engineering to try and solve climate change. Knowing me, you may be thinking, why climate change? Well, climate change is the most pressing youth rights issue of our time. We oppress youth with the idea that they will grow old and have rights conferred upon them later in life, but this is a lie for many of you, if climate change isn’t solved, many of you will die long before you hit adulthood. Today, youth have died in the climate change fueled Los Angeles fires, yesterday, youth died in Hurricane Maria, and tomorrow many more youth will die gruesome deaths in “natural” disasters until there are no youth left to speak for, and no youth left to confer rights upon. 

Why Electrical Engineering? Mostly, because politics is too slow, however, in hindsight I should have chosen Mechanical Engineering, Electrical Engineering might also be too slow, but, if we only can get a new president every four years, and a new senator every six, and climate change is going to kill us all in twelve years, I fear we may be doomed if we wait for politics, although, I reiterate that politics is important, and protest is important, and if you have the right and the ability to do either or both, please do so.

I am specifically, looking for a thermal solution to climate change. A lot of people are researching carbon capture and renewable energy. I said sarcastically to a friend once that climate change is a good thing because it will prevent entropy because heat energy is energy, and then I realized that heat energy is energy, and have been working ever since to try to find a way to utilize it. I am failing though, and so please, if you have the time or the energy to steal my idea, feel free to. The idea is this, extra heat energy is captured by the planet and radiated to earth, causing great storms, and melting ice and other such. If we can capture that energy instead and use it to fuel human society: if we fight climate change with climate change, then we’ll have the kind of leverage we need to end it. In theory that is, in reality, it involves a level of chemistry and thermodynamics and meteorology that isn’t taught in electrical engineering, and also I am really bad at electrical engineering coursework, like, not so much that I’m actually bad at it, but I find it extremely difficult to do a homework assignment out of a textbook, knowing that the clock is ticking, I’m making a bet on academia and to be honest, I wonder if it was a bad bet. If I have advice for young people who want to find a technical solution to climate change, just start working on it, don’t wait for college, college is slow and far, and barely helpful. If you want to learn the courses I have learned in Electrical Engineering, you can google a four-year course plan and go on MIT Open Courseware, and just learn it, and then start doing things with that knowledge, and if you learn it now, then if you do decide to pursue a degree in it, you can test out of some courses, and be extremely lazy in others. You can even have a massive advantage over me, and learn the cool bits, and skip the irrelevant bits. If you’re a nerd like me, you can build prototypes at your local makerspace or library, and to be honest, it is really not that hard to pretend to be a student at University and utilize their spaces, clubs, and knowledge. You can do this for any degree too, if engineering isn’t your passion. I need your help to save our planet.

When you are taught CPR, you are taught to not care too much about the ribs you break, nor to care so much if you are an expert at CPR, because the person you are giving CPR is dead, and without CPR, they will continue to be dead. Our planet is dead, is what I keep saying to myself, but honestly, I feel depressed and I feel like a failure. I have autism, I have disability accommodations that allow me to turn in homework late, and I haven’t turned in nearly a month’s worth of work, and I am sick of neurotypical platitudes of how attainable it is to complete it. I am in grief over the planet! And I am in a major that largely doesn’t share my grief, Electrical Engineering is the safe major, it’s the major you get to prosper under capitalism, and thus, it’s super selective and elitist, and quite frankly, white, cis, male, and republican. As a person who started at community college at a majority-minority institution and was one of four to get into this University as a transfer student, and honestly what I seem to have in common with the other three is that we’re the whitest they could find, I am so disgusted with my own presence in that space, both the privilege of being there, but also the feeling of loneliness of being the only non-binary in that space, of being one of a handful of those with disabilities, and and handful of those who transferred. The loneliness is literally killing me, I, like many minorities in Electrical Engineering, have developed a chronic pain condition from being in this space. I’ve considered trying to persuade a pharmacist to give me the shingles vaccine because I am so stressed, and my immune system is so broken by it, that I am practically immunocompromized, and am nearly constantly fighting a cold. I might drop out just for my sanity and health, but I fear what that will mean for our sanity and our health. I am also disgusted by the fact that approaching the greatest engineering challenge of our lifetimes, our institutions for developing those engineers are so exclusive and so far up their privileged asses, that they don’t realize how many possible engineers, possible world-saving engineers, that they are excluding. To those in my audience who are marginalized and want to be engineers, learn what you can now, using online resources, in the comforts of your community and your peers, and when you go into academia, bring your sharpest swords of truth and justice, because this is a war, and I do need your help to fight it, it is incredibly lonely to fight a war alone.

But this is a youth rights blog and you want the youthrightsy bit. If education is about conformity, the majors that are the most conformist, the electrical engineerings, the computer sciences, they pay the most. But it’s a special type of conformity, the conformity of the privileged. If you are in an underfunded school, to conform is to wither, your peers in the rich schools are learning calculus, which will become the basis for their engineering, and debate, the basis for law, and science, the basis for medicine. The truth of it is, adultism is the means and the method by which generational power is enforced. To learn calculus when you are supposed to be barely learning algebra at an underfunded school is an act of youth rights. Hell, to be 10 and to be learning calculus when you are supposed to be learning multiplication, that is an act of youth rights. What differentiates the rich from the poor is early access to information, the earlier the access, the richer you are. It is not a coincidence that the most draconian, and the most policed and the least fun schools are also the impoverished ones. If school makes it hard to learn that is because it is trying to do that, because it is supposed to do that.

I cannot do my homework today and it is not my fault!

[politicalmamaduck]

food for the soul

Rey struggles with new food and the knowledge that Kylo Ren is her soulmate.

A gift for @southsidestory in honor of her donation to @reylotrashcompactor‘s GoFundMe. Read it on ao3 here. My deepest gratitude to @southsidestory for her generosity, and to @galacticprideandprejudice for her beta help in making this fic the best it could be. <3

(Please mind the tags.)

The Force works in mysterious ways.

The Force works in mysterious ways, Rey kept telling herself.

She repeated it over and over as she threw up the remains of her dinner, emptying what little remained in her stomach as quietly as she could. The walls on the Resistance’s new base were thin, and she didn’t want anyone to know how much trouble she was having with new food. Finn was away, having accepted a new assignment from General Organa. Poe was busy with the new pilots, including a recovered Rose, who was learning to fly to honor her lost sister. Leia was as busy as ever, and Rey did not want to add another burden to the general’s already lowered shoulders. Food and troops were scarce enough on their small moon, removed as they were from the central hyperspace lanes. They were not far from Crait and D’Qar, but far in the Outer Rim, removed from the Core and the destroyed Hosnian system.

She tried to meditate like Master Luke taught her on Ahch-To, but she couldn’t concentrate. She was shaking, whether from the lack of food or from the knowledge she couldn’t process, she did not know.

At night she tossed and turned, alternating between shivering from cold or burning up, sweating in a hot flash. She was aware that her body needed time to adjust to new climates, new environments, but even on her hungriest days on Jakku she never hated her body so much for betraying her.

And beneath the physical struggle was the mental, spiritual, emotional. The turmoil in her stomach compared to the battle she waged with her own mind.

She managed to close the Force’s bond between them on Crait, but after delving into the ancient Jedi texts with the help of C-3PO, R2-D2, and BB-8, whose memory banks she slightly altered, she now knew a deeper truth.

The Supreme Leader of the First Order was her soulmate, and his fate was indelibly linked with her own.

The Force works in mysterious ways.

Rey was so hungry the next day at dinner that she ate nearly everything in sight, then spent the evening throwing it up again, just like the day prior.

As she lay in bed again that night, once more unable to sleep, her thoughts drifted across the galaxy. Somehow, she knew he couldn’t sleep either. Putting him out of her mind once more, she resolutely determined to visualize the island, to feel the salt spray on her skin, to breathe deeply and become one with the Force. She would find her balance again, she just had to keep trying.

She finally fell asleep, her thin blanket tangled around her legs, her throat sore from throwing up, and tears crusted in her eyes.

As a child Ben Solo read ancient Alderaanian love poetry and dreamed of the day he would find someone he could love as much as the poets loved their muses. They yearned for their soulmates the way he yearned for his parents’ attention. As he grew older, he gave up on the idea that he would be his parents’ first priority, but dreamed of writing Alderaanian poetry for his soulmate.

Kylo Ren barely thought about his parents, his soulmate, or Alderaanian poetry. When he did, it was only to lament how he never truly possessed that which he wanted. The Supreme Leader was too busy for such trifles anyway. He had to deal with the interminable Hux every day, and an endless litany of problems. The First Order had invested most of its capital in the Supremacy, the Fulminatrix, and Starkiller Base, and all three were gone, destroyed by the Resistance, which they in turn failed to destroy. Flames of rebellion had lit across the galaxy, and there were not enough competent officers to control and put out the fires.

At night he struggled to sleep as he always had, but his dreams were queer of late. He dreamed of Rey, no longer at peace on her island, but ill, in bed and shaking.

She had not appeared to him in his waking hours since Crait, but he knew it was only a matter of time. The Force worked in mysterious ways.

…

It was Rey’s third day of eating to make up for everything she had lost the night before, then voiding it in the same fashion, when she heard a voice behind her as she knelt in the refresher.

“You can’t keep doing this, Rey, and you know it.”

It was a voice she thought she would never hear again, that she thought she had closed herself off from; the last person in the world she wanted to see.

Her soulmate.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said, not looking behind her, but only down at her own reflection in the toilet.

“I know,” he replied, more gently than she expected. “But I’m here whether I want to be or you want me to be or not. The Force isn’t done with us.”

“I know,” she responded, getting up from the toilet and washing her face and hands. She caught a glimpse of him in the mirror; he looked as exhausted as she felt.

“Rey, you deserve more than this,” he said, at which she finally turned to face him.

“What do you know about what I deserve?” she spat back.

“You’re strong with the Force, stronger than you want to admit. You’re wasted here with the Resistance, hiding, running, pretending to fit in with everyone else. You’re not alone, but you can’t tell them about what happened, can you?”

“Did you tell the First Order the truth?” she asked, narrowing her gaze at him.

“No,” he answered, looking at her, then down to his feet. “I blamed you.”

“Good,” she replied.

Kylo disappeared, looking sadder than ever.

…

I am one with the Force, the Force is with me.

The ancient Jedi library in the Temple on Coruscant was not entirely destroyed by Emperor Palpatine; ever the pragmatist, though he disdained Jedi teachings, he realized the value of such an archive, as well as its utility as bait to trap any Jedi who may have survived the purge.

Ben Solo went there once, with his uncle Luke. It was a sad, desolate place since the fall of the Empire; the New Republic guarded the site, but since Coruscant was no longer the galactic capital, its priorities laid elsewhere, and it was not as well preserved as it should have been.

Kylo Ren knew it would hold the answer to his question, however, and to appear with the support of the citizenry, to do homage to the ways of old on Coruscant would do much for the First Order’s propaganda machine. He hated politics, but his mother taught him well. He hated to admit it, but Hux’s pompous, bombastic speeches served their purpose. He too could play his part for the Order’s greater good. And so he met with Coruscanti officials, appeared in public, all while hearing the Temple’s siren call. It was a temptation, a lure of the Light, but he would do what needed to be done.

It was in the dark of the night, a night that could never truly be dark with Coruscant’s trillion lights, that Kylo Ren howled with rage and would have destroyed the entire chamber in which he was sitting if only his scholar’s heart would have allowed him to do so. The text he was reading was nearly four thousand years old and irreplaceable.

Snoke had lied, as he always had.

He had not created the bond between Rey and Kylo.

They were soulmates, as Revan and Bastila Shan had been before them.

Kylo Ren stalked the halls of the former Jedi Temple, the plundered Imperial Palace, the empty home of the Force, crying for the love he could never have, for the boy he had been, for the galaxy that was as broken as his soul.

…

Rey awoke once more with a hollow stomach and cheeks, aching all over. She could feel profound anguish in the Force, and she couldn’t help but wonder what on earth could have happened to make a man who killed his father and his master and abandoned his family for galactic dominance so profoundly sad.

She sat down in her small room and realized again that she and her soulmate were not so different after all.

She ate breakfast slowly, carefully, sipping on some Gatalentan tea and spent the morning meditating and training. She felt the ghost of a sparring partner dancing with her in the training room, matching her blow for blow, aggressive, tenacious, and powerful. Her equal in the dark and the light, her counterpart, at once her strongest enemy and closest friend, the one who knew her secrets. She knew his body as intimately as she knew her own, his mind was open to hers, he was her soulmate and she was his and they were one, just as they were in Snoke’s throne room.

The Force flowed through them, buoying them despite their exhaustion. They drew on its depth and on each other, swinging their blades ever more gracefully, ever more intensely, testing each other, learning from each other as they had twice before.

It was a song, a dance they both knew all too well. He would strike there, and she would strike there. Their hearts, their breathing, their movements perfectly in sync, complementing each other even as they fought for dominance.

Rey was the predator, and Ben Solo her prey. Here, she saw no hint of the darkness that followed him, no pretense or vanity. Here, he was hers, and hers alone.  

…

Kylo Ren returned to the Finalizer without sleeping. After he left the Temple on Coruscant, he went hundreds of levels down to a seedy, dark cantina filled with various species and as many smoke hazes to match. The liquor certainly wasn’t top shelf, but it was cheap and burned the way he liked it. An Aqualish bounty hunter made the mistake of attempting to pick a fight with him after Kylo had downed a few drinks, and soon the cantina floor obtained a few more bloodstains and the proprietor obtained a few more credits.

Upon his return, he swept Hux and the other generals out of the way with the Force, and let loose in a training room until he was laying on the floor, drenched in sweat, his vision swimming. He was exhausted, but could not sleep; his body was too full of nervous energy, and his heart raced from his training. He looked up to see Rey also practicing her forms.

He joined her deadly dance, with her through the Force in the way he could not be physically. Their blades met over and over, casting purple lights on the floor and walls and deepening the shadowed hollows under their eyes.

She was as thin as ever, but looking better than she had the last time he saw her. Her fighting had certainly lost none of its intensity. She pursued him as she had on Starkiller, as she fought Snoke’s Praetorian guards. She was an angel of death and destruction, and he had never seen something so beautiful, so perfect, so deadly, in all his life.

The ancient Alderaanian poets could not compare with Rey of Jakku whirling his grandfather’s rebuilt saber in the darkness of a decrepit Resistance base in the middle of nowhere, across the galaxy from him.

He swung low, towards her waist, and she parried his blow, spinning away from him.

They stood, breathing heavily, looking at each other, not saying a word.

Rey faded away from him, and Kylo Ren sat up on his training mat, covered in sweat.

…

That night, Rey was able to eat a manageable amount at dinner, and kept it all down. She felt refreshed after stretching and showering before bed, and slept the whole night through, dreaming of the island, the porgs cooing to her and the scent of saltwater.

She dreamt of a lover’s kiss, of a gentle hand undoing her buns. She felt desire curling her toes and pooling in her core, of a body entwined with hers, a heart beating with hers, lungs breathing with hers.

She awoke feeling relaxed and at peace for the first time since Ahch-To.

…

Kylo Ren hadn’t slept a whole night through since he was a child, if ever.

That night he collapsed in his bed almost immediately after stepping out of the refresher, feeling exhausted from the day’s events and those of the day prior.

He dreamt of Rey, at peace on her island, reading ancient Jedi texts. He dreamt he was writing Alderaanian poetry once more, reciting it to her and his mother. He taught her the ancient braiding art, plaiting her hair in honor of her Force sensitivity and to show that she was the partner to the heir to the throne.

He awoke the next morning, and ordered his ship readied.

He had never been to New Alderaan. He wasn’t sure how to get to Rey’s island, if she would ever share that information with him. She was still in the middle of nowhere with the Resistance; his nightly dreamscape visits to her had not revealed their location. But he was sure that the mountains and balmy blue skies of what should have been his homeworld would help him obtain the peace he sought, even without her by his side.

He thought Rey would like it there, if she ever chose to visit.

She would find him again; she always would. She was not yet ready to accept his offer from the Supremacy, and he had to find his own peace. They had accepted their truth with their last duel, and he had no doubt the Force wasn’t yet done with them. 

[necrowriter]

Fog and Fire: 1.5

There was a very strange moment, like something in a dream. Everything twisted and stretched around them, and the light was blinding and Ms. Harcourt thought she was walking into a wall, except the wall was giving way-

-and then they were in the dark, and behind them the doorway collapsed, the swirl of colors spiraling around and around until it all blinked out into nothingness and left only an ordinary blank wall behind.

“You can let go now,” Mr. Vervain said.

“Wh-what?” Ms. Harcourt didn't really know where she had expected to find herself. Somewhere wild and strange, perhaps, in a luminescent cave or walking amongst the stars. But in fact they were standing in the dimly lit corridor that the window had looked out into from the beginning. Which, of course, made logical sense...but it was difficult to reconcile the drab library corridor with that dreamlike passage. For a moment Mr. Vervain’s calm voice, speaking as if nothing particularly interesting had happened, only added to her confusion.

“I said you can let go,” he repeated. In the dim light, with her eyes still dazzled, she could not properly make out his face, but she would have been willing to bet that it his expression was amused. “Of my hand. If you like.”

She blinked rapidly, trying to scatter the spots dancing before her eyes. “It won't break the spell?”

“The spell is already broken,” Mr. Vervain said. “It made us a part of the library, but we are no longer in the library, so...”

“Oh...right.”

She was surprised to find that letting go was difficult. Not that she had grown to enjoy holding hands any more than usual over the past hour or so, but it gave her a sense of vertigo, almost, as though she were letting go of the only thing keeping her from falling down a ravine. As long as they had maintained that grip, she was safe from being found.

Then again, she had only remained undiscovered by taking up the company of a magician, so perhaps safe was not quite the right word to use.

She let go. Nothing especially interesting happened. There were no shouts of alarm, no sudden appearances of angry accusers. The corridor remained silent and dark, and they remained undiscovered, for the moment.

Ms. Harcourt took a deep breath and shoved both hands in her pockets, feeling a bit ridiculous. “So...now what? We're still in the main library building, aren't we? How do we get out?”

Mr. Vervain was silent at first, and for a horrible cold moment Ms. Harcourt thought he was going to tell her that since no one was looking for him, he would be walking right on out and leaving her to fend for herself. She thought of the way he had said you would not succeed, not angrily, not cruelly, merely stating a plain but indisputable fact, like the answer to mathematical equation.

