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milktoast-mcgee · 4 years ago

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the boys and their royal arms

I’ve rambled about this a little bit before on twitter, but I decided to finally sit down and get these thoughts out about noct, his boys, and the royal arms they use!

tldr, the royal arms prompto, gladio, and ignis use during the armiger chain (in addition to the talismans they can get and the boons the kings’ sigils represent in comrades) illustrate key aspects of their characters.

Introduction

Throughout Final Fantasy XV, Noctis and his retinue search for the Royal Arms, the weapons of the Kings of Yore. They're representative of Noct's birthright and his destiny as the True King. He and his companions, Prompto, Gladio, and Ignis, search for the weapons all over the world. As he adds them to his Armiger, not only does Noctis use the Royal Arms, but the boys wield them as well -- notably, in the Armiger Chain combination attack. Accumulating more of the glaives makes the chain last longer, and all four boys use every weapon in the collection together.

Beyond the battle mechanic, the Royal Arms each of them use carry a strong thematic element. Each glaive illustrates something about each young man -- their characters, their strengths, their weaknesses, their character arcs. This idea extends beyond just the Arms to the Kings themselves, present in their sigils in the Comrades expansion as well as the unique equippable talismans each boy receives.* These themes perfectly illustrate just how connected Prompto, Gladio, and Ignis are to Noctis -- they are fundamentally linked, inexorably bound together.

* (These are only present in the Royal Pack/Royal Edition. They are found in Insomnia in Chapter 14, either after completing all the Kingsglaive quests for Cor. I think. I don't remember... shhsdugif)

Prompto

"My whole life, all I ever wanted was friends... but no one ever wanted me back. So when I finally found people who did want me, I did everything I could to make them stay. And ever since then, I've lived my life in fear -- that one day, they'd find out who I really was, and they wouldn't want me anymore."

Prompto struggles greatly with self-doubt and rejection. He knows he's an outsider and feels that outsiderness to his core, even as a child. But in the face of that, he strives to play the mood maker -- he tries to hold the party together, keep the air light, and make people happy. He attempts to remain outgoing and cheerful, even when he's not, or nobody else is. Noctis and the others love him dearly, regardless of his origins, because he is who he is -- sweet, caring, talented, heartful, thoughtful Prompto. While he at once represents rejection and outsiderness, he also stands for unity and togetherness, and these elements are present in his connection to the Kings.

Prompto receives the talisman of the Clever. The talismans accentuate the boy's unique abilities, and Prompto's grants him increased critical hit rate and unlimited ammo for the SMG. Prompto's gunplay is incredible -- acrobatic, precise, and powerful. It's a far cry from how Prompto tends to feel about himself; he is skilled and capable, even if he doesn't believe he is. The Clever is the perfect mantle for him to carry to represent this.

Though Prompto doesn't use the Bow of the Clever in battle, the Clever fits him very well. The Clever is said to have been a king "versed in myriad arts both martial and intellectual." The Clever's weapon easily fits Prompto, but during the Armiger Chain, it's Noctis who uses it -- while Prompto wields the Sword of the Wise, which carries its own significance.

Noct uses the Bow of the Clever, it fits Prompto as a weapon: it's the only glaive that's projectile, aside from the Star of the Rogue, which Prompto also uses. It fires spectral arrows to skewer foes all across the battlefield. In addition, in the Comrades expansion, the Clever's sigil allows the bearer to summon spectral arms at will. It replaces the use of spells to summon eight special armaments to wield at once. It's a form of battle very appropriate to Prompto, isn't it?

The Clever is said to have been talented in many varied ways. The same could definitely be said of Prompto, whether he believes it or not. While a commoner, he keeps up with his royal companions in battle. When he knocks enemies off guard, he can deliver devastating blows to rival even magic. He can take photos in battle effortlessly -- something his companions love, except when Noct is being gnawed on by a daemon. But while Prompto sees himself as incapable, a burden to his team, he's well able to keep up with them, and strives to hold the group together. The mantle of the Clever fits him so well in this aspect.

But while Noct uses the Bow during the Chain, Prompto uses the Sword of the Wise. The Wise is the King who first erected the Wall and established the borders of the kingdom of Lucis. He was a notably mighty figure and protected the realm. His blade represents the foundation of the Kingdom, and Noct's birthright -- and while Noct uses the weapon that most fits Prompto, Prompto in turn uses the Sword of the Wise, a clear symbol of Noct's royal blood. He is more than capable and deserving to wield it, even briefly, despite how Prompto feels about himself.