“I wonder...” he said pensively. “Do you suppose they've discovered your absence yet?”

The words seemed so ominous in the midst of her unpleasant thoughts that Ms. Harcourt was unable to suppress a shiver.

Mr. Vervain glanced at her. “Are you quite well?”

“What? Oh...yes.” Ms. Harcourt shook her head. Easy there, Harcourt. Can't afford to go leaping to conclusions just yet. Hasn't served you well so far this afternoon, after all.

“It's just that it would make something of a difference to our escape plans,” Mr. Vervain mused. “If they are not actively looking for you it will be a great deal easier to leave. Hm...”

He pulled out a pocketwatch and glanced at it, although Ms. Harcourt was not sure how he could make it out in the dim light.

“They check the wards on the hour,” he said. “I'm not really sure if anyone will have noticed the disruption just then, but if they haven't yet they certainly will at the check-in. Which gives us...about fifteen minutes.” He sighed. “Could have timed that one a little better.”

Ms. Harcourt's stomach twisted. “So we have fifteen minutes to get out of here?”

“We have fifteen minutes, at most, before a great deal of panic breaks out. Exactly what will happen then, I cannot say.” He brushed his fingers against the wall they had come out of and frowned. “I think...no, they haven't alarmed the wards, and I'm certain they would if they noticed. So. We most likely have a narrow window of opportunity.”

He set off down the corridor. Already he seemed to be feeling better, although there was still a slight weave to his step. Ms. Harcourt hastened after him.

“Do you have a plan as to how to utilize this window of opportunity?” she asked. “We can't just walk out the front door.”

“In my experience, simply walking out the front door works remarkably well more often than not,” Mr. Vervain said. “That's how I got in, after all. Come to that, it's how you got in.”

“Point,” Ms. Harcourt muttered.

“But no, I suspect additional measures will be needed. We have to assume they will be on the lookout for you. But until we get some more information, it is difficult to plan...” They came to a fork in the corridor. Mr. Vervain sighed and glanced in both directions. “It would help if I knew where we were.”

“Um…” Ms. Harcourt glanced around, but she didn’t see anything familiar either. “I’m afraid I don’t know. This is all administrative space. They don’t let students in here. Although…”

A thought occurred to her. She stopped for a moment, trying to chase it down.

“Although?” Mr. Vervain prompted gently.

“I was just thinking-I’ve seen some maps of the old library. This-this sort of ring around the inner library, that was one of the first things they added on to it. It was just sort of an outer wall for a while, and then they built the first larger building around it. All the offices and whatnot, they didn’t add those until later, and they’ve been rearranged and rebuilt a lot over time.” She glanced up at Mr. Vervain and saw his eyebrows raised. “I wrote a paper about this once.”

“How very fortuitous,” Mr. Vervain muttered.

“So-I think-what that means is that if we just follow the main corridor-the parts that look the oldest-we’ll wind up back in the main building eventually.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Vervain said. He peered down the two corridors in front of them. “If that’s the case we should probably go right.”

Ms. Harcourt couldn’t make out any difference in the construction of the two corridors under the low light, but Mr. Vervain sounded confident, so she shrugged and followed him.

“Is this a magician thing?” she asked as they hurried along, not quite in a run.

Mr. Vervain paused briefly to consider another offshoot before continuing on. “...What?”

“They say magicians are supposed to be-well-sort of better, I suppose. That they see better, and hear better, and think faster, and...they’re just generally impressive. It’s one of the things they test for. I think.” It was why Llewellyn got so many taunts-not to mention Andrews, who stammered, and Stuart, who was always off in the clouds and tended to walk into things, or, for that matter, just about anyone who didn’t seem impressive enough to be studying magic.

Mr. Vervain paused and gave her a look of abject, incredulous confusion. “I’m sorry, I really don’t understand where you’re going with this-”

“Well, apparently you can see where we’re going,” Ms. Harcourt said. “I certainly can’t, and I thought I had pretty good eyes. And you’re wearing dark glasses! Can you see that well?”

He stared at her a moment longer. “It’s...a bit more complicated than that.”

“Right.” She sighed and followed him as he turned and started walking again. “Is that true though? That magicians are...like that?”

“Is this going to lead up to another argument about why you apparently can’t be a magician?”

“I don’t know,” Ms. Harcourt said irritably. “All I know is I can’t do anything like that.”

“Not as far as you know,” Mr. Vervain replied, and before she could ask him just what he meant by that, they turned a corner and found themselves in a considerably more open and well-lit corridor.

“Oh...I recognize this,” Ms. Harcourt said, glancing around in surprise. “This is near the lecture halls.”

“Yes...I don't hear any particular excitement, so that bodes well.” Mr. Vervain paused for a moment, humming vaguely to himself, and then suddenly ducked into a nearby side room. Ms. Harcourt followed him, curious. It was a little study room, crowded with a table and some of the harshly made chairs that the library favored, to the irritation of the entire student body.

“Close that,” Mr. Vervain said, nodding at the door even as he took off his satchel and began to shrug out of his coat.

Ms. Harcourt edged all the way into the room, pulling the door closed behind her. “Erm. What are you doing?”

“Taking precautions.” He unknotted his scarf and tossed it and the coat at her. “Put those on. I don't know if they're actively looking for you yet-I suspect not-but it hardly seems like a good idea to chance it once we get out into the main area. Even if it's not yet known that you've escaped, we have to assume you've been identified to the staff as a, ahem, rulebreaker of some caliber.”

“Thanks, I think,” Ms. Harcourt muttered as she pulled off her own jacket. “But how exactly is me wearing your coat going to help that problem?”

“I've found that simply changing one's silhouette a bit can go a remarkably long way towards not being recognized,” Mr. Vervain said. “But that coat in particular-and that scarf- may help you.”

Ms. Harcourt paused partway through adjusting the coat. It fit her fairly well, although it was a bit tight in the shoulders. Mr. Vervain was a very narrow man. “You mean...in a magical sense?”

“Somewhat, yes. That coat is...used to not being seen, let's put it like that.” He picked up her discarded jacket and pulled it on. “It's not nearly as strong of an effect as I would prefer under these circumstances, but I'm afraid I'm still rather severely limited in my abilities at the moment.”

He was still looking a bit sickly. Ms. Harcourt shook her head and began tying the scarf. “Those spells before really took it out of you, huh?”

“Mm.” He took off his glasses, squinting as though the unlit study room were blindingly bright, and slid them into a pocket. “That might help as well. But none of it will hold up to careful scrutiny, so try not to do anything too conspicuous.”

“I'll do my best,” Ms. Harcourt said dryly. It seemed to go over Mr. Vervain's head, as he only nodded and concentrated on attempting to button up her jacket. He was having some trouble with this, as his fingers were shaking and his eyes seemed unfocused.

Ms. Harcourt sighed. “Here. Let me.” She did up the jacket and, as an afterthought, adjusted the sleeves and quickly tied her own neckcloth on him. “Great lights, you're a mess. I thought magicians were supposed to be snappy dressers.”

“Where in the world did you hear that?” Mr. Vervain muttered, tugging at the neckcloth. “Thank you. But we'd best get moving now.”

They left the study room and hurried down the corridor as quickly as they could without drawing attention. Fortunately a certain degree of panicked haste was expected in the library, at least among students.

Ms. Harcourt felt her heart skip a beat or two when they got out into the more well-occupied corridors around the lecture halls, but there was no immediate ruckus. Various students passed them without comment, but being students they were generally paying only as much attention as was required to not walk into people, so on its own this was not terribly reassuring. It was the library staff she was more concerned about, but when a librarian came past them at a fast, anxious clip, he only glanced their way and carried on without a comment, let alone a raised alarm.

So far, so good, then-but it felt like walking on thin ice. She missed Mr. Vervain's concealment spell more every minute.

After what seemed like a grueling eternity but was probably closer to two minutes, they made it to the library atrium. It was a truly impressive space, cavernously large but swallowed in a deep, dusty velvet hush. Heads were bowed and voices automatically lowered when in the atrium-unless one was for some reason in need of experiencing some vertigo, in which case a look at the glass ceiling a long, long way up would usually do the trick. Ms. Harcourt usually liked the atrium and its feeling of solemnity and scholarliness, but just now it felt hopelessly intimidating, a massive open expanse that they had no hope of crossing without being discovered.

Not that the atrium was quite as open and empty as usual. There was an unusual amount of people there, mostly students, clumped into little groups and whispering together or staring around confusedly. Ms. Harcourt felt her heart sink, but Mr. Vervain looked around and nodded.

“Good,” he whispered. His speaking voice already being so quiet, his whisper was so faint that Ms. Harcourt had to lean close to hear.

“Good?” she hissed back.

“I don't think they've discovered your absence yet. Look, the doors are still open.” He gestured toward the main entrance. It was difficult to see at that distance, but there certainly did seem to be people going in and out. “If they were looking for you they surely would have locked the building down.”

“Unless it's a trap,” Ms. Harcourt muttered. “Maybe they're trying to lure me into making a break for it.”

Mr. Vervain gave her a sidelong glance. “A possibility, but I suspect you are likely thinking much more tactically than your potential pursuers.”

“Well...maybe...but even if I am I can't just walk out. I don't have my insignia anymore, I can't check out-even if they didn't recognize me.”

“I may be able to manage something.” Mr. Vervain began to head toward the front, keeping to the edges and the protective shadows of the huge pillars that lined the atrium. Ms. Harcourt followed him, trying to simultaneously keep an eye out for anyone watching them and look as if she were not doing so at all. A few students glanced toward them as they passed, but without any particular interest. From the few snatches of conversation she caught, it sounded as if the general topic concerned the sudden and unexplained evacuation of the inner library. No one seemed to know what to make of it.

When they were near to the edge of the atrium, Mr. Vervain signaled her to wait off to one side while he casually walked over and glanced around. A moment later he came back, looking satisfied. “The coast is clear, for the moment.”

Ms. Harcourt nodded, feeling a little relieved but not too much so. “So...what’s the plan, then?”

Mr. Vervain sighed. “Give me a moment.”

He tugged at the front of the coat Ms. Harcourt was currently wearing. She held it open, perplexed, while he retrieved something from an inside pocket. It was a small metal flask with some kind of symbol engraved on the front. Mr. Vervain unscrewed the cap and took a drink.

Ms. Harcourt glanced at the flask dubiously. “What’s that?”

“Tea.” He held the flask out to her. “Want some?”

“I’ll pass, thanks,” she said dryly. She’d committed enough fairy tale mistakes for one afternoon already without accepting a drink from a strange magician.

“Good decision,” Mr. Vervain said, taking another drink. “You shouldn’t use stimulants when performing magic. Bad habit.”

“Um. Right.” She watched him screw the cap back on and replace the flask in its pocket. “That must be some tea, then.”

“Well, I may have added a few things to it.” He dug into his satchel for something and frowned. “Where...”

On a hunch, Ms. Harcourt produced the pot of black pigment from the pocket he had put it in earlier. “Looking for this?”

“Ah!” He took it with a slightly sheepish look and quickly uncapped it. “You catch on quick. Hold still.”

He dipped a finger in the pigment and drew a quick symbol on Ms. Harcourt's forehead. The stuff was surprisingly cold to the touch, a strange aching sort of hot-cold like peppermint on the tongue, and she was hard pressed to not flinch away as soon as it touched her.

“What is that, anyway?” she asked, digging her hands into the pockets of her borrowed coat to resist the urge to wipe it off.

“A story for another time.” Mr. Vervain put the pot back into his satchel. “How long can you hold your breath?”

“What? I don't know. A minute? Why-”

“I can hide you completely for a short time, but it's something of a quick and dirty spell. Best I can do under the circumstances, I'm afraid. It'll last for as long as hold your breath.”

She glared at him. “That's...that's a terrible spell.”

“I don't disagree, but there's only so much I can do right now, and our time is very quickly running out. Hold onto my jacket-your jacket-whatever-and follow me. I'll get us out as fast as I can.”

Ms. Harcourt sighed, but this was clearly not the time to argue about it. “All right, but I want it on the record that I would not be following those instructions without a great deal more protestation if I had any other choice.”

“Noted. Are you ready?”

“Yes-no, wait. Give me your satchel.” She took it and slipped it on over her own. It was surprisingly heavy; she wondered that Mr. Vervain hadn’t collapsed underneath it yet.

“They’ll check,” she said, in response to his querying look. “If you leave with a bag or anything, they’ll want to see inside it, to make sure you aren’t trying to steal any books.”

“Ah. Good thinking.”

“Alright.” She gripped the edge of her own jacket; easy enough, as it was loose on him anyway. “I suppose I’m ready.”

“Take a deep breath then, deep as you can.”

Ms. Harcourt closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Mr. Vervain muttered something, and the lines of paint on her forehead suddenly felt almost painfully cold. She nearly gasped in surprise and ruined the whole thing, but after a moment the feeling subsided slightly, though it remained distinctly uncomfortable. Then Mr. Vervain was walking quickly away, leaving her to follow at a stumbling half-run, feeling awkward and ridiculous.  

Between the atrium and the beckoning freedom of the outside world was one last obstacle, a small lobby flanked with desks guarded by library clerks who ensured that only the right people came in and out of the prestigious halls. Ms. Harcourt thought she could feel their eyes on her, burning hot pinprick brands across her face; surely they could see her, standing there in plain sight behind Mr. Vervain, surely she would be found out. Her lungs were already aching for air.

Mr. Vervain walked quite calmly over to one of the desks and presented a library access token. Ms. Harcourt struggled to remain still-she wanted to fidget, she wanted to scream- as the librarian looked it over sedately.

“Very good,” the librarian said, putting the token back somewhere under his desk. “Find what you needed?”

“Quite,” Mr. Vervain said.

The librarian nodded vaguely, already returning his attention to something on the desk. Mr. Vervain strode away, trailing one surprised and rapidly asphyxiating fugitive.

They walked out through the impressively engraved doors, down the wide flight of steps, and out across the courtyard. Ms. Harcourt was starting to see spots dancing in her vision as Mr. Vervain ducked into the lee of one of the smaller university buildings.

“Alright,” he murmured, after glancing around to make sure they were unobserved.

At that point three things happened all at once: Ms. Harcourt gasped for air, Mr. Vervain buckled at the knees and began to fall, and, for the first time in fifty-seven years, the low coals of the ward-lamps outside the library burst into blue fire.

[shih-coulda-had-it]

The Ninth Child

or, a loose adaptation of the Chinese fairy tale, The Butterfly Lovers.

Summary: Chirrut Îmwe, accosted by disapproving parents and an existential despair at home, enters the Temple. *Songs link to Youtube.

AO3 LINK

A/N: This is my fic for the @dailyspiritassassin​‘s fanworks exchange! My giftee was @bottombobbysinger​, and the prompt I chose (perhaps a little ambitiously) was “Disney-style spiritassassin.” Much thanks to @zhenzidan​ for the beta!

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Quite frankly, Orson Krennic didn’t like people. He didn’t like people-feelings, especially the ones called sentimentalism, nostalgia, and affection. The supposed foundations of marriage.

Marriage was a construct designed to either let people climb up the rungs of society, or to utilize the loopholes during tax season.

Or, he mused, considering Jinrut Îmwe’s curtly worded post on the holonet, it could provide an opportunity to ingratiate himself with the Chancellor in the Galactic Senate.

The galaxy at large desired kyber—an infinitely renewable energy source in the right engineer’s hands, but monopolized to a ridiculous degree. The Îmwe family, known as one of the most respected owners of the largest kyber mines on Jedha, needed a relatively wealthy suitor for their youngest son.

A believer in long-term plans, Orson Krennic determined the best course of action was to consult others for advice and a thick digital tome on Jedhan marriage legalities.

It would take a while, but what suitor was going to offer the amount Jinrut Îmwe demanded for a blind man’s hand?

//

Chirrut was the ninth child of five girls and three brothers, the youngest of which still maintained seven years over him. His late existence marked him as an unexpected, and at times unwanted, son. He felt keenly the sheer displeasure his father had for him, like Chirrut embodied some harbinger of ill tidings.

To be fair, he had been.

His parents had not planned beyond eight children. They had long done away with the hand-me-downs and the crib carved of wood, imported long ago when Jedha received more trade. Chirrut’s imminent arrival left the family scrambling to find supplies during a period of weak trade relations, in addition to an inheritance equal to a ninth of the mines rendering the Îmwe name famous.

Fortunately, only a few of his parents’ progeny desired to run the family business.

Not among them was Chirrut, who (while content to wander the kyber mines as a child and trace the rainbow veins of crystal seeping through the rock walls) was uninterested in economics.

Chirrut’s interests were reserved in the Temple of the Whills, one of the family’s greatest patrons and customers. As a child, he visited every quarter of a cycle until he was ten, at which point his father turned his attention from religion to business.

But something tied him to the temple.

When Chirrut slept, he dreamt in sequences that smelled of heavy incense. He wandered in phantasmal halls that echoed with sonorous rumbles and ringing of bells and prayer. And recently, when he was still struggling through the haze of sleep, Chirrut heard himself muttering the old mantra that sat with him during the quarterly visits.

I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me.

The blindness had shook Chirrut—its abrupt arrival a consequence of a late-night outing and a misaim with a heavily-modded taser—but not his goal to join the Temple of the Whills. There was something to be attained there, be it peace for the gnawing (if often subdued) bitterness at his uselessness at home or some form of enlightenment.

Perversely, his dreams meant nothing yet. Chirrut still had to convince his father to let him attend.

//

Dinner was considered a sacred time of neutrality in the Îmwe household. Conflicts between siblings, parents, or even siblings and parents were to be put away in order to maintain the semblance of a happy family.

One did not detonate the minefield deliberately.

“Father,” said Chirrut. He sat at one end of the table, his portions of rice and vegetables already scooped into his bowl by his mother. The uneti wood chopsticks—wedding gifts dating back several generations—rested on the rim of the bowl.

Chirrut’s father sat the other end. “Chirrut.”

Beating around the bush went unappreciated in the Îmwe household, no matter how bad the news. “I’m going to become a Guardian of the Whills.”

Without hesitation, perhaps without even glancing up from his bowl, Chirrut’s father responded, “No.”

“Are you going to tell me why?” A habit Chirrut had indulged for the past few years was to blankly stare in his father’s direction and tilt his head, blinking with calculated guilelessness. He wasn’t one to waste an opportunity.

“Stop that, you look like some owl,” chided his mother.

“Let him,” his father said. “Maybe then he will get smart enough not to speak nonsense.” He cleared his throat. “And what do you want with the Guardians anyway? You know these religious people—they just want ears to preach their dogma to.”

Little rankled the Îmwe patriarch more than patronization; it was a trait passed down in the family.

Chirrut occasionally owned up to it.

“It costs little for me to travel the city,” Chirrut responded. “All I would like is my parents’ blessing to continue a… family legacy.” Ancestors of theirs had joined the temple before, but one hadn’t joined in decades. No blood relative still yet lived there.

“No,” repeated his father. “I am circulating marriage proposals for your hand, and no spouse wants a chaste husband in their wedding bed.”

Chirrut wrinkled his nose. “I…” he returned, a little concerned. Locals—the Holy City locals, especially—were keenly aware of what they risked in marrying an Îmwe for sake of wealth from the mines. If the marriage was based on a contract for shares in the family fortunes, a life or death stipulation existed to test the fiancé or fiancée’s worth. “Have any offers been made yet?” Any worthwhile offers—Jinrut Îmwe was a picky man.

A third time, though with some reluctance. “No.”

Ah. Victory was close. “So, instead of letting me laze about at home,” Chirrut said, “how about I go learn humility at the Temple? Bow my head and bend my neck in front of elders? You’ve always wanted that.”

“Strange how losing your sight did not make you lose your tongue,” his father retorted. He tapped something hard against… his cup? Chirrut concentrated, discerned it was probably a fingernail against the ceramic. “Perhaps you should go. I hear they beat initiates into submission.”

“Bedtime horror stories have no effect on me now.”

“In every story, a grain of truth.” A hard huff of air. “Fine. You wish to attend, go ahead. I will call you back when I receive a good offer for your hand.”

“Well,” said Chirrut lightly, picking up his chopsticks, “I hope you consider me valuable, father.”

//

[Sun Yanzi – “Yu Tian��]

Rain on Jedha never failed to leave Chirrut jittery. Jedhans celebrated the rainy season, even the wild floods that ran through the streets, for the precious water would seep down into the porous sand and leave behind shallow-rooted meadows and green weeds poking up from the packed dirt, all dying within the month.

Part of Chirrut felt that joy buzz through the air. Part of Chirrut still remained focused on his echo-box, gifted to him by the successful first sister who’d moved to Coruscant, and the cold sensation of precipitation needling his exposed skin.

Rain on his departure for the Temple? Probably a good sign.

“You should have someone to guide you,” Chirrut’s mother had fussed. “With your luck, you will be mugged or killed.”

“On a rainy day?” Chirrut had asked, cheerfully. Superstitious people—and the Holy City thrived on superstition—wouldn’t dare. One thing for the moon’s lifeblood to spill, another for a sentient’s to dare mingle with it. “I’ll be fine, mother. It’ll be a test of fortitude.”

His cane swept left and right, carving a zigzag pattern in the wet sand. Paying attention to it was an afterthought in Chirrut’s head. He was more preoccupied in recalling the route to the Temple.

From the Îmwe complex in the Merchant Quarter, a path led to a set of stairs, which opened the Merchant Quarter into the Pilgrim’s Route.

The Pilgrim’s Route consisted of several dozen wide, unroofed bridges connecting shelters that served as both hostels and checkpoints; it circulated the entirety of the Holy City. Eventually, it led the faithful to the Temple. Pickpockets were rampant along the path, but Chirrut had nothing of value on him beyond the echo-box.

And few people on the black market could sell an echo-box; his second brother had tried buying one for a year before giving the task up to the first sister.

As he made his way across the second bridge, the arc of his cane finally made its first impact against… Chirrut assumed an ankle, sturdy enough to not even flinch at the collision. “Sorry,” he apologized, barely slowing his step before he realized the body hadn’t moved.

His face crashed into a solidly-built arm, muscle and fat giving off heat under the soaked fabric of the cloak. Chirrut’s nose pressed flat against a rounded bicep.

“Oh!” said a startled voice. Before Chirrut recoiled, he heard and felt the sound vibrate into his ears—rough like the sands, sonorous like a preacher, and deep like the sound had been rooted in the stranger’s lungs. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking.”

An opening like that proved too difficult to resist. With a flash of a smile, Chirrut responded, “Neither was I.” He beamed at where he approximated the face to be, eyes wide against the rain.

A bark of a laugh, endearingly close to a guffaw, was cut short. “Do you, uh, do that often? Make jokes about…?”

“Only when I’m in a good mood.” Chirrut clasped his hands, cane held vertically in them, and bowed. “I’m Chirrut—Chirrut. Just Chirrut.” He hid his wince at the awkward introduction, but it was too easy to alienate friends when they realized their uneven statuses. He’d have to just give his last name up, or change it somehow when he got to the Temple. “It’s good to meet you, Master…?”

“Not a master of anything,” said the man, and then hands tentatively clasped Chirrut’s, shaking them once up and down. “I’m Baze. Baze Malbus.” The brisk action left Chirrut frozen, as did their swift departure. They’d been warm hands. “Are you on a pilgrimage?”

“I, ah,” answered Chirrut, trying to push past the flustered fog in his brain. “I’m actually going to become an initiate. Possibly even a Guardian.” He shrugged and recovered his grin. “And you?”

Baze laughed again, surprise in his voice. Chirrut steeled himself for ridicule, and he found himself gaping at the truth. “That’s my aim too,” Baze confessed. “I suppose I got caught up in watching the rain. You get corralled up in the mountain caves when there’s no ready drainage system for the floods.”

“Mm-hm,” Chirrut hummed, attempting to picture a Holy City drowning in the rain, its people forced to higher ground for safety. “So, a fellow brother-in-training.”

He extended his arm, palm exposed, fingers fanned out. His heartbeat thrummed with anxiety.

A cautious hand wrapped around Chirrut’s forearm, squeezed once, then let go. “A brother-in-training,” agreed Baze, slowly. “Would you… mind accompaniment to the Temple? I might get distracted watching the rain again.”

It was a pretty weak excuse.

“I’m much better distraction,” assured Chirrut. “But no, I wouldn’t mind. Stick out your elbow like so—” Boldly, Chirrut reached out to arrange Baze’s arm, then tucked his hand in the crook. His cane still remained in use, however. “Lead on, brother.”

And Baze led them forward, a little absent-minded, a little slow to warn Chirrut of future obstacles (though the cane and echo-box helped Chirrut avoid a few disasters), but adept at describing what Chirrut demanded of him.

He was just trailing off about the sodden red streamers connecting the roofs of buildings when Chirrut asked, “Why are you joining the Temple?”

His own reasons fell into the selfishly-searching-for-an-escape category, the justification being that the Temple was officially a sanctuary. Chirrut doubted Baze’s origins left the man little choice in terms of home, or that Baze also sought a way out from his blood family’s eyes.

Baze fell silent. Chirrut’s new companion was prone to these lapses of silence, trying to put together words ahead of time so that they wouldn’t stumble from his tongue.

Eventually, Baze said, “I… felt like my family were doing well without my input of work. My mothers always thought I was too content at the farm, so they told me to find something to dedicate my life to, and, well.” Chirrut felt a shoulder roll up and down in the bare semblance of a shrug. “I hear the Temple is always in need of farmers.”

“I would’ve expected you to join the Guardians for guarding,” said Chirrut, a little lamely. To recover, he nudged against the thick bicep with his cheek. To anyone else, they would appear like lovers—Chirrut considered the idea and felt the beginnings of a flush on his cheeks. He lolled his head the other way.

“I am not a fighter,” Baze returned. “I suppose you are, though? Running off to join the Temple and trampling over anything that gets in your way?”

“I did not trample you,” objected Chirrut. “What an unjust conclusion you’ve drawn of me!”

“If I was smaller, you could have.”

Chirrut conceded. “If you were smaller.” Too late, he noticed the way his cheeks were hurting with the force of his smile. Oh no. He cleared his throat. “We’re getting close to the Temple. How many aspiring Guardians do you think there will be?” The Temple welcomed any pilgrim at all hours, day or night, but they preferred their initiates to arrive during a specified day—sometime during the rainy season.

From fortuitous beginnings, fruitful fortunes.

Baze shrugged once more. “I hear more than half a beginning class leaves in the first quarter. Nothing of numbers.” He fell silent the same time his body turned as still as a post; Chirrut caught the sudden stop before he tripped over his own momentum.

In leaving Baze to his silent woolgathering, Chirrut’s hearing sharpened. Beneath the falling raindrops colliding with sandstone and the tarp-covered stalls preceding the stairs to the Temple, conversation hummed. Accents mixed with dialects mixed with unfamiliar glottal clicking noises and buzzes. Chirrut tried to follow one dialogue, but the thread of it mingled with another—

“That,” marveled Baze, the roughened voice dragging Chirrut back to himself, “is a crowd.”

“Pilgrims?” asked Chirrut hopefully.

Baze dashed his hopes. “A mix, I think. Both pilgrims and initiates waiting for the doors to open. We’re early.” Perhaps they were—Chirrut had left home early, expecting empty streets and bridges in light of the freezing precipitation. And he and Baze had struck a quick pace. “I wonder how the Temple accepts them all...”

“I’ve never heard of a preliminary test,” Chirrut said, finally conceding to shield his eyes against the needles dropping from the sky. “But once accepted, I imagine they’ll have nothing holding them back from exacting so much useless work on us, more than half of the class drops in the first quarter.”

A bark of laughter, guiltily stifled when several conversations stalled. Baze muttered their onlookers an apology, then nudged Chirrut’s ribs. “You shouldn’t speak ill of our future teachers,” he chided.

Chirrut protested, “I think I give them due credit! Temple-dwellers they may be, they aren’t considered rigorous disciplinarians for nothing.” He dragged Baze further into the crowd, cane hitting ankle after ankle until the two were so tightly-packed, he could no longer maintain the bubble of personal space. Amidst the constant voices, Chirrut shouted, “You must promise me something, Baze Malbus!”

“Yes?” responded Baze, the sound of him cutting past it all—a torrential rush of languages melded until not one was purely recognizable, dammed by one man’s presence. “What, Chirrut?”

He pictured it. He pictured the scene just as he answered Baze, asking him to not wash out with the rest. Clouds overhead, swirling and gray and ominous, blotting light and shadow and dealing water down from above. Pilgrims and initiates, clustered together, asking strangers of the time, the weather, their homes regardless of whether they received responses or not. The stairs to reach the Temple, which sat on a mesa of unique size, and the doors engraved with non-pictorial reliefs.

There was no cry or growing collection of voices to tell Chirrut when the doors had opened—only the sweep of bodies moving up the stairs, shuffling forward and leaving space for the nearest person to occupy, indicated the need to move.

Baze’s hand wrapped around his elbow. The fingers locked tight. And Baze stayed in place, stolidly waiting for Chirrut to lead.

//

Krennic closed his eyes. His hair thinned faster than his lips these days, all caused by Jedhan bureaucracy and Jedhan family laws and Jedhan superstition. He feared no native of the Holy City—and that should have been a warning for him, something that should have made him stop on this feckless journey for the hand of a blind man to lead him to riches—could be persuaded to overhaul their culture.

Jinrut Îmwe was courting many offers, and it had been no small cause of grief to learn that the deciding factor was not credits.

For the hand of a ninth child, blinded by idiocy if the patriarch was to be believed, Jinrut asked for much.

He looked at the file of Chirrut Îmwe once more, studied the handsome, proud profile. On a good day, Krennic considered it depressing to know Chirrut Îmwe would not pass on his genes. On a bad day, he taped the picture to the door and threw darts at the taunting last name.

The Îmwe patriarch varied his offers by the person who asked. In hearing Krennic’s initial offer, Jinrut had scoffed. ‘Paltry credits are not enough to balance this child’s bad fortune,’ the father had said. ‘Go on a quest to bring me these items, and perhaps I will consider you then.’

Krennic’s initial offer had topped that of a well-off Jedhan merchant’s. He’d double-checked.

It bothered Krennic to no end, his failed attempts to bypass Jedhan culture and appeal to baser urges. Psychology was being turned over on its head. Greed and ambition were dying underneath the fairytale-like demands for a quest.

He cast a malevolent glare at the line of demands, all exceptionally impossible for people without Krennic’s privileges. Jinrut knew more than he let on about Krennic’s position in the Senate, Krennic was certain, but nothing could be proven.

Orson Krennic resigned himself for the long haul.

//

[Leslie Cheung – “Who Makes You Crazy”]

Several turning points occurred rapidly in Chirrut’s service to the Temple, all in the course of several years. The happenstance of one he blamed on Baze, who protested his involvement in any trouble (if it could be called that!) Chirrut stirred up.

One: Chirrut moved with unexpected grace when foreign objects weren’t in his way, and the ease of his movements during the early months allowed him to advance to zama-shiwo training far before most. Chirrut, the masters proclaimed unhurriedly, despite being a gigantic annoyance in communal readings and Temple life, knew how to discipline his body without irreparable injury.

Chirrut assumed two masters wanted to thrash the insolence from him; the rest seemed to enjoy his radical allegories and symbolism analyses.

Two: Chirrut got himself banned from group meditation. Few could stand his fidgeting, fewer tolerated the way he repeated his mantra without pause. Baze was a notable exception; Chirrut had witnessed him simply fall asleep to the chanting.

Speaking of Baze.

Three: Chirrut had, somewhere along the way, fallen in love with Baze Malbus, prized student of the librarians (Guardians regardless of their field, which was the only reason Baze still trained in zama-shiwo with Chirrut).

Chirrut’s love life preceding the taser incident followed a clear pattern of travel-addicted eye-candy. There had been Maryad, who’d spent a month on Jedha before following her fortunes to Corellia. There had been Eijosu, a pilgrim ship’s guard. For an entire week, he had been a fixture of a bar, attached to one of the many arms of Sabuly before their long-awaited departure for a greener planet.

The names would have gone on and on (because Chirrut had game, even as a blind drunk) had it not been for his mother’s intervention.

Frankly, he was unsure how Baze had captured his affections. Baze epitomized the homesteader, content with books and the sedate scheduled life the Temple thrived on. On sporadic nights, Chirrut located him in the kitchens, kneading the next day’s bao, folding meat or vegetable fillings in thin envelopes of dough, or even washing dishes.

Domesticity draped itself around Baze far better than it could around Chirrut.

It was plausible Chirrut was just desirous of, well, being warmed by judicious amounts of both fat and muscle wrapped around a core of unbending steel. For Baze was warm on the many nights Jedha was cold, and he seemed unbothered by how Chirrut would wrap around him like a snake would a patch of sunlit rock, whether Chirrut willed it or not.

It was improbable to be in lust with a man who lived to toss amorous couples out of the hallowed library aisles, who told Chirrut in increasingly aggravated tones about lovers who were in the midst of ‘sucking each other’s faces off.’

Embarrassingly, Chirrut had come to realize the third turning point several days ago. He’d voiced it aloud when talking to Riacar about xir work in the library, between complimenting Riacar’s calligraphy (something Baze waxed eloquence about) and gearing up to ask whether xir time in the library overlapped with Baze’s.

Purely concerns about efficiency.

And then Riacar had slyly said something about, “You actually retain Malbus’s words better than the master’s, you know.”

And Chirrut, like a dolt, had said back, “Well, I highly value Baze Malbus as a whole—” Riacar, bless xir hearts, kindly knelt next to Chirrut’s sudden drop to the floor and waited out the bemoaning. Xe was used to it, having stuck by Chirrut and his antics for much of their time in the Temple.

“Will you confess to Baze?”

“Not in so little words,” Chirrut had huffed, and then he’d proceeded to roll away from his friend.

Days later, Chirrut was now here. In the library, tucked cross-legged in a dusty corner. His presence alone risked keen attention from the librarians—not that he understood why. Out of deference to Baze’s hobbies and comfort, Chirrut kept his toes far, far away from the library until he needed the odd tome or electronic key to a book.

The librarians, honestly, should be more appreciative of Chirrut’s mindfulness.

“Chirrut?” questioned a deeply familiar voice. It sent a shiver down his spine, the way that mouth rolled the two syllables into something soft. Treasured.

Chirrut grinned up at Baze and held his hands up, palms turned to the ceiling like a supplicant.

The fine-boned hands—smaller than Chirrut had expected on a man of Baze’s size—gingerly placed themselves in his. Without pause (for Chirrut knew Baze wanted to drag him up and brush off the dust), Chirrut snagged Baze’s wrists and yanked him down.

Knees thudded to the floor, a bitten-off curse following their descent. Chirrut, preoccupied with trying to trace the librarians’ meandering patrols, failed to notice Baze halfway in his lap until Baze made to wrench himself away.

“Oh, hush,” Chirrut scolded. “You’ll get me thrown out of the library.”

“You?!” hissed Baze, feeling a great deal warmer than normal body temperatures warranted. “Master Tulm will have the both of our hides!” Being abruptly released while hunched over Chirrut’s thighs shut the tirade up; Baze, in catching himself, flung his arms wide around Chirrut’s waist and slapped his palms flat against the wood floor.

Chirrut sensed the continuation of the rant, the closeness of Baze’s face and the unnatural heat that spoke of fever. Impulsively, he reached to hold it.

A softened jawline, rounder and longer than Chirrut’s own. Shadowed, no doubt, with the prickly growth of a beard Baze would shave once more in the morning hours. A wide forehead—small wonder Baze chose to be in the library, he seemed destined to be an intellectual. Eyes that fluttered hurriedly shut as Chirrut’s fingers skated over them, the light touch making Baze twitch violently.

Heat.

“Are you running a fever?” asked Chirrut, hiding the want with concern.

It was the beginning of the chilly season, and Baze never made claim to sickness until he was crumpled in bed with it, snuffly and grumpy about his infirmity.

“No,” said Baze very clearly. “Are you—” His head swiveled in Chirrut’s hands, and the skin tickled from what felt like flyaway strands. Without even consciously doing it, Chirrut skimmed his fingertips up to Baze’s hairline, to the way his hair was pulled back and up into a frizzing queue. He licked his lips.

Baze scrambled to his feet, hauling Chirrut up with him. “Someone’s coming,” he muttered, and he brushed Chirrut’s chest, his shoulders, his lower back. In the back of his mind, Chirrut knew it was to get rid of dust.