Prompto also uses the Star of the Rogue. The Rogue was a figure reviled by the people. She "spurned the public eye and took to the shadows." It's a huge shuriken, and Prompto actually briefly wields it against the daemonified Rogue in the Citadel battle. The Rogue is a figure of royal power but rejection -- intensely shunned by the people, choosing to rule away from their eyes. She wears a mask in her armor; it doesn't appear to be a helmet or battle regalia, but rather a means of hiding her face, obscuring herself further.

The queen is a figure of stealth and prowess, but will never quite belong to the public, to her people. Only when she is gone is she remembered fondly by history. Prompto definitely feels he doesn't belong, and likely that he never will. He's a lonely child from a lonely home. He knows he's from the enemy nation, branded by them. For years, he doesn't believe he deserves to be Noctis's friend, and pushes himself to be good enough to finally approach him. Even when he's assimilated into Noct's retinue, he feels he doesn't compare to the likes of them, and fears the day they all reject him... even though the idea is completely unthinkable to them.

This idea extends nicely to the third Royal Arm Prompto uses, the Scepter of the Pious. The Pious is described as a king who "ruled the realm according to divine law and worked hand in hand with the Oracle." It's a weapon that strikes with a blade of light. It enhances magic and is particularly strong against dark elements. The Scepter is a weapon to represent unity, togetherness. The King worked with the Oracle -- a nice parallel to Prompto's correspondence with Lunafreya, and how she gave him the courage to befriend Noctis -- to unite Lucis. It's a weapon that represents strength in teamwork, in united people, breaking down the walls that divide them to live as one.

Prompto's use of the Royal Arms illustrate his biggest fears and greatest strengths. He's an outsider, terrified of rejection. But he's a dedicated and loyal friend, devoted to helping them and keeping them happy. Despite the differences that could potentially drive them apart, Prompto is a vital part of Noct's retinue. Despite his wavering confidence, he is talented and incredibly skilled. He's unique and irreplaceable, and his closest friends know that. One day, Prompto will, too, and he and Noct can knock down the barriers between their people once and for all.

"I owe Noct everything, for standing by me always. And now... it’s my turn to stand by him.”

Gladio

"I swore a vow to do whatever it takes to protect you and the future of our world."

So, let's get this out of the way: Gladio suffers from a tragic lack of character development. While this can be another sad side effect of XV's troubled development **, we can attempt to spin it into something subtle and quiet, illustrating Gladio's softer side. His connection to the Royal Arms shows that not only does he want to be strong, he wants to protect those he cares about above all else. Gladio is ultimately very caring and deeply, truly loyal, even though he's as hard and heavy as blade steel sometimes.

** (Rumor has it, Clarus, Gladio's father, was going to betray the Crown, and Gladio would face deep inner conflict over it, having to choose between his father's ideals and Noctis's journey. Apparently the role was given instead to Drautos/Glauca in Kingsglaive, who has a much more prominent presence in the movie than Clarus. None of this is confirmed, though, and isn't present in any released canon materials... so who knows. It's worth mentioning because it speaks to maybe their taking out Gladio's planned character arc and forgetting to put anything back in its place...here’s the reddit post that compiles the theories pretty well, if you’re curious.)

Gladio receives the Tall's talisman. When it's equipped, it accelerates the rate at which Gladio's valor gauge increases. His valor, in battle, best increases from uninterrupted combos and counterattacks, both appropriate given his nature as Shield, well-trained for battle but focused on defense. It's a simple boon that's incredibly valuable in battle, and battle is an inescapable aspect of Gladio's life. Along with the talisman, Gladio wields the Sword of the Tall. It's a broadsword, Gladio's preferred type of weapon. The Tall is said to have been "built like a mountain, towering over all others." It's a peculiar kind of sword with a chainsaw-like blade, which rips and tears mercilessly through enemies. For its incredible strength and vitality boost, it lowers elemental and magic defenses. This is matched by the Tall's sigil in the Comrades expansion, which greatly increases attack power at the cost of casting spells. The Tall's is a mantle of muscle, not mettle, but it's not the only King's presence Gladio carries.

Gladio also wields the Shield of the Just. His secondary preferred weapon is a shield, obviously focused on defense and counters. The Just is a queen of yore -- she and the Rogue are the only queens of Lucis present ingame. She is not given a name, but her armor has a massive silhouette, her presence immense. The Shield of the Just, as expected, offers Noctis huge defense. It greatly decreases attack to grant significant defenses, both physical and elemental. Its description describes the Just as a queen devoted to peace who was loved by all. Though her phantom visage is imposing, the Just is a strong, steadfast figure of peace, not violence. It's a strong contrast to the Sword of the Tall; if the Tall's is his blade, the Just's is his shield.