It didn’t rid Chirrut of that insidious feeling of lust. Rather distantly he realized he’d failed his goal in confessing to Baze. Towed from the library, Chirrut decided it was a matter for another day. A day for when Baze wouldn’t be teetering on the brink of sickness.

//

The question of Chirrut’s family name occasionally bounced between his peers. After he’d almost outed himself to Baze, Chirrut had made a pointed effort in only telling people his first name. His new friend, at the time, had shrugged off the omission. Likely he thought Chirrut wanted to discard his past altogether—not a completely untrue statement, truth be told.

“I bet you were a rich boy,” said Kovara. His spoon clattered decisively into his empty bowl—the twilek’s stomach was insatiable. He’d only received his helping ten minutes ago. “A rich boy with all the privileges in the world.”

“Lay off,” Baze told the twilek. His spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl, and yet Chirrut knew Baze would have an internal struggle over picking up a second helping.

Under the table, Kovara’s foot kicked Chirrut’s ankle. “C’mon. You can’t have been a bastard. You act too prissy for all that.”

Chirrut kicked back. “I was raised on a spaceship,” he said off-handedly. A beat of silence fell over their section of the table; a debate stormed behind their eyes, Chirrut was certain. “By kindhearted Toydarians,” continued Chirrut, injecting a cheerful nostalgia into his tone. “Who gifted me this echo-box out of the kindness of their hearts.”

A disapproving scoff. “Liar,” groused Kovara. “I almost believed you.”

“You did believe me.” Buffing his nails with the front of his robes, Chirrut grinned. “I bet you were thinking back on all those times I swindled you for the dahn tah, hah?”

It was a fond memory Chirrut enjoyed reliving: Kovara paying off a rigged bet by smuggling not four, but eight of his egg custard tarts into Chirrut and Baze’s room.

“In all seriousness, Chirrut.” The twilek tapped the bottom of his bowl contemplatively. “Are you quite sure you’re not some boy from the High Quarter? Or even the Merchant Quarter? You know a lot of stuff I wouldn’t expect someone like farmboy—”

“Watch it,” said Chirrut. He nudged Baze’s leg with a knee, hid his concern over the stiffness of it, and returned his attention back to Kovara. “I am, for all intent and purposes, an orphan. A very well-off one until I came here.” Chirrut lifted an eyebrow and did his best to appear unbothered. “Are you getting seconds for us all?”

Kovara spluttered, “Well, for me—”

Chirrut groped for Baze’s empty bowl and slid it over to their friend. “I’d like another bowl too,” he said mildly. He hadn’t eaten more than half, but Chirrut had a newfound appetite.

“Pah. Lazy, lazy. I’ll bring you so much stew, you will be sick of it.” Kovara withdrew from the table, and Chirrut counted his steps until he was sure he and Baze were alone.

“You know,” Baze said, the words sudden and stilted, “I’ve only just now realized you prefer when people say ‘Chirrut and Baze Malbus’ than ‘Baze Malbus and Chirrut?’” In Chirrut’s defense, the phrase ‘Chirrut and Baze Malbus’ sounded more natural than the latter. It ended more kindly in his ears.

With all the serenity accumulated from years of meditation, Chirrut turned to face Baze and rest an elbow on the table. “We’ve called each other brothers for some time now,” he deflected.

Baze’s voice cleared. Flattened. “So we have.” He was silent for a second more, then, miraculously, “Welcome to the Malbus family, Chirrut.”

Quite rapidly, the thought occurred: this was it. This was the time to confess. Chirrut opened his mouth, intending to admit his lineage. Maybe Baze was ignorant about the families of Jedha. Even the family whose name was passed around daily in the Temple, both as a curse and a prayer.

Really, he should make a gift for the masters for allowing him to stay in the Temple. They identified him the second he’d approached the registrar but accepted his request for an obscured identity.

“Baze, I’m—”

Kovara tucked himself back into the table, and the clatter of bowls hitting the table’s surface cut Chirrut off. “I got you more stew,” he announced.

//

The letters from Jinrut Îmwe came without warning, after three years of yearning in the Temple and three years of questing in Orson Krennic’s life.

//

Chirrut slipped into the kitchens with a heavy heart, his father’s missive tucked delicately in the folds of his robes for all that he wanted to crumple it into illegibility. The letter caused concerned eyes to fall on Chirrut in the morning, the package attached to it attracted wagging tongues.

Chirrut’s pale face confirmed what he wouldn’t say, because letters to the Temple initiates were limited to close friends and family emergencies. As Chirrut never spoke of old friends, the overall conclusion was that he was being called back home.

Riacar stopped xir sullen conversation with xir fellow dishwasher and said to Chirrut, wryly, “Are you here for Baze?”

“Certainly not you,” responded Chirrut. He offered Riacar a smile. “Is he by the ovens or the counters today, Riacar?”

“He’s chopping vegetables—hey, watch it with the soap.”

Answer received, Chirrut carefully picked his way to the counters and found Baze after tapping Kovara’s shoulder for further help. He swept a hand on the counter, clearing away a small square of space. He hoisted himself into it, pulled out his father’s letter, and waited. The hissing of roots and tubers frying in oil filled the space between them.

“Chirrut,” said Baze after a moment. “This isn’t exactly a great time for conversation.”

Disagreement between the two of them was happening faster than Chirrut had accounted for. He forged ahead. “On the contrary! You’re busy with your hands and not your mind, and I am out of your way. This is the perfect time for a conversation.” His cane knocked impetuously against the edge of the counter. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Easy to do,” Baze groused. “You are easily distracted.”

“Sorry, who needed someone to stop them from staring at the rain?”

The thock-thock-thock of Baze’s knife grimly slicing to the cutting board. Kovara’s tuneless humming to a folk song a trader had taught him. Running dishwater, recycled and re-filtered and never, ever wasted. Other Temple initiates stepping into the kitchens, chattering about the day’s readings and gossip—

A hand on Chirrut’s knee dragged him back to a state of hyper-focus. He imagined he could feel every roughened callus catching on his robes, years of being a trainee librarian doing nothing to soften a farmboy’s hands.

“Chirrut,” repeated Baze, anchoring him.

“You’ve heard the news?” Chirrut heard himself say distantly. “I’m being summoned home.”

“Why?”

And there it was. Baze Malbus, not latching onto the first point of contention: Chirrut’s early lie about being an orphan. Baze Malbus, focusing on Chirrut’s problems before his own pressing questions.

Chirrut bit his lip and willed his temper to calm.

“Why else does a Temple guardian-in-training break their vows?” asked Chirrut. “Family troubles.” He ran his fingers on the raised bumps of the letter, read the message again and again.

Chirrut,

I underestimated your value. Your fiancé has expended a great effort to win your hand, and his offer will assure all your family’s futures. Come home.

“And when,” how could Baze sound so calm in light of all this, “do you leave?”

“Soon. I have to arrange for my swift return with the masters.” Chirrut caught the strangled exhale and was buoyed by the relief in it. “What?” he teased. “You thought I, the second-greatest Guardian to ever undergo the masters’ tortuous trials, would simply give this all up?”

Baze deadpanned, “May the Force forbid you ever devote yourself to a goal you give up as you reach it.”

“Force forbid,” said Chirrut. “Now, the masters will be kind enough to let you escort me home whilst carrying my belongings. It’s only across the city, but there are many obstacles for a blind man to struggle through. Maybe too many.” He reached out and found Baze’s face; he patted a cheek. “I leave soon.”

//

[Jay Chou – “Moonlight on the Rooftop”]

The night before Chirrut’s departure, Baze found Chirrut in an open air training ground. His back was flat against the bare stone, his neck supported by his hands and the pillow he’d dragged out, and his eyes focused ahead to the stars.

… There should be stars. Chirrut couldn’t taste any rain, and Jedha’s clouds (whenever they deigned to gather) always brought a downpour.

Baze joined him on the ground, though he refrained from flopping onto the stone like Chirrut. It was with a put-upon sigh that Chirrut sat up, crossing his legs beneath him and turning to face Baze. Their positions (he imagined Baze mirrored him) reminded Chirrut of meditation.

“Why are you really returning home?” asked Baze. “Are you the nearest family member? Is there no one else to help with the trouble?” As Chirrut processed the rapid-fire of questions, Baze warmed to his unusual role of carrying the conversation on his lonesome. “I find the timing of it strange too. Is it financial difficulty? You certainly have savings, but not enough to unburden a debt of any load.”

“Enough!” laughed Chirrut, a little helplessly. “Blood called to blood, and I must answer. I owe them one last visit.” He rested his hands in his lap and stared wistfully skywards. “Did I ever mention that I’m the ninth child of my family?”

Silence. Cautious silence.

“Out with it, Baze.”

“If you believe you owe your family ‘one last visit’ because you think you’ve brought some ill fortune to them,” Baze said slowly, his words chosen with care, “then I hope this truly is your last meeting with them.” The click of a throat swallowing—not Chirrut’s own, he realized in a daze. “You would do any family proud with your achievements here.”

Chirrut dared, despite the thinness, the raw quality of his voice. “Even the Malbus family?”

“Even they,” confirmed Baze. “You—mm.” He tsked then, muttering an unintelligible line of noises before sighing. “I have something for you. Hold still.”

… Baze, surely, wasn’t going to kiss him. Chirrut glumly recognized the impossibility of it but waited anyway. He startled at the gentle touch to his hands, the way Baze shaped them into a cup and dropped something heavy into them. Fingers curled on instinct.

“Jewelry?”

“Jewelry.”

Chirrut puzzled over the shape. When he discerned it, he snapped his head up and hoped Baze’s eyes were connected to his. “A starbird,” he guessed.

“Made of gold.” Baze huffed at how Chirrut hurriedly slipped the necklace around his neck and continued, “I’m sure you don’t actually need me to help you home, you’ve overcome more disasters with grace than I ever could—oof!” He let out a strangled sound; Chirrut had launched himself across the distance between their knees, veritably tackling Baze into a hug.

“I would take every moment possible with you,” said Chirrut. “The good and the bad. When you laugh or when you yell.” He chewed his bottom lip for words—he was good with them. He knew this. It was finding words sincere enough to convince Baze that was the problem. “Is that alright?”

Baze’s breath hitched, and Chirrut could’ve wept in response to the slow wrap of arms around his shoulders. “Okay. Okay. Let’s… go back inside before we freeze to death.”

//

Jinrut Îmwe personally welcomed Orson Krennic into the Îmwe household, a decently-sized property in the Merchant Quarter. That the Îmwes chose to reside in the Holy City surprised Krennic; he had been entertaining the notion of a statuesque manor sitting plainly in a field of sand, the family kyber mines as its backyard.

“Mr. Îmwe,” said Krennic blandly. “I trust you’ve checked your accounts.” In accordance to customs, he tugged off his boots and lined them up with the other shoes, the toes pointed to the wall. He felt strangely naked without them.

Even the presence of his socks couldn’t hide his feet from the chill of the tiled floor.

“All irreversible,” confirmed Jinrut. “And already divvied between my family. You are a generous man, Mr. Krennic.” He led Krennic to a small sitting room and took his place at what was nominally the head of the table. The circular nature of the table made posturing impossible, so Krennic took the chair on Jinrut’s right.

Jinrut had, essentially, bled Krennic dry. His entire life savings and then some had been sacrificed—along with a sizable network of contacts spread across the galaxy—in pursuit of Chirrut’s hand and, consequently, the mines.

Ideas for a hostile takeover of the mines via the policy of eminent domain occurred to Krennic. Multiple times. However, when Krennic checked the records, it turned out Jedha was untouchable by the policy. Many entrepreneurs had tried petitioning the Senate to take the Îmwes’ ancestral lands to no avail.

Assassinating the Îmwes—socially, financially, or physically—wasn’t a possibility either. They were considered a Jedhan staple of life, and beyond that, Krennic knew the family could outsmart anyone who attempted to hunt them down.

So when Jinrut’s demands grew higher and higher, Krennic was forced to relinquish more and more. He trusted in the mines and the Senate’s greed to fish him out of poverty.

“When can I meet Chirrut, Mr. Îmwe?”

“Oh, he is coming home. He has been at the Temple for the past three years.” Jinrut poured Krennic a cup of amber-colored tea. “It is only across the city. He will be here soon.”

“I’d like to take a survey of the mines,” Krennic said, “before I give you my network.” That had been the condition of Krennic’s agreement to the monetary down payment; to withhold his network up until the moment he wedded Chirrut.

“Chirrut can take you,” said Jinrut. “He used to play in them as a child.” He tapped a finger against his temple, dark eyes looking at Krennic knowingly. “Touched in the head, I thought. Wandering like a fool in there, no guide or mining skill to help him back out. But then, as the sun dipped to the horizon, there he would be at the front door, complaining about thirst and hunger.”

Krennic had to ask. “Is he… Force-sensitive?”

“Not enough for the Jedi to take him off my hands.” Jinrut folded his hands on the table. “So tell me in truth, Mr. Krennic. What do you really know about kyber mines?”

//

[Wu Bai – “Xin Ai De Zai Hui La”]

“Should you be walking out like that into the city?” asked Baze, faintly alarmed by the sight of Chirrut.

Dressed in the clothes his father had sent, Chirrut couldn’t blame him. His nose wrinkled at the foreign touch of silk against his skin and how heavily the robes weighed on him. His fingers had traced the needlepoint threads covering the shoulders and elbows, the hems of the collar and wide sleeves. Interlocking crystals, diamond-shaped and hollow. If Chirrut’s memory hadn’t failed him, the robe was a dark gray and the embroidery a light blue to match the sash cinched around his waist.

The gold starbird necklace remained around his neck, under all the layers that marked him as an Îmwe.

“No one’s going to pickpocket me, Baze,” responded Chirrut. He shook out a sleeve, feeling his hand drown in its expansiveness, and reoriented himself. Facing forward from the base of the stairs leading to the Temple… Chirrut grabbed the inside of Baze’s elbow and pointed to the left. “We’ll take the Pilgrim’s Route.”

Minutes into the walk, Baze asked, “How far are we walking along the Route?”

“A little past where we met.”

“The Merchant Quarter?”

Chirrut grinned, though his heart wasn’t into it. “Yes. Surprised?” He bumped Baze’s ribs with his elbow and moved closer when Baze refused to flinch away. “Of course you would be. Finally, after so many long tales of young Chirrut crawling from the gutters, you finally get to see the truth of me.”

Stolidly, Baze replied, “I was never bothered by your background, whatever it was.”

“Only because you never bothered to question it.” They crossed the first bridge. Chirrut compared the differences between now and three years ago, and he turned his face skywards. Today was inauspiciously dry for the rainy season. “I never liked my family too much. They provided well for me, but never supported my decisions.”

“Were those decisions made poorly?” Baze’s strides were measured. Shorter than usual. Sometimes, in the Temple, he stalked off in such a huff that Chirrut had to dash to keep up.

Chirrut scoffed, but admitted, “The early ones. I was given an especially long leash as a child, and it only grew longer when I was a young man.”

“You’re still a young man.”

“I’ll grow old the second I say goodbye to you.” He bit his tongue. Upon the third bridge, Chirrut turned his eyes to the ground and his thoughts to his father’s intentions.

The reason for his summons was clearly stated—someone had actually asked to marry him, despite never talking to him once. Idly, Chirrut wondered how quickly he could have his suitor withdraw from the engagement.

Chirrut intended on marrying for love first, marriage’s benefits second. He believed the opposite held true for his fiancé.

“Why did you come to the Temple?”

“I was bored at home.” He winced, not entirely for the sake of theatrics. Fingers were digging through his sleeve to the muscle of his forearm. “For the endless supply of tarine tea?” A measured breath, intentionally made louder because Baze never made so much noise, not unless Chirrut shocked or annoyed it out of him. “… I had a dream.”

Baze digested the admission. “Alright.” When Chirrut echoed him, irate at the simple way Baze accepted the answer, his escort grumbled, “I believe it more than I do the rest of your reasons. Dreams have a habit of becoming true, sometimes.”

The caveat ‘sometimes’ gnawed at Chirrut. “What if I told you I had a dream about being eaten by…” He wracked his brain for an appropriately-mythical creature, foreign to Jedha’s sands. “By a whale?”

Actually, there were rumors about some sand leviathan burrowed deep in the Jedhan wastes.

“Then I would keep you in the library,” said Baze, “where the most terrifying spectacle is Master Tulm over the cracked spine of a book.”

“What if I told you I dreamt I was a butterfly?”

Calmly, Baze shoved a hand into Chirrut’s face, scrubbing at the scrunching features with no malicious intent. “Don’t be a fool,” he scolded. “I don’t know how you can even reference that. It’s a small wonder your last-minute reading sticks in your head.”

They were getting close to Chirrut’s childhood home. The Merchant Quarter possessed a certain atmosphere that cut it from the rest of the Holy City; it was louder, for one thing. The day life was as cacophonous as the night, buyers and sellers haggling and hawking their goods and services. Loiterers huddled in bunches by street cooks, lured in by the scent of fried and seared foods. Baze sidled closer to Chirrut and readjusted his grip on Chirrut’s belongings.

Chirrut swept aside a kickball and heard a gaggle of children rush past him, clamoring to reach their plaything before it entered the crowded bazaar.

“I had tutors as a child,” he told Baze.

“Why not just one?”

“Well, if you must know, I kept running away to wander the kyber mines.” It hadn’t stopped his parents from hiring new tutors, but it’d certainly curbed their expectations after Chirrut’s intellectual prowess became apparent. A smart son meant nothing if one was an absent son.

“The… kyber mines?”

Chirrut caught the scent of roasted fruit, and his eyes watered at the spice permeating the air. “Ah, let me lead from here. I remember the way.” He threw a smile over in Baze’s direction, even as he dragged them left. “Yes. The kyber mines. Stories say only two kinds of people can navigate them: the Force-sensitive, and the Îmwes. It’s part of the reason why no one contests the right of the mines anymore. The family used to deal with challengers by walking into the mines with them, down to the very core, and race back to the exit. The practice is no longer continued.”

“I’ve never heard of that,” said Baze. “Did you make that up?”

Sometimes, Chirrut forgot how resolutely oblivious Baze Malbus could be. “We’re reaching the residential area. Count the plates on the houses. Our stop is 120.”

Heart in his throat, Chirrut slipped his hand from the crook of Baze’s elbow to his palm. He entangled their fingers and pumped his arm once to start a pendulum.

He gathered his words and did his best to clean them of clutter. Of flowery phrases that did nothing but give Baze discomfort—Chirrut would have to fix that. He’d been trying for three years to land a compliment on Baze that wouldn’t make the man recoil into his shell, and he’d have the rest of his life to succeed after this family affair.

Communicating sincerity in affection was difficult enough without all of Baze’s choice of literary material beatifically warping his perceptions of love. How was Chirrut to compare with all the weeping and corporeal sacrifices deemed standard in Baze’s fairy tales?

Baze tugged Chirrut to a stop. “Ah,” the man managed, struggling to put words together. “This is… a big house.”

“You’re looking at the courtyard,” said Chirrut wryly. “The housing complex is smaller.” He cocked his head and reached out until his fingers found a button. He didn’t press it yet. “The kyber mines,” Chirrut said, “are out of the city limits, but easily accessible if you take the backstreets and don’t mind an old alcoholic driver as escort.”

Now was the moment. He had to seize it before Baze left, before his parents’ preternatural sense of his ‘troublesome’ actions could act up after three years.

Chirrut turned around and fitted both his hands at Baze’s jaw, cradling the soft edges of it with his palms.

“Baze Malbus,” declared Chirrut Îmwe, “when I turn back around, you are going to head back to the Temple with my belongings, and you’re going to put them back where they belong.” He grinned, as fierce as he could make it. “My name is Chirrut Îmwe, ninth child of the Îmwe patriarch, Jinrut Îmwe. I don’t know how long this business will take me, but know I will be home soon.”

“Chirrut. Chirrut.” His hands grabbed Chirrut’s wrists and flung them down, freeing his face, and before Chirrut could rightly feel stung—

Lips mashed against his, clumsy and strangely endearing. Their noses bumped painfully. Chirrut angled his head and steadied the kiss, stomach fluttering all the while as Baze relented and let Chirrut have control. A theory occurred to Chirrut in that instant, one he immediately stuffed into a box so he wouldn’t be tempted to return to the Temple, to their quarters, right then and there.

“You’re coming back,” Baze said, his flat tone daring Chirrut to joke. The shattered pattern of his breathing ruined the sober statement.

“Have you ever known me to break a promise to you?” Chirrut released Baze and took a step back. “Go now, before you seduce me into abandoning all my dignity.” He listened intently to the bark of laughter, the quiet, almost shy farewell, and the retreating footsteps. When Chirrut’s echo-box confirmed the lack of audience, he finally pressed the intercom button. “Father, it’s your terrible son, back from a chaste life of being beaten and fed gruel.”

//

Chirrut’s first impression of Orson Krennic confirmed his earlier suspicion: Krennic wanted the mines. The man—foreign to Jedha, native to Coruscant or some Inner Rim planet, tones rougher than the norm—behaved exceedingly well, despite sounding exceedingly bored of the proceedings.

Chirrut, in his opinion, played the role of dutiful son to perfection. The suspicion from his father was palpable. Clearly, someone had maintained faith in Chirrut’s ability to adapt and resist the Temple’s insistence of humility.

“Oh, you’d like to visit our mines?” gushed Chirrut. “I haven’t been in so long, allow me the privilege of showing you the best routes.”

“Before that,” said Jinrut Îmwe, “a word, Chirrut.” A curt pause. “Come, we’ll talk in the kitchen. Mr. Krennic, excuse us for a moment. My son is in need of some water supplies. The mines will dehydrate you faster than you will expect.” He swept out of the room, and Chirrut tossed an empty, flirtatious smile in Krennic’s direction before he joined his father.

He slid the door shut behind him. “I do hope you don’t actually intend to marry me off to him, father.” Chirrut tilted his head and heard his father move about the kitchen and turn on a faucet. Outside, Krennic began to pace. “Or if so, expect him to stay with me for long.”

Water filled one bottle, crashed against the sink, then began filling another.

“You would be surprised how far Mr. Krennic will go for you,” said his father. “He’s sacrificed much.”

“Not everything yet,” Chirrut responded mildly. “What does he know about our traditions?” Graciously, he extended his hand and received the leather strap of a satchel. Rummaging through it revealed two water bottles and a few more packages, the size of the protein bars the Temple passed to the poor. “… Father, you’re not thinking of giving him a handicap, are you?”

“The Temple should have taken your tongue,” the senior Îmwe muttered. He cleared his throat. “The matter of Mr. Krennic’s survival is entirely in your hands, Chirrut. His credits are already dispersed in the family accounts, and his network of spies?” A scoff. “An unwieldy tool. No, I think the true value of Mr. Krennic’s presence has played out. The Senate has shown interest in our mines before, but never to this extent.”

Chirrut blinked and accidentally let out a laugh. “Politics! Is that your idea of retirement? Who’s in charge of the mines, then?”

“Feirut.” Considering Feirut Îmwe’s penchant for fantastic luck, Chirrut guessed he could understand the decision, especially given that Feirut had successfully built a small nest egg of his own actions. He would have preferred Huajie, but his second sister was somewhere on Naboo, taking all her banking abilities with her.

“Well, then,” said Chirrut. “If you intend on politicking, father, perhaps you ought to leave me to my own devices. Permanently.” He shouldered the satchel, and he smiled. “This is my final duty as your son. After this, I belong to the Temple.”

A beat of silence, and then in a leveled tone. “Then you best be off to the mines before you break your mother’s heart, Chirrut.”

//

It was child’s play for Chirrut Îmwe to disappear into the shadows, the inner sanctum’s torches not yet lit. He hooked the satchel over Krennic as he began to sprint the long, winding way out. Might as well give the man a decent chance of survival.

//

[Guangliang – “Tong Hua”]

The Temple of the Whills’ library was empty of life, excepting for one Baze Malbus. The heavy clouds blotting out the sky were finally relieving themselves of their heavy burdens, and the Holy City rejoiced as one for the delayed downpour. The Temple itself was outside, participating in the celebrations and also ensuring that the floods would not sweep away families or their belongings.

Baze Malbus, lost in thought, carried a stack of tomes to a case and started to tuck them away. Four days had passed since Chirrut’s departure, since Baze returned home with his friend’s belongings and redecorated their room. Four days since the Temple’s initiates and acolytes had pestered him for Chirrut’s family name.

On the third day, Baze, sick of the gossip, snapped that it was Malbus.

In retrospect, not the best answer. The gossipmongers had new material, and years of old blackmail material, and now Baze’s life was filled with well-wishes about his absent husband and congratulations about the nuptials. Riacar asked once about their sex life, and then refrained from asking anything of Baze after receiving a fist to xir face.

The doors opened and closed, and the footsteps were quiet but audible. Baze closed his eyes, and his shoulders slump.

“Master Tulm,” he directed his words to the cracked spines of the books, “I’ll be out soon. There’s just a few more books to shelve—”

Two arms circled Baze’s waist, fingers locking tight. A face buried itself in the dip of Baze’s shoulders. “Hello, husband,” teased Chirrut, his voice muffled. “I’m home.” Baze grappled with the silence locking his tongue to the roof of his mouth, but he failed to summon the simplest greeting. Fortunately, Chirrut had patience for this—Baze’s tongue-tied state—in spades. “This is my husband right? I don’t remember the wedding night, but I’m pretty sure only my husband would lurk in the library on a rainy day.”

“Stop saying that,” Baze finally said.  A traitorous flush crept along his face, burning into his ears. “It was just to get them to stop asking about your family.”

He turned in Chirrut’s arms and leaned against the bookcase, grateful that it was rooted to the floor and not liable to tip over at his weight.

He met Chirrut on a rainy day. A short man with short hair, the black strands plastered to his forehead because unlike Baze, the man wasn’t wearing any protective layers. So the image carried over, transposing itself on the Chirrut of now, his short hair even shorter, soaked from the rain.

Chirrut rested his chin on Baze’s sternum, staring up with his wide, clouded eyes. “I thought I was part of the Malbus family.” The mock hurt was just that—a mockery of the real feeling. Baze felt pathetically relieved that Chirrut wasn’t prone to overreacting. “… Is this still alright?”

Baze gave up pretending apathy and hugged Chirrut, holding him tight against his bulkier frame. “Yes,” he mumbled into Chirrut’s neck. He could taste the cold rain, beading at the skin all the way up to the hollow between jaw and ear, and from there, Baze found it comfortable to kiss the corner of the bow-shaped mouth. He hesitated to move further, hardly daring to breathe while his lips were above Chirrut’s.

Chirrut blinked, lazy in waiting until he realized Baze wasn’t going to act. “Thank the Force,” he said fondly, lifting a hand to hold Baze’s chin in place, a thumb pressed against his lower lip. “The universe would collapse at the sight of me on my knees, begging you for a place in your heart alongside your books and devotion.”

His breath hitched at the visual, and Baze’s eyes fell shut as he let Chirrut take the lead. Incongruously warm, for all that Chirrut seemed to have run through the rain to reach Baze.

Warm and wet and playful—Chirrut, Baze thought in that moment, had had past lovers. Chirrut was experienced in this form of affection, whereas Baze had confined his own love life to merely ogling those he admired.

Chirrut pulled away and coaxed Baze to sit on the floor, back pressed against the bookcase. He knelt in-between Baze’s knees, his hands heavy on Baze’s inner thighs. They hadn’t rucked up his robes yet, and Baze, slightly hysterically, supposed it to be a small mercy—

“We aren’t doing this in the library!” Baze hissed, praying that none of the masters would return early. His cock still rose to the occasion, pressing against his smalls with an insistence Baze hoped wasn’t due to a late-born kink.

This was climbing to a level of ridiculous hypocrisy. Baze had caught amorous couples in the library, and he’d thrown them out on their rears unceremoniously. And he’d had to face them with a stoic expression, deadened eyes to embarrassed ones, during communal readings or meal times.

At least Chirrut had stopped moving, even if he hadn’t stopped panting. “Ah,” said Chirrut. “Right. You’re the safekeeper of the library’s chaste eyes. My mistake, my mistake.” He made to withdraw, and unbidden, Baze‘s legs lifted, and his ankles hooked at the small of Chirrut’s back. Chirrut’s expression went slack with shock.

“I want to revisit this another day,” Baze said, hardly believing his own gall. “For now,” he managed through a dry throat, “shall we clear up the misconceptions of our relationship to our friends?”

“‘Misconceptions?’” Experimentally, Chirrut leaned forward. Baze’s legs followed him, until Baze felt like Chirrut was seeing if he could be folded in half. His breath stuttered to a halt, sputtered back into a sporadic existence.

“By which I mean, ah, the married part, not the relationship part—”

“I love you,” said Chirrut, intent on covering Baze’s body with his as much as possible. On crowding himself into Baze’s heart, trying to gain attention that had already been focused on him. “Baze? I’ve been trying to find a way to say that for a very long time, you know. I’ve thought it quite often, but you’re the Guardian who deals in words, and I wanted it to sound as sincere as it is. So—”

“Where you go,” pledged Baze, yanking Chirrut down so close their foreheads knocked against each other’s, “I will follow.”

/credits/

[Wu Bai – “You Are My Flower”]

The marriage of Chirrut and Baze Malbus follows the rainy season, when Jedha—cold desert moon—pretends it is a green planet for a week, growing shallow-rooted meadow flowers in acres, in and around the settlements.

.

.

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A/N: First and foremost, thank you, giftee, for giving me an excuse to plug in all my love for my culture into this fic, from the worldbuilding to the songs (the credits of which will be covered later). Secondly, thank god for RTC, because parts of the fic would be a lot less coherent if not for y’all.

Credits for the song inspirations:

“Yu Tian” translates to “Rainy Day.” My sister used to play the piano piece for this song ALL the time.

“Who Makes You Crazy” can wholeheartedly by attributed to @evocating. I maintain this is more of an aunty song than Wu Bai’s entire discography.

“Moonlight on the Rooftop” is from @kellymarietran, who kickstarted the entire ‘spiritassassin’ name and also made a fanmix for them.

“Xin Ai De Zai Hui La” translates, to me, personally, “Goodbye, My Love.” Google Translate will tell you differently, as will Youtube videos. This song is my parents’ love song (in that dad sings it in dedication to my mom EVERY TIME IT POPS UP), so. I’m just ecstatic I worked it in.

“Tong Hua” translates to “Fairytale.” Which, fitting! This song was a huge craze in Asia when it came out, and now it’s a Shih family karaoke staple.

“You Are My Flower” is another Shih family karaoke staple; we just really love Wu Bai, alright?

[no-warrior-here]

     ... I'm trash and can't stop myself, so I'm gonna ramble some thoughts about the possible Prey AU/concept/plot/whatever the heck this is. I'll put it under a cut though, because 1, it's probably gonna get long, and 2, this is going to contain major spoilers about the end of Prey 2017. So, if you don't want spoilers, don't look below the cut!

     I'll start off by stating that this takes place in the ‘real world,’ rather than the simulation, so there's tons of world building to do there. Most likely something like the simulation happened once(it was stated to be based on Morgan Yu’s memories, after all), but probably not exactly like that. Or, that's what I'm assuming, anyways. I'm also undecided on if I want this to be an AU for Gregor or Denny, since either one could be really interesting; I have more muse for Gregor tho so I'll stick to him for now. Maybe I'll change my mind later, who knows.

     - Long story short, in this AU, the real Gregor died, probably a long while ago. This AU instead focuses on an experimental typhon hybrid created sometime after the success of the first one. However, this time a full set of false memories have been given to the experiment to give ‘it’ more humanity. In an effort to create a typhon which could learn to be even more human through immersion, they used the memories of a child... I think you see where we’re going here.

     - This typhon hybrid was put through extensive empathy testing all the same, which was highly successful. However, much to the researchers’ astonishment, the specimen was even more human-like than they anticipated... Not only was the hybrid completely unaware that it was not Gregor Reid, it rapidly demonstrated the ability to vocalize and understand speech, experience emotion, and recognize human expressions. Much to their dismay, it also displayed a remarkable and mildly frustrating talent for sarcasm.

     - However, the hybrid exhibited a great deal of distress upon discovering the truth... While not violent, it became vocally hostile and irritable, insisting it was ‘not a monster’ and that it ‘just wanted to go home.’ The typhon also demonstrated the ability to change its appearance similar to a mimic, adopting the same features as the person it believed itself to be.

     - Upon finally accepting that this is the reality, this typhon soon became suspicious and paranoid, unsure that anything it knew was in fact real. ‘If you can just give me whatever memories you want, simulate my experiences in a lab, how do I know you didn't change anything? How do I know what's true, when I can't even trust my own memory? Maybe the typhon aren't as bad as they seemed. How would I know, when I've never even seen one myself?’ Reluctantly the researchers introduced their experiment to an actual mimic, which changed his tune quite abruptly. ‘... Okay. I guess they really are pretty bad. Fine. What do you need me to do?’

     - The experiment underwent many tests to determine its mental capacity, morality, and physical capabilities. Although small and wiry by comparison, the typhon seemed to have most abilities of an etheric phantom, along with the possibility of learning more typhon powers over time. For example, after witnessing a voltaic phantom utilizing electricity, the young hybrid was able to reproduce that talent with moderate success.

     - Furthermore, the hybrid, now dubbed ‘Project Gamma,’ demonstrated the intellect and overall demeanor of a child-- more specifically, the very child his memories were copied from. Gamma was not only fully sentient, but highly emotional, with a great deal of compassion, curiosity, and a keen sense of self-awareness. However, his desire for self-preservation-- the only trait typhon typically do share with humans-- seemed to be either greatly inhibited, or entirely absent. He exhibited very little care for his own well-being, and seemed almost eager to throw himself into situations he believed would lead to his demise. When questioned about this, he merely said, “I have nothing. I’ll never be human, will I? I have no family, no friends, no real identity, even. What am I living for to begin with? To be your science project? A pet? An attack dog? A weapon? That’s not what I will ever want to live for.”

     - Finally, one last test was put in place... Having determined that Gamma was harmless to humans, the researchers decided it was time to give their experiment something worth fighting for. It was a great risk, but what other option was there? The hybrid had no will to fight, no will to live. Perhaps if he saw what he was protecting, things would be different. Instructing their creation to maintain his human guise at all times... Gamma was given the chance to live among the human refugees, his true identity kept secret from all but the highest security officers.

     - In terms of abilities, Gamma is pretty well-rounded; physical mimicry/camouflage and shapeshifting are what come most naturally to him, though he quickly picks up many other typhon abilities as well. He frequently learns from example, but some powers give him a great deal of difficulty. Telepathy is his weakest skill, though he doesn't really want that power anyway. After learning it, he only uses this power enough to locate and identify nearby life forms, feeling it would be invasive to do anything more than that.

     - Gamma can ‘communicate’ with other typhon, though this is quite limited and he doesn't really like it. They don't necessarily ‘speak,’ but he can pick up vague impressions of what they're thinking. Mostly this is limited to flashes of emotion and very brief thoughts he can translate into words, since the typhon have no true language of their own. However, most typhon don't like him much either, recognizing there is something ‘wrong’ about him. Weaker typhon may obey if he orders them to do something, but stronger ones such as Weavers or Telepaths will try to order him around instead.

     - Due to his mimicry ability, Gamma appears human most frequently, assuming the guise of Gregor Reid. He generally goes by the same name as well, seeing them as one and the same. Gamma can still use his various psychic typhon skills in this form, though some may not be as effective, and shapeshifting in any way will reveal his true form. As such, Gamma will not use his powers at all around humans, terrified of what would happen if they figured out what he is.

     - As a typhon, Gamma looks very similar to a Phantom, but smaller and more humanoid. His body type is in fact very similar in overall shape to Gregor's, albeit made of twisted dark tendrils, with glowing white blotches for a mouth and eyes. In truth, he was engineered in a lab from the beginning, originating from Mimic and Phantom material to create a synthetic typhon with a very human-like physiology. Also note that technically, his glowing ‘mouth’ is an eye itself; Gamma simply reshapes it (unconsciously) as a method of conveying facial expressions.

     - Gamma does not require most human necessities of life, such as air or water. He can survive completely unharmed even in a complete vacuum, and resists many forms of physical damage. He can also regenerate limbs or heal injuries by consuming any form of biological matter. To replenish his psychic abilities and maintain the human guise, Gamma does require quite a bit of fuel. When living among humans he will usually just go with regular food, since it does the job well enough and helps him ‘fit in.’ It's also noteworthy that poisons and contaminants which would harm or even kill a human typically won't affect him at all. As long as it is organic matter, he can metabolize it without incident.

     - Eventually, Gamma can learn some powers of a technopath, with severe limitations. He cannot control computers from a distance with his mind, but through directly ‘connecting’ himself to a computer or device via tendrils, Gamma can hack into and control most machines. It’s not instantaneous though, and once he is out of physical contact, his influence is cut off.

     - Gregor’s family is in fact still alive, just on a different ship. If they were to meet Gamma, his cover would be blown for good; they know for a fact that their son is dead, so who would that make this? However, he does plan to return to them one day, and insist that he narrowly survived, hiding the truth. To Gamma, he really is Gregor. The concept of leaving his family behind forever is unthinkable.

     - Gamma is still pretty much the same as Gregor was, personality-wise. However, he tends to be a bit more anxious and worrisome, constantly fretting over whether people will see through his disguise, and whether he can even trust himself. He is terrified that one day, the original typhon will overwrite and overwhelm him, and he’ll become a homicidal monster like the rest. These fears are strengthened by persistent nightmares in which he hears the others of his kind calling, urging him to kill.

     - Despite those constant instincts, Gamma would never harm a human. In most cases he would not even defend himself, seeing their lives as worth more than his own. The only exception would be when more lives are at stake; Gamma will do all in his power to protect others, even if it means having to restrain or knock out another human to do it. He’s not squeamish at all about taking out other typhon, though.

     - Since typhon are so drastically different from humans in terms of biological function and physiology, Gamma experiences certain feelings very differently from how he recalls in his human memories. He doesn't have a sense of taste in quite the same way; nothing tastes ‘bad’ to him except for inorganic matter, and he typically doesn't experience hunger, either. Instead, Gamma will start displaying signs of fatigue, lack of focus, and occasionally aggression. However, he entirely lacks a sense of smell, particularly since typhon have no need to breathe. Gamma’s senses of touch and hearing are slightly heightened, though not by much. Eyesight is the only sense which seems to be wholly unchanged.

[maukgame]

Weekly Progress Blog 1

Visual inspirations and musings

As I begin to move forward in my brainstorming for what I actually want this game to look like, I’m drawn back again and again to the two games that have inspired this project the very most: Glyder 1 and 2 from Glu, and Aer: Memories of Old from Forgotten Key. 

Glyder 2

Aer: Memories of Old

While Glyder 1 and 2 are both outdated and no longer available as apps, both Aer and Glyder also involve a great deal of air control mechanics, and both derive success from integrating a low-poly style with these flight mechanics. 

When you’re playing a flying game, the most important thing the level design should tell you is what you can and cannot crash into. 

Low-poly lends itself to this because it makes it very obvious where the actual hit boxes on objects are. No one wants to play a flying game where you’re constantly “crashing into a tree” because one errant leaf is being calculated as part of its hit box. Low-poly states blatantly to the player where collisions will occur, and this is something I know I will need to emphasize in Mauk as well.

Aer: Memories of Old

Glyder 1

I’m also taking note that both of these games utilize 3rd person camera viewpoints, not 1st. This is a question I’ve been considering for Mauk as well - whether it should be 3rd or 1st person. I’m guessing there’s probably a reason both of these successful flight games incorporate a 3rd person point of view, however until I get the code working I’ll leave the consideration of what to do about this for later.

Finally, I note that Glyder 1 and 2 both really, really obviously telegraph to players where updrafts are. I realize this will be essential for Mauk as well, and I currently think I’ll use a particle system scaled up as the telegraph for updrafts in Mauk. Players not using the updrafts should be a choice, not a fault of visibility. 

Progress and process

Schedule of tasks

Last week I hadn’t yet determined what I wanted to do for the schedule of completing this project. Having given it further thought, my schedule is as follows:

Week 1: 

Tuesday: Begin brainstorming

Thursday: Present rough proposal to class

Week 2:

Tuesday: Begin coding

Thursday: Continue coding

Week 3:

Tuesday: Continue coding, incorporate Leap*

Thursday: Continue coding, incorporate Leap*

Week 4:

Tuesday: Continue coding, incorporate Leap*

Thursday: Begin level design white box

Week 5:

Tuesday: Finish white box, begin testing

Thursday: Continue testing, begin polishing

Week 6:

Tuesday: Compose soundtrack, testing, debugging, polishing

Thursday: Compose soundtrack, testing, debugging, polishing

Week 7:

Tuesday: Compose soundtrack, testing, debugging, polishing

Thursday: Create and incorporate SFX, testing, debugging, polishing

Week 8:

Tuesday: Create and incorporate SFX, testing, debugging, polishing

Thursday: Create and incorporate SFX, testing, debugging, polishing

Week 9:

Tuesday: Testing, debugging, polishing

Thursday: Testing, debugging, polishing

Week 10:

Tuesday: Testing, debugging, polishing

Thursday: Presentations

Finals:

Tuesday: Presentations

* Leap integration will begin whenever code reaches the level of functionality where it’s ready to handle it. Therefore the exact day I’ll begin working with the leap is not completely decided.

** This schedule is completely tangent on progress. Tasks may shift at any time due to unexpected breakthroughs and roadblocks.

Reflection

Overall, I’m going into this project feeling fairly confident. I think I may struggle with the technical coding aspect of this, but it’s actually a challenge I’m really excited for. My confidence with the Leap is helping me not feel overwhelmed, and I’m hopeful that I’ll be able to realize the vision that I have for the mechanics of the game. 

Artistically/aesthetically, the things I’m considering the most right now are how I’m going to maintain a uniform graphical style throughout the game, the considerations about the first or third person camera, and how to deliver the light narrative elements I want to include. I recently had the thought that maybe upon collection of each of the souls, the player is rewarded with either a sound byte of a recorded voice saying something that indicates a little about the fact that it’s a soul the player just collected or having it appear on-screen in text. I think text may prove to be a poor idea simply because if the player has to look away from the actual flying to read the text they’ll likely crash. Maybe I can have each collection despawn and respawn the character with a brief text screen in between? It’s something I have to think more about, but honestly I think it’ll tie back to the camera question whether text is a good or bad idea.

Musically, I’m trying to consider what I want this game to sound like so that I can begin brainstorming in advance for how I want the game to sound. One piece I find particularly inspirational and compelling comes from The Legend of Zelda, Skyward Sword:

I think the form of the piece is close to what I want, however the tone and length are wrong. I want my game to feel relaxing, and while I do want it to be vaguely positive and serene, I don’t think the music should be quite as emphatically bright as this piece. However I think the string section of this piece in particular is composed in such a way as to make the composition feel very airy, and it’s a technique I intend to analyze and consider when I eventually begin composing for Mauk.

Feedback

Last week during proposal presentations two issues were raised to me in feedback:

How will you use the Leap to control the bird?

 This is a piece of feedback that actually made me realize something important: how am I going to tell my audience what the controls are on presentation day? I know how the game is controlled, of course, it’s my idea, but if I want this to be a game that can be enjoyed without me literally present there to explain, how am I going to get this idea across to the player as quickly and naturally as possible?

As it stands, one option is to have a written accompaniment beside the Leap on the table, but that strikes me as really tacky. Another option would be to have a splash screen that explains the control in text/with diagrams. I think this is the second best option. The best option would be to have an in-game animation where it illustrates the controls to you in the first few moments of gameplay, however due to my complete unfamiliarity with animation I think this may be beyond my capacity. A stretch goal will be making the control information as integrated as possible, however primary concerns will still remain ordered as they are in my proposal document (see post: Rough Proposal).

How are you going to address accessibility issues?

This is honestly something that I could do more about, however providing an alternate means of control when I’m already using a non-standard controller is something I’m not sure I’ll have time to address within 10 weeks as the sole developer on this project. Providing an alternate, more accessible control scheme will be a stretch goal, however goal orientation will remain as ordered in my proposal document (see post: Rough Proposal).

I do believe accessibility is something games could still improve a lot on in general, my own game included. I think games as they are now are somewhat exclusive in a lot of ways - the most obvious being that nearly all games are completely visually reliant. I think games can and should strive to become more inclusive, however accessibility isn’t the specific focus of this project, so while these concerns matter to me and I don’t think they should be discarded, this project isn’t going to be the one where accessibility is my main focus.

[cordessanglantesofficial]

          You’ve quickly learned that ignoring any notifications coming from your phone — other than the IM channel — was a bad idea, so when your phone beeps with the normal announcement, a silent groan vibrates in your throat while you grab for it. You figure this can’t be about the motive, since you had about five more days until the deadline. Once you finally fumble with your phone, fear and dread consumes you. The hologram that projects is not that of the SysAdmin — rather, Marionette’s visage faces you.

                   “Surprised? Good. Report to the PARK in fifteen minutes. Attendance is mandatory and mon minou won’t be happy if he has to round up stragglers, so I wouldn’t recommend testing him. SysAdmin has updated your phone with our exact location.”

          Her opaque body flickers out, leaving only the normal lock screen of your phone. The dread you felt before has formed into a weight in your chest. The first time you met the Wardens, the stood atop the General Store and told you of the game you would be playing. The second time was in the plaza, when their irritation reached a boiling point. The park, however, was far from any utilities of this damned prison.

                    ( No one could have caved — could they? )

           Your thoughts turn to the motive, and the weight in your chest just becomes heavier and a knot forms in your stomach. The motive was just a scare tactic, wasn’t it? A joke to get something to happen?

                    ( We still have time to figure this out...right? )

           You realize you don’t want to keep the Wardens waiting, partially out of respect, but mostly out of fear. You slip your shoes on and start to make your way to the meeting spot.

           Little did you know, the countdown had already stopped.

Current Time: 1450 hours

           You arrive at the meeting spot to discover the rather large group (to you, that is — to others it was overwhelmingly small) has gathered in a sort of circle. In the middle stood Marionette, Chat Blanc faithfully at her side. The glee that reflected in her eyes makes your blood run cold. You look around, trying to find the reason you’re here.

          It comes to you in the form of a human hand protruding from the ground.

                    ( Oh, God. Someone — someone actually did it! )

          Your stomach churns, a wave of nausea setting in. Someone was dead — someone you knew. Looking around, you can’t seem to pick out who’s missing from the crowd. You can’t tell who’s dead and the hand gives little away. Even worse was the knowledge that one of the people you saw was a murderer. You glance around again to study reactions. Many seem sick as you had, some mortified, but some stood with a neutral expression. Those were the ones who had been through this before, you assume, or were around death often.

                    ( This isn’t the first time for some of them. How horrible. )

          You force the panic rising past the sickness, because the last thing you want to do is lose your cool. A voice rings out, breaking you from your train of thought.

          “About time someone died. I was starting to wonder if I was going to have to do it myself.”

          Marionette glanced to her partner, happily smiling as she spoke to only him, instead of speaking up to the group.

          “I was actually looking forward to sinking my claws into someone.”

          There’s a whine and a pout from the white-clad Warden, but he’s quickly placated by a scratch behind the ears from Marionette.

          “You’ll get your chance eventually. Be patient, mon minou. So, shall we begin?”

         You are anxious to start this meeting, to advance to the next stage of this so-called “game,” but you don’t dare interrupt the duo. They leave you standing awkwardly, fidgeting until they decide to stop lounging around. After a minute that feels like an eternity to you, they finally give the crowd their attention.

          “You have a dead body, and now you have a killer to find. We’re giving you one day.”

          A few people protest Marionette’s time frame, but others remain silent. They stop completely when Chat Blanc’s irritated voice breaks through.

          “SysAdmin has updated your phone. I suggest you open them now, assholes.”

          Not wanting to risk angering them, you pull out your phone and upon unlocking it, you see a brand new application. Opening it, you see an organized list titled The Cat’s Notes — File 1. The implication that more people will die and more files will come send a shiver down your body.

          “We want you all to have a fair chance to figure the killer out, because we’re nice like that. Sys, hurry it up.”

          Chat Blanc’s irritation was now laced with excitement, a concerning thing within itself. Which Warden should you fear more — the cat that’s ready to pounce at any moment and rip you to shreds with his claws or the calculating, beautiful woman who stands tall and turns your blood to ice? You don’t think about it anymore as The Cat’s Notes app is forcefully shut down and Sys’s body projects from your phone. She groans and starts to talk in the singularly most bored voice you’ve ever heard.

          “The Cat’s Notes contain information my Masters have decided you deserve to know. The primary file will contain the information that comes directly from them. Now if you slide the fucking screen left like a normal person, you’ll see a blank document. It’s shared between all of you idiots and will update in real time. Feel free to jot down all evidence here — or don’t. I don’t really give a shit. Swipe left one more time and you get your own personal document, because you need it apparently. Whoop-dee-fucking-do, you’re big kids now. Oh, I have full access to all of these, private or not, so if you’re going to write weird smut, don’t. I’ll send it to everyone just to spite you.”

          With that, SysAdmin gives a sigh and an eyeroll, then flickers out. The file app was pulled up automatically and the hard truth finally sets in. What the Wardens said at the start was really true.

                    ( One person’s already dead, and someone else is going                       to be executed. Oh, God...this isn’t a cruel joke after all. )

          Marionette raises her voice one last time to address us further.

          “Like Blanc said, we want you to have a fair chance at cracking this case, so you might want to pay attention.”

          A sigh leaves her as she licks her lips, echoing SysAdmin’s previous boredom. Once she had our undivided attention again, she huffs and gives us some final words.

          “Neither I nor Chat Blanc will lie to you. The only people you can trust are us. Ironic, I know. You can ask us questions if you truly feel like it, but I won’t guarantee we’ll answer. We’re not going to hold your hands.”

          With that, Marionette turns and walks toward one side of the circle; your fellow prisoners part to let her pass. Chat Blanc follows shortly after, but stops short and throws a look over his shoulder. His lips are stretched into a grin that is reminiscent of a Cheshire grin.

          “I suggest you get started. Time is ticking.”

          And just like that, he walks away to join Marionette. A beep has you checking your phone. A new counter has appeared, reading 23:59:53. You suppress your nerves and look around to the crowd. You have just twenty four hours to find a murderer — or suffer the Wardens’ punishment.

           It’s time to get started.

Chuuya Nakahara (ofgravity)

Tessa De Witt (starsmusestation)

Brigette Cheng (ladibugs)

Clive Dove (iamclivedove)

Time of death was at 0030 hours.

The body was discovered at 1430 hours.

The cause of death is a snapped neck.

The Body

There is only a single hand visible sticking out of the ground.

That is all that is currently visible, you will have to find the rest.

The Location

There is still dirt all over the place like there was a rush to dig something.

The hand is sticking out of a mound of dirt and grass.

There seems to be one set of footprints around the mount, but the prints are smudged and overlapping.

There seems to be one footprint that is relatively undisturbed, the exact size is unknown but seems to be no larger than a size 9.

Outside of the mound of dirt, nothing appears to be out of place here.

Google doc, will be linked as soon as one is made.

You are free to ask Marionette or Chat Blanc any questions you may have. That does not mean they will answer you (really depends on their moods), however their answers will be 100% truthful.

The two wardens are not the only people you can ask questions to, there are various NPCs that you can ask questions to as well.

Marionette nor Chat Blanc will confirm or deny your alibis unless they are directly linked to them/involve their presence in some way.

ALL INQUIRIES SHOULD BE SENT TO THIS BLOG.

The investigation period is purely an evidence collection period. There are no special requirements / asks / whatever you have to send into us. You are left on your own to look over the evidence provided and put together what you believe is a motive, a murder scene, and a culprit.

The mod team will not help you here unless within reason ( read: confirming found evidence, witness accounts, etc. )

Do NOT inject your own evidence into the scene without asking a mod. If you have guesses to where items (such as weapons, clothes, etc) may be, you can ask one of the mods. Unless you get it right, we will not tell you or give you permission to find these items.

Once the investigation period is over (give it a few days to a week), you will collect all evidence and present it at the trial and duke it out with your fellow group members to either prove someone’s innocence or their guilt.

If a mod adds any evidence or if anything else comes to mind, we will post it to the tag. Same for if another muse discovers evidence. Do not rush us for responses to inquiries about evidence / etc. We will reply as quickly as we can!

PLEASE NOTE THE ONLY PERSONAL ACCOUNT OF EVENTS (SOMEONE SAYING THEY SAW SOMETHING / DID SOMETHING) THAT CAN 100% BE BELIEVED IS MARIONETTE OR CHAT BLANC’S. ALL OTHER CHARACTERS MAY OR MAY NOT BE LYING. YOUR WARDENS ARE THE ONLY ONES YOU CAN TRUST TO NEVER, EVER TELL A LIE.

[maximumcyclecollectorblr-blog]

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[bestkitchencookwaresets]

Kitchen Design - Take the First Steps to Success - Planning

Presentation

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This article is not about the particular outline highlights of your kitchen and how to plan it. There are numerous great assets accessible for that. Rather, it is about the way toward outlining your kitchen. It is intended to help in getting a head begin and to uncover any individual who is, or may be, setting out upon the outline of another or rebuilt kitchen, to the first and most vital stride - Planning.

Outlining a kitchen for another or existing home is a major interest in time, cash and vitality and it is now and again distressing and testing. Tragically, a few merchants and TV programs don't care to harp on this angle and along these lines delude the purchaser with respect to the genuine measure of time and exertion that is required. Despite the fact that making another kitchen is testing, most customers say that the outcomes are more than worth the exertion. I trust that the data gave in this will be a useful commitment toward having you well on your way to a fruitful venture.

Before you start the way toward planning your new kitchen, you should set the criteria for the outline. I prescribe that you draw in an expert kitchen originator that plans the cupboard format, as well as outlines each component of the kitchen and is included all through the whole task, so the last outcome will be a durable outline that reflects ideal capacity and style. The architect won't just enable you to make a lovely, effective, kitchen however will spare you noteworthy time and cash and you will both have a ton of fun building up your joint creation. I assume that what takes after will get your vitality streaming and musings hustling, in arrangement for really setting out upon your adventure. Furthermore, it "is" an excursion!

THE KITCHEN OF TODAY

The kitchen has customarily been the most essential room in the house since cooking and sharing sustenance has for quite some time been vital to family life. Dinners will dependably be essential, however cooking has, now and again, fundamentally changed. The basic supply industry has concentrated on substitutions for home dinners and many eateries have joined "to-go" in their plan of action. Regardless of whether we cook every now and again or not, kitchens remain the establishment of family life since it is the place we live and assemble. It is the place the majority of us begin and end our days and offer the data of our day.

The present kitchens serve more parts than any other time in recent memory: excitement focus, home office, cooking and eating space. The gadgets for a stimulation focus may incorporate TV, music and web association and the workplace region may have a work area, documents, PC and bookshelves.

THE FIRST STEPS

Decide with your family, who utilizes your present kitchen and how, and talk about the accommodations you might want to have in the new form. Make a scrapbook of articles and notes on kitchens and kitchen includes that intrigue you and photos of kitchens you like. Assess how and when you cook, where you serve dinners to whom and how frequently you engage and how you engage. Stock your dishes, flatware, serving pieces, cookware, cloths, and your run of the mill staple stockpiling necessities with the goal that you can make certain that the new outline suits everything.

It appears that regardless of how much time you spending plan for a renovating venture, it for the most part takes longer than you anticipated. For an entire rebuild, the down time amid development can be no less than a few months and any longer, contingent on the size and degree of the undertaking. Your family needs to eat meanwhile. Along these lines, previously development begins make courses of action to store, warmth and tidy up, enough to prop you up until the point that the kitchen is back on-line. Huge numbers of my customers who have had the favorable luck to have a bar soak in the family room, have moved in the old cooler and microwave close to the bar sink and this blend turns into the between time kitchen amid development of the better one. The upside to this is it gives an incredible basis to eating out more frequently!

THE KITCHEN FOOTPRINT

How about we begin with the space you have accessible for the kitchen. Regardless of whether you are outlining for another home, or renovating in a current one, you are constrained by how much space you have accessible in which to make your fantasy. On the off chance that the space is genuinely little, you will need to consider regardless of whether you have the choice of extending. You might have the capacity to finish this in your current home and, in another home, all the time despite everything you have room schedule-wise to adjust the structural arrangement, if necessary. In either case, on the off chance that you can dispense with or migrate a divider or dividers or add to the house to make more space for the kitchen, it will enhance the capacity and estimation of the room fundamentally.

Obviously, in the event that you don't make an expansion to the house, and simply evacuate or move a wall(s), you at that point have encroached upon a bordering space and diminished its size, so you need to measure which choice is the best for you. Is it worth surrendering the other space to expand the measure of the kitchen? As far as I can tell, on the off chance that you can manage without the abutting space, it is greatly improved to give that additional space to the kitchen.

When you intend to evacuate or move a wall(s), the key factor to decide is, by so doing, will you experience a heap bearing circumstance? This happens when the wall(s) is a piece of the emotionally supportive network for the structure of the house. Generally a temporary worker can decide this. On the off chance that the temporary worker is indeterminate, you should have a basic specialist analyze the structure to make that assurance. On the off chance that it is non stack bearing, when you are prepared to begin development, the contractual worker can continue to work out the space per the new arrangement. In the event that it is a heap bearing issue, your nearby building specialist will require that you hold an auxiliary designer or a draftsman to plan a basic answer for evacuating or moving the wall(s).

He or she will submit outline illustrations and figurings of the arrangement, to the building specialist for endorsement and allow. After getting the allow, when you are prepared to start development, the temporary worker would then be able to continue to work out the structure per the designer's or draftsman's determinations. This is the procedure in California, in light of the state building guidelines, Title 24. The procedure in alternate states is fundamentally the same as.

Regardless, once you have settled on the choice of regardless of whether to extend or re-arrange, you will know the size and shape (impression) of the space that you have accessible from a flat point of view - Plan View.

VERTICAL SPACE

You ought to likewise consider what size and shape the room will be from a vertical point of view also. In the event that it is conceivable to build the stature of the room by raising, wiping out or modifying a current low roof or soffit, you ought to genuinely consider exploiting this choice. The extra tallness will give more bureau stockpiling from the expanded stature of divider cupboards and the room will turn out to be more voluminous which is constantly more outwardly great and agreeable. From a development viewpoint, the heap bearing issues will apply to expanding the room stature similarly as it applies to moving or dispensing with dividers.

Obviously, in managing these outline and development issues and choices that should be influenced, you to won't be distant from everyone else. Your originator will be the significant individual who will enable you to assess the decisions you have accessible. He or she will deliver illustrations keeping in mind the end goal to outwardly show these choices and will offer counsel on which choices are ideal and why.

I comprehend that this all sounds extremely repetitive and dangerous. In some sense these two words are a decent depiction of the outline/development process. In any case, what I have laid out above is done a large number of times each day and the greater part of those mortgage holders have survived and, subsequently, now have the new, excellent, practical, kitchen they had always wanted. You see I said "most"! Truly, the undertaking will be testing and there will be a few issues. This is recently the idea of outline and development and that is the reason you ought not continue without experienced proficient help all through the procedure from the earliest starting point to the end.

Using YOUR KITCHEN

It is safe to say that you are a specialist culinary expert, who does everything: cooking, preparing, grilling, or would you say you are an insignificant cook whose fundamental objective is to simply get a feast on the table for the family as quickly as could be allowed, or would you say you are some place in the middle? Do you generally cook without anyone else's input or do you regularly have family and companions help with the cooking? Do you regularly engage and all stream into the kitchen while chomping on your Brie between tastes of chardonnay? Do you prepare regularly and need a marble surface for that reason? The inquiries can continue forever.

A few customers have substantial, esteemed, homes and engage habitually as well as have expansive families. They may have somebody do the cooking for them. Some of these sorts of undertakings may require the full treatment, for example, a steward's storeroom or stroll in wash room, two islands, two fridges, two dishwashers, two microwave broilers, a wine cooler, a different refreshment cooler, an implicit coffee machine, sink, prep-sink and bar sink and glass-entryway cupboards to show the family treasure china, and so on.

Most customers require something generously not as much as the greater part of this, yet I bring it up just to underline that how you use your kitchen affects the plan and in this way, as I specified, you should consider how you need to work

[itsdralikawalworld]

Top 10 Iconic Junk Foods. I focus on expelling sugar and flour items from my eating regimen, beginning quickly. There is no doubt as far as I can say that rolling out improvements to my sustenance along these lines impacts my life, vitality, disposition, mental keenness and connections also my own health and prosperity, more than whatever other decision I can make. I've done it some time recently, and the outcomes are sensational and justified, despite all the trouble. Image source: https://pixabay.com/ Music source: http://www.bensound.com/royalty-free-music The initial couple of days of rolling out these improvements can be somewhat of a stun contingent upon what amount prepared or sugary nourishments you've been eating (and this season of year, it could be on the over-the-top-end of the range, ugh..) will affect your experience, in addition to your own individual science. In the event that you truly need to prevail at something like this, which is completely much the same as detoxing from other substance addictions-in spite of the fact that I know some medicinal experts will dissent you should make space for the experience. #Top 10 Iconic Junk Foods #junk food Here's an agenda of a couple of things to help bolster you in the event that you need to get the sugar/flour/prepared carbs out: Set your expectation get clear on the parameters of what you will change Prepared your condition, either evacuating or adding things to help you (dispose of triggery sustenances, and ensure you have the makings for fulfilling suppers and snacks promptly accessible) Set aside a few minutes for the change i get a kick out of the chance to ensure I have a couple of days that will be less occupied or testing so I can bear to snooze, or rest. You may feel drained, irritable, low vitality, headachey or slightly lost as you explore your existence without your top choice "medications". We utilize sugar and such to change our states of mind and to occupy us from difficult musings and emotions, so arranged to feel somewhat lost around this. Set up some option types of solace I want to peruse, ruminate, walk, and other calm leisure activities set up of self-mitigating driven eating. Consider how to get yourself through the initial 4-5 days which are ordinarily where you will most feel any physical inconvenience. Sustain yourself-add some organic product to your suppers and snacks, the regular sugars will help a considerable measure. Abstain from overcompensating by means of caffeine-it's an awful exchange, you'll feel more crabby drink heaps of water to flush out your framework. Get some smash in-crunching crude vegetables will relieve a portion of the uneasiness you feel, get the strain in your body out through your jaws, it makes a difference. Realize that "this too should pass" - in spite of the fact that you can feel more worn out and lazy for a considerable length of time subsequent to expelling the sugar/flour, general you will see courses in which you feel a ton better, moderately rapidly, following a few days for the most part. Be additional kind to yourself-no compulsiveness on different things, just concentrate on the main job. In the event that you bring an excessive number of changes in with the general mish-mash, kapow you will be overpowered and disheartened and your great aims will most likely fall flat. You don't need to give this a chance to happen. Ensure your aims MOST critical. Don't really converse with others about this. I have discovered that for all intents and purposes everybody has an assessment, and frequently individuals LOVE to contend wrangle about what others eat. It's irritating, not their issue to worry about, and can give you a simple "out" at a powerless minute when you choose, "well, they're correct, you do require sugar for an upbeat and typical life". Believe me on this, secure yourself by keeping your expectations holy and to yourself. Maintain a strategic distance from circumstances that will be excessively to deal with in the powerless early weeks... this has a significant effect, and you should secure what is important for you. I want to enable individuals to get off the nourishments they feel dependent on watching you end up plainly brighter and shinier and less burdened physically and each other way, is a piece of this work I love. You can even converse with me online now-see the little symbol on my landing page. I likewise have heaps of new choices for us to cooperate this year-possibly attempt a natural motivation session with me as an approach to move on the majority of your desires during the current year.

[thatkellikat]

Project Evaluation

Personal methodology and practice: knowing, making and creating

Knowing

I am currently in the processes of preparing my final presentation and in order to effectively capture the project holistically I feel like I need to reflect on it from the start. Studying my Master’s Degree Part time has given me a long period to work on this project and therefore it has evolved tremendously over the last 10 months.

My original aims were to identify how and why skateboarders seemed to be inherently creative people. I also had a point to prove in regards to the validity of skateboarding in an educational context; as a means to develop independence, resilience and creativity. From this quite loose starting point I have been on a journey and discovered that there is much more to these discourses. Taking a more ethnographical approach, I have been able to uncover a set of ideologies and philosophies that are at the centre of skateboarding culture. It is these values that generate the creativity that is at the heart of it.

Looking back at my early plans and ideas, the notion of DIY has always been very important to this project. Being another ideological value in skateboarding culture the ‘do it yourself’ attitude it was important to address this both in the film and in its production itself. I have always been inspired by the coarse retro styles of 90’s artist such as Harmony Korine, Ed Templeton, Larry Clark and William Strobeck. My appreciation for these artist formed the basis of my early aesthetic designs. I began looking at Japanese’s equivalences to the unpolished designs of these Western examples after reading Dwayne Dixons’ essay, “Getting the Make: Japanese Skateboarder Videography and the Entranced Ethnographic Lens” (Dixon. 2011). This brought me to the notion of Wabi Sabi. Wabi Sabi is the art of imperfection. It suggests that it is the floors and inconsistencies in art forms that make them beautiful. Another Japanese inspiration that embraces this philosophy is the film The Future is Primitive (2015) by Katsuya Nonaka. In this film Nonaka compares the traditional Japanese wind instrument, the Shakuhach to skateboarding by relating the mass production of the commercial versions of these instruments to the commercialization of skateboarding. These deeper creative ideologies run concurrently through Eastern and Western skateboarding culture and are epitomized by the DIY, rough and unpolished aesthetics of skateboarding art and the core values of true skateboarding culture.

The parallels between the global skate community pre-date the world-wide-web and our ability to universal share what we had for breakfast. However, technology has played a big part in highlighting and distributing skateboarding artefacts and associated media. My interest in digital ethnography at this point in the project became key in developing the multi-media platforms and interactive elements of WeCanFly. I found challenges in regards to wanting to keep the ‘grunge’ aesthetic and DIY elements of the project whilst making something that would have coherence across multiple platforms and also look professional. The validity of the project and how the skate community would receive it relied heavily on getting this balance just right.

Making

My research into Digital Ethnography also presented me with some ethical challenges. Ethnographic film and the validity of the mode is contentious.  To quote from a one of my own blog entries “The line between documentary film and an ethnographic study using film as a means of communication is often defined by the purpose; to entertain or to educate. Scholars criticise ethnographic films with any commercial value and thus the medium is either frozen within the confines of a high brow bourgeois attitude or minimised as a low brow form of amusement. I […] aim to argue the place of the ethno-film within a digital media world in reference to how WeCanFly will bridge this gap and incorporate New Media techniques with traditional ethnographic methods and documentary film models” (Watson, K 2016). It has always remained vital to me that WeCanFly represents core skateboard culture and not the commercialised version that is becoming globally franchised and thus maintaining the projects authenticity is an important factor.

Another ethical challenge I faced using a digital platform was the idea of permissions and fair representation. For WeCanFly to remain true to skateboarding ideological outlook there needed to be a sense of freedom: creative freedom and freedom of speech – that of my own and the artists featured. As I stated in a blog post in January 2017 “Both Skateboarding and Art are notoriously focused on individuality and self-expression and thus it is vital for me to not suppress these qualities through the way I represent the skater/artist in my film” (Watson, K, 2017).

These ethical issues brought about a big change in the way that I thought about the project. I realised that my own position as the film maker had implications on the projects bias and overall integrity. As an ethnographer my position should be from ‘outsiders’ point of view. Linguistically ethnography has always been concerned with ‘other cultures’. That said the reflexivity of the ethnographic lens will always have cause and effect. One of the most rewarding parts of making WeCanFly has been being part of the skateboarding community but it has also been important to remain on the outside looking in. My original ethos for the film was to ‘let the truth speak for itself’ in relation to the ‘story’ of skateboarding arts, but I soon realised that the “truth” in documentary or ethnographic film is not achievable.   I found myself in a moral battle in regards to whether I wanted to create some kind of confrontation in the film (with the aim of creating drama/ entertainment) or to remain on the side of the skateboarders and follow my heart or prove my point.  I made the decision to continue on the later part but removed the testimonial about the projects “truth” from my mission statement.

Creating

I have been self-reflective throughout the production process and this has allowed me to continuously improve the project.  The project has evolved quite naturally but at the heart of this fruition was my focus on the key ideological values of skateboarding culture. The notion of DIY has played a big part in the production of WeCanFly. I have filmed, edited and directed the film myself. I have worked succinctly with other people (including the featured artists, musicians, and some technical support) but I have tried to keep the project low key – with an ‘indie vibe’.

The people I have got involved have been current and ex students who have used the experience to better themselves as film makers. I have tried to purposefully avoid any high definition polished and sleek finishes which may take away from the ‘realness’ of my film. This factor supports my beginning aim to validate skateboarding in an educational context; as a means to develop independence, resilience and creativity.

Freedom is another key skateboarding value that WeCanFly embraces. The interactive platform and website give the user the freedom to navigate the project. In addition, my ethnographical approach and decision not to create drama or insight discourse within the films narrative represents the freedom of the participant and their fair representation.  

Through product testing and utilizing feedback I have developed the project into something with some coherence and professionalism. However, it also embraces the notions of Wabi Sabi. The inconstancies, randomalities and realness of WeCanFly are what makes it unique and beautiful.

References:

Dixon, D. “Getting the Make: Japanese Skateboarder Videography and the Entranced Ethnographic Lens.” Postmodern Culture, vol. 22 no. 1, 2011. Project MUSE, doi:10.1353/pmc.2012.0006

Nonaka, K (2015) The Future is Primitive [Film] 

Watson, K (2016-17) www.thatkellikat.tumblr.com [blog] [accessed 27-7-17] 

[dyingrabbit]

Negated Universe Misadventures - Chapter Two

(Round two I s’pose. This might actually still be the best chapter. Oh well. Sorry for the long post again. Madoka Magica SPOILERS.)

Humor/Dark

Subjective narrator (Homura Akemi)

Word count: 4209

“Fuck” count: 28

Proof of Concept: Part One (Attempt #27)

As far as I was concerned, there were no more than two ultimate goals that needed to be fulfilled to constitute a successful run.

Number one, Madoka needed to survive.

Number two, Madoka could not be allowed to contract with Kyubey.

What I continually found, however, was that pursuing these goals at the expense of everything else led to an insurmountable catch-22 when it came to defeating Walpurgisnacht. Simply put, without the aid of the other girls, it became impossible to defeat the mega-witch unless Madoka transformed. If she didn't, she died, or I gave up and reset. If she did, she one-hit Walpurgisnacht and then succumbed to despair, or I mercy killed her. Failure all the way around.

So although my ground rules remained constant, it became necessary to consider the implications of my fundamentals. Id est, I needed to also ensure the safety and cooperation of the other three magical girls.

The game was thus that I needed to assist Mami in eliminating Charlotte without getting on her bad side, either prevent Sayaka from contracting in the first place or stop her from free falling into despair if she does, and lastly to rein in Kyouko so that she doesn't throw a wrench into the group's synergy. All this was much easier said than done, but it looked really neat as a bullet pointed list in my notebook.

Alright, I'll admit it. The notebook had so far served very little utility beyond being a really cute prop. But God damn it, I was having a fucking blast organizing this thing.

It was a leather bound journal with a little buckle on it. When I first saw it on display at a stationary store I was visiting for no particular reason, and I stress that it was for no fucking particular reason, I realized it was probably incredibly vital in ensuring Madoka's survival.

It would be pure conjecture, of course, to assert that it was while I stood there in the stationary store staring at the journal for several minutes that I concocted the entire plan for performing a control run and taking detailed notes in THAT journal. It would be pure conjecture, yes, and thus an invalid basis for making any conclusions about my reasoning process. This was due in large part to a true god-out-of-the-machine-tier lifesaver in that the argument "No, I totally planned that out earlier. The notebook was auxiliary, not instrumental, to the plan's inception" was completely and utterly unfalsifiable.

Anyway, I hadn't decided yet if I was going to go with a perfectly neat and organized look, such that someone could read it and know exactly what I was talking about, or if I should go with a cluttered mad scientist's sprawl of random figures and arcane passages which held varying levels of important information, such that anyone who picked it up would think I was insane but brilliant. Undeniably brilliant.

So far it looked pretty sparse because the last run ended, quite unfortunately, a bit prematurely. But that would change soon, I was sure.

This next run would be more of a proof of concept run in that I would focus on gauging the feasibility of performing the actions specified in my to do list.

Item number one was making sure Mami didn't go and get herself killed this time in Charlotte's lair. This required a bit of preliminary PR shit so that Mami and the gang trusted me enough to bring me along.

The most success I've had with that in the past came when I was a total shit-tier magical girl with glasses and a golf club. The better part of their trust was probably transmuted from an abject sense of pity they felt for me, as I could hardly beat up a defenseless metal drum much less anything more sentient than, say, a defenseless metal drum.

There wasn't anything wrong with sticking to what works, so I decided to play the powerless moe fountain with a heart condition to get on Mami's good side. This unfortunately meant completely forfeiting my cool factor. It meant I was sticking with the glasses, it meant I had to act all shy and demure about everything, and it meant I had to bring back the God damned twin tail braids. The good news was that I was merely testing a limiting case to prove that saving Mami was even feasible. In the future I'd probably be able to fine tune this so that I wouldn't have to hate myself in order to clear this stage, but for now we were just looking for guarantees.

When I introduced myself in class I purposefully averted my eyes from all the other students and clutched my bag as though it were a life raft. As an additional touch, I briefly looked up and locked eyes with Madoka for a fraction of a second before quickly looking back at the ground.

Oh, fuck yeah. I went there.

You see, it seemed like an accident, but now Madoka is unwittingly invested because she feels guilty for staring at me. I almost felt sorry for pulling out such decrepit stops in this instance because she clearly stood no fucking chance against my masterful psychological attacks.

When break came, I made a big show out of feeling light headed and informed Saotome-sensei. She directed Madoka, the nurse's assistant, to guide me to the nurse's office. So far this was playing out much like the original timeline. It was almost nostalgic.

Madoka was fairly timid around people she'd just met and I was no exception. However, since I'd worked so hard to present myself as socially extinct, she seemed to place me on a lower rung than herself and attempted to get me to open up.

She wasn't generally an excellent active listener, though she clearly tried very hard. To be blunt, I'm not sure she was capable of grasping the concept of a leading question.

"So you just transferred, huh?" She redundantly mused as we walked down the hallway.

"Um, yes." I said nervously, really putting on the gas, "I-I've been the hospital for a long time, you see..."

A critically malfunctioning abacus could have told you what the next topic of conversation ought to have been, but Madoka just said, "Oh." We spent most of the walk in silence.

Madoka wasn't exactly opening up a window for conversation but, since it was necessary to provide her with some sort of self-esteem boost here, I eventually broke down and just inserted a "I think you're a really strong person" without any context.

Without my intervening, Madoka and Sayaka eventually met up with Mami and excitedly began their journeys as magical girls in training. When they eventually tracked Gertrud down, I just so happened to show up at the exact same time. Of course I'd had no idea Mami was also a magical girl. More importantly, I was more than happy to share in the glory of battle with the three of them. All with an innocent unassuming smile to top it off. Sayaka seemed to be a bit suspicious about the remarkable coincidence, as she would be, but the other two were fucking putty in my hands.

Game, set, match.

I let Mami handle Gertrud herself. I mean, I certainly pretended to help out, but for the most part I kept my bad ass arsenal on the down low. No reason to draw any undue attention to myself just yet. Plus, this particular fight is about as cool as Mami ever gets to look, so it would be a bit cruel to take this away from her just because.

And she looked great. Really, she did. She was in top form. The little move where she casually starts sipping her tea after demolishing the witch was certainly quite cheeky, but I was mostly just jealous that I couldn't use that now without catching some major shit.

In any event, I was totally part of the gang now. Public relations had been a resounding success. Now it was time to keep miss Tomoe from losing her head up her ass.

I hadn't given much thought to it yet, but action item number two was going to be pretty fucking difficult. Taking this line with Mami, in promoting a positive image of magical girls in general, made it all but certain that at least Sayaka would want to make a contract with Kyubey.

In some ways, Mami dying made it a lot easier to keep the other two from contracting. In the same way, for instance, making a show of accidentally shooting someone in the head made a compelling argument for safe gun handling practices. But it also meant I was down a man for no other reason than to delay what had consistently proved to be an inevitability. That being Madoka and Sayaka contracting.

I'd need to put some serious effort into discouraging the idea without coming across as a total hypocritical bitch. It would be a hard fucking line to walk but I had a few tricks up my sleeve. Again, I was getting ahead of myself.

I wasn't nearly close enough to Sayaka to get in on her little visits to that Kyousuke kid, so in order to set myself up to help fight Charlotte I needed to come up with some bullshit reason to go visit Mami prior to the discovery of the grief seed. I didn't regard this task with very high importance so it felt like I wasted a shit ton of time on it.

In hindsight, I clearly didn't spend nearly fucking long enough preparing for this visit. We'd had a little study bash the other night, so I decided to pretend I'd left my notes at her apartment by accident. For some reason this struck me as the quintessential foot-in-the-door from which myriad conversations could bloom. Not that it couldn't have been. I just sort of expected Mami would be the one to engage first.

When I arrived at her apartment, she showed me inside. Since I'd called ahead she already had some refreshments laid out.

Strike one for me.

I had been planning on taking her up on an obligatory offer of tea so that she'd be out of the room for a brief moment while I pretended to find my notebook underneath a cushion. It didn't matter, as it turned out. She seemed to be quite content just staring out the window for no apparent reason.

Seizing the opportunity, I made some rustling movements as though I were looking around and shit and then happily exclaimed,

"Oh, here it is!"

Mami looked over at me and smiled mildly.

"Where was it?" She asked.

"It was under the cushion I used the other night." I lied in response.

"That's funny, I looked around after you called me and I could've sworn I checked under there." She replied, still smiling.

I politely chuckled to disguise myself choking on an abstract sense of fear.

"Well, I found it and that's all that matters." I said with a grin.

Then silence. Horrifying, pitch dark silence.

Mami smiled demurely at me as I sat at her table holding my notes.

Strike two.

Dear sweet fucking Christ she seemed to think this visit was over. This wouldn't do at all. Madoka still needed to burst in and tell us about the grief seed at the hospital and Mami was about to kick me out before the fun even started. What happened to the holy grail of conversation starters that was the forgotten homework visit? Fucking hell, why the fuck didn't I think of anything to say to stall?

I'd severely underestimated Mami. I'd wholeheartedly believed that she was so cripplingly lonely that she'd be desperate to strike up a conversation with just about anyone given the opportunity. Yet here she was, demonstrating that she'd much rather stare out her fucking window and be left the fuck alone. I had to say something, anything to make my staying here seem remotely sensible.

"S-So, uh, Tomoe-san, what brand of shampoo do you-" I was interrupted by an obscenely asinine ringtone.

Incidentally it was Madoka delivering important information involving an impending witch instantiation.

I need to stop right here because I don't fucking get it.

I swear to God, every single loop before the last one had the girls foregoing their cell phones at this critical juncture. For some illusively intangible reason they had decided, twice in a row now, that cell phones were rather important in this day and age and that keeping them on your person was a well-established folkway. Having reached this conclusion they apparently both went ahead and grabbed them before heading out the door today.

Not that I was upset per se that the ubiquity of modern technology had suddenly clicked for them; in fact, thank fuck for cell phones because without them I would've been sentenced to several more minutes of spamming generally conversational phrases at Mami and likely failing miserably at it.

No, it just seemed so randomly precise that two vastly differing approaches somehow yielded the same microscopic difference in the timeline that simply hadn't existed before. I certainly wasn't consciously shooting for this result. Furthermore, this run was in large part the same as the first one with a few positioning differences.

Hell, If I'd made it a priority to get these muchachas to bring their phones with them I'd have no fucking idea where to start. It was as though some sentient force out there was tweaking little things like this for the express purpose of annoying the utter living shit out of me.

For the record, it was fucking working.

We dropped everything to go help out with the situation at the hospital, of course. We made it just in time to witness the creation of a witch's labyrinth. In a very organized fashion we geared up, looked both ways, and then entered.

Mami was well and truly built for demolishing trash mobs. I mean that in the most heartfelt way possible. At the outset I had made the decision to let her handle things before we got to Charlotte's main chamber and, to be honest, that left me feeling a little guilty. As it turned out, however, it would have been difficult for me to get a word in edgewise as Mami swept the floor with these bastards before I could think to do anything.

Her single shot muskets weren't terribly impressive by themselves, but her bread and butter was in sheer number of projectiles. She had the ability to summon seemingly endless hordes of flintlock rifles out of her beret and had an effective fire rate that handily competed with a semi-automatic carbine. She would also pirouette, turning her attack into a lethal long range AOE attack. Then she would go and hit every fucking shot.

I rarely needed to rely on flick accuracy because I could just stop time and take decades lining up a shot. So it's not really that I was jealous, it was more 'how dare she be such a show off when there are fucking kids starving in Africa'.

Quite refreshingly, Mami didn't have her total mental breakdown about being so lonely as a magical girl this time. I might have pinned it on the fact that I was present, and also a magical girl, so she had less reason to be upset this time, but that would've made me a bit conceited. She could just have easily remembered to eat breakfast this morning or seen a homeless puppy and decided to adopt it. I pinned it on me anyway because fuck puppies and breakfast.

The practical upshot was that nobody needed to feel awkward about watching Mami cry going into the final battle. The downside was that Madoka no longer had a fallback wish for a really big cake if she couldn't think of anything else. The cost-benefit ratio was pretty difficult to compute given such abstract terms and, frankly, wasn't even remotely important. So I did everyone a favor and assumed that it tended to 1 when recording it in my notes, albeit with a healthy asterisk next to it.

Again, this was a proof of concept run. So once we breached the main chamber I gave Mami a solid five seconds of fun before freezing time to set my own shit up.

Time constraints notwithstanding, she'd done a fucking number on the place already.

Charlotte had been blasted into the air and the remains of several of her servants were strewn about her like the ink blots of a Rorschach test. I don't know what Mami made of it, but to me it looked a hell of a lot like two giraffes spooning. Except the giraffes were on fire and their guts had exploded out of their bodies and they were being choked to death by their own guts.

Freud and Jung could laugh all they wanted. They could laugh until Ragnarok itself were upon us and continue to laugh as they fought and died gloriously for the promise of a world reborn, but it would not change the undeniable fact that I was looking at two deathlessly kinky, self-asphyxiating, long necked motherfuckers set ablaze in a fire of eternal damnation.

There were a couple others that looked sort of like ice cream cones but I could see those being credited to an active imagination.

This was gonna take a couple time stops.

First I needed to inflict enough damage to bait her into her final form, then stop time again to set up my killing salvo. Mami's generally able to do this with an initial barrage of musket fire followed by a wallop from her big fucking cannon. So I decided to try emulating her typical firing solution.

I didn't have any sixteenth century antiques on hand, but I did have my trusty Type 89 which, for fuck's sake, better be at least comparable in terms of lethality. If not, I had plenty of cartridges so that oughta fudge it in my favor anyway.

I liberally applied bullets in no particular pattern other than generally pointed at Charlotte's flailing doll body. After I achieved a satisfactory coating, I swapped my rifle for an AT-4. Here's where I needed to do a bit of guesswork.

I certainly didn't know how big of a punch Mami's cannon packed. It was doubtful that she even knew within any reasonable bounds. So even if I had the time, it didn't seem as though it would be profitable to go ask her how powerful her finishing move was in units of anti-tank rockets.

I'm sure I could have jury rigged some sort of bullshit Fermi equation for this, if I'd felt like spending that long, but instead I just opted to launch projectiles until the resultant jet streams appealed to my uninformed standards of dynamic symmetry. There was about six or seven in the air by the time I was done. Now it was time to stand back and let her rip.

For a brief moment, Mami still looked pretty happy with herself as she grabbed another musket and began lining up her next shot. Her glib expression turned to one of genuine confusion as her field of vision was filled by a maelstrom of bullets with several explosions at its center.

Charlotte's body was flung against the far wall, riddled with holes and singed in numerous places. Not to be outdone, though, she immediately sprang back out, revealing her true snake-like form. I waited for her to zero in on me, then stood firm as she opened her gaping mouth to envelop my petite frame.

Time stop number two.

I now had a perfect shot at the witch's internals. I just needed to dump a bunch of explosives into her stomach and trigger them to go all at once. I leapt into Charlotte's maw and performed a cursory inspection of the structural integrity of her body. I noted any inflamed or otherwise shrapnel ridden tissue, load bearing vertebrae, and internal lesions. These served as excellent locations to place C-4 charges.

For good measure, I also littered the esophagus with some M26 frags and some old pipe bombs I found lying around in my shield.

Shit.

My cake was still in here. I'd totally forgotten about it. It'd been at least a couple weeks since I bought it now. No way in hell was this thing still edible.

Fuck it. Charlotte could have it.

I unceremoniously hurled the box, discus style, as far back into her throat as I could manage before hopping out. After getting to a safe distance, I pulled out my remote detonator and prepared for the fireworks.

To outside observers, namely Mami, Sayaka, and Madoka, the whole process occurred over roughly 5 seconds. It ended with Charlotte ripping apart at the seams as spectacular orange flames erupted from every orifice, most of which were brand new.

At first you could hear the individual charges blasting one at a time but, as the initial explosions triggered the additional ordinances I'd left lying around, it became more of a cacophony of ear splitting cracks not unlike an altogether unhealthy number of popcorn bags being microwaved at once. It was pretty spectacular.

Sure, it was wholly unnecessary to waste that many explosives on a single target, but this was no world for half measures. Besides, some of that stuff was getting old. It's not terribly ideal to be reliant on old equipment, especially the kind that can deconstruct your body if handled improperly.

Nothing of real note was left of Charlotte. In fact I couldn't really be sure that the things I was tentatively ID'ing as her remains actually used to belong to her.

Grief seeds usually at least make an effort to crop up in areas of dense witch matter after a kill. Not that it's important or anything. To me it adds a bit of welcome reactivity in how the seeds are presented which is, nonetheless, entirely aesthetic in nature. That being said, this grief seed didn't seem to want to touch this one with a ten foot pole and I didn't blame it.

It sort of just appeared on the ground well off to the side which everyone knew was total bullshit. But frankly there wasn't anything left that one could point to as quintessentially Charlotte.

Complete disintegration. I'd never done that to her before.

I'd make a really utilitarian note about it like it wasn't that big a deal. My contemporaries would ogle and scratch their heads while they sat awestruck at how unbelievably chill my report was.

There was something of an awkward silence as the room dissolved around us and we returned to the hospital.

"Akemi-s-san?" Madoka nervously uttered. "Did... you do that?"

Mami was in the same position she'd been in since the second time stop, still clutching her musket and aiming at an empty sky. She slowly lowered her weapon and glanced at me with inadequately veiled concern in her eyes.

This was all fair, I suppose. I hadn't made it priority number one to display the breadth of my firepower before this particular outing, so their confusion was understandable.

"Hehe, w-what do you mean, Kaname-san? Which part?" I replied as though trying to appear modest.

I wasn't sure whether it made any sense to act green anymore as, firstly, I already had an in with these folks and, secondly, the cat might kind of be out of the bag at this point.

I'd never presented myself as dumb to these people but, given the whole moe vibe I'd been projecting, that may have been the default assumption. Foregoing the idea that I was unfathomably stupid, my inquiry, on its face, made absolutely no fucking sense. And that was reflected quiet amicably in Sayaka's playful yet stern rejoinder.

"Which fucking part do you think?" She said, providing much needed clarification.

I sighed. I guess I wasn't quite done with the PR shit after all.

I suppose causing things to inexplicably disaggregate and then expecting everyone to be cool with it was pushing the bounds of friendship, or acquaintanceship as it were, slightly beyond what was reasonable.

Everyone stared at me expectantly as I slowly wiped the nervous smile off my face. Oh well. They say hindsight's 20-20.

Fuckin' A.

TO BE CONTINUED

[artemisia-medusa-blog]

20 Down to earth Inquiries Concerning On the web Adjust

Keeping up adjust via web-based networking media, blogging and the web is a test for some. It surely is for me. Something about it sucks you in and doesn't give up. I believe it's the day in and day out nature of it, continually offering something to take our brains off the present. The web just does not stop.

When you work on the web, it appears the force is more grounded. There is constantly blogging substance to make, email to compose, remarks to reply, changes to make or chances to seek after.

On the off chance that you've been working on the web for any period of time, it's probable you comprehend what I mean. In case you're unfamiliar to it, see yourself as cautioned.

I'm defenseless to web crankiness

I regularly end up snapping at my children, crying to my significant other, being grumbly about what others have that I don't or feeling disappointed I can't fulfill every one of the things I need to achieve.

I'm great at planting myself in a strong condition of discontent.

Who needs to live that way? Not me.

Am I lopsided? Dependent via web-based networking media? Lacking equalization?

I'm a firm adherent to reality setting us free.

With an end goal to confront reality, at times I need to pose some hard inquiries. Like these:

Are vital things in life becoming lost despite a general sense of vigilance?

Am I defensive of my gadgets and oppose letting any other individual utilize them—notwithstanding when I'm not—"in the event of some unforeseen issue" I may require them?

Do companions or family make remarks—either concernedly or a kidding path—about my PC/gadget utilize and what amount of time I spend on them?

Am I not doing things now that I used to do routinely in light of the fact that more of my time is spent on the web?

Have I put on weight or escaped shape?

Am I attracted to the web or online networking when I'm worried or overpowered?

Do I utilize the web as an escape from the untidiness of day by day life and when I basically would prefer not to confront my every day duties?

Do I consider what's going on online when I'm definitely not?

Do I frequently feel regretful for the measure of time I spend on the web?

Do I get disappointed when somebody interferes with me while on the PC or my telephone?

Am I seeing alluring practices in my children since I'm not "present" generally?

On the other hand, am I seeing "fly under the radar" conduct in my children since they know when I'm on the PC, I'm likely not going to notice what they're doing?

Do I end up compromising in different aspects of my life since I simply couldn't care less as much any longer and would want to invest energy online?

Do I have FOMO (the Dread Of Passing up a major opportunity)? Do I stress something will happen online when I'm not there and I'll miss out as a result of it?

Do I freeze on the off chance that I overlook or lose my telephone since it will mean I can't check Facebook, Twitter or email while in a hurry?

Have I or am I enticed to trade off ethically so as to "keep up" or "excel" with other individuals I see on the web?

Do I acknowledge extends or do things online I don't discover charming in light of the fact that I have an inclination that I'll be "left behind" or my business will endure some way or another on the off chance that I don't?

Does my online life expend my musings to such an extent that I'm continually considering it and can't turn it off?