The Axe of the Conqueror is the third Royal Arm Gladio uses. While the Tall and the Just represent Gladio's strength and will to protect, the Conqueror represents willpower and moving forward. The Axe describes the Conqueror as a king who "performed great feats of arms, expanded his realm, and made his people prosper." This is all too appropriate for Gladio's role in Noctis's retinue, not just as his protector but his guide. When Noct can't move forward, Gladio pushes him. When he can't think, Gladio thinks for him. When things get difficult, Gladio helps Noctis grow and move on, whether he wants to or not. Gladio is a big brother, after all, and he wants only the best for those he cares about and wants them to succeed, just as the Conqueror did.

Gladio's use of the Royal Arms illustrates his boundless strength both in offense and defense. He carries a broadsword and shield and the needs of his companions. Gladio pushes forward. He is fiercely loyal and cares deeply for those around him, and pushes forward without hesitation, bringing those he must protect with him. Gladio wants to be strong, not only for the sake of power, but for the power to protect the ones he cares about. He cherishes the things he holds dear, and will protect them with all his being.

"You're right, I am afraid. ... Maybe I'm not really cut out for the job I'm expected to do. ... I may be all muscle and no mettle, but I'm gonna keep protecting Noct the only way I know how."

Ignis

"This world means nothing to me. Do with it as you wish. ... But I refuse to let Noct sacrifice his life to save ours. I won't let you take him away."

Ignis has served the Crown for nearly all his life. He's been Noct's companion the whole while -- his friend and brother, as designated by King Regis himself. Since he was a child, he's carried royal responsibility. He's composed, precise, and calculating, well-versed in all kinds of matters, political and not. He's a strategist, a royal advisor, and he keeps at Noct's side without hesitation. While he maintains a very cool, thoughtful demeanor, confronting problems with plans and logic, he has a relentless, reckless side. He is willing to resort to violence should the plan call for it, especially if the safety of Noctis and his companions is at stake. Ignis has a very smooth, calm surface with a deep, deep underlying intensity that rarely shows.

Ignis receives the Wanderer's talisman in the fallen Insomnia. When it's equipped, it boosts Ignis's Total Clarity gauge, heightening his senses and deepening his focus. In battle, Ignis uses strategic elemancy -- imbuing his daggers with fire, ice, and lightning -- and counterattacks. He doesn't utilize raw strength; instead, his battle prowess uses his strategic mind. Reaching Total Clarity allows him to unleash a particularly decisive blow. He is a fast, strategic, relentless attacker, perfectly carrying the mantle of the Wanderer. In addition, the Wanderer's sigil in Comrades carries an entirely supportive effect -- it casts Cheer on the party, heightening their abilities. It fits Ignis's penchant for strategy, supporting his comrades and planning instead of rushing into battle and relying on raw strength.

The Wanderer is said to have been "quick like the wind and went where no man had gone before." His swords "rain fury -- together they deliver thundering blows." The Swords of the Wanderer have three distinct forms, interlinked and not, to adjust to the needs of battle. The Wanderer was clearly a versatile, flexible fighter. He roamed the unknown and pressed on into strange territory without fear. "Wandering" implies a lack of a destination, focusing not on the end of the journey but shoving onward regardless.

It's too fitting that Regis tells a young Ignis something he will never forget: "One cannot lead by standing still. A King pushes onward always, accepting the consequences and never looking back."

When Ignis is blinded by his sacrifice and Noct disappears into the Crystal, the Wanderer mantle fits him even more. The light has disappeared from his world, both literally and metaphorically. He can no longer see -- greatly debilitating his extensive prowess -- and his life's purpose, being at Noctis's side, is left to the lurch. He investigates the royal tombs and the ruins of old civilizations to the best of his ability. He pushes on alone, not to prove anything to his friends but to himself. He refuses to burden anyone, even though the boys would never think that of him. He's left without a destination, without purpose, but pushes onward, always. He finds the ability to fight again, delves deep into the history of Eos, and holds onto the hope that one day Noctis will return. And, soon enough, he does, only for the prophecy to snatch him away once and for all.

Ignis also wields the Katana of the Warrior, which couldn't be more fitting for him, especially given his relationship with Noct. The glaive is even found in Fondina Castino in Cartanica, the boys' first stop after the catastrophe in Altissia. Ignis is blind, hating himself for every stumble, hating how Gladio and Noct fight while Prompto tries to stop them. After the retinue finds the Katana, Ignis finds his resolve and tells his companions he will continue, and if he can't keep up, he will not hinder them. He will gladly fall behind if it means they can push on together. "I would remain with you all," he says, "to the very end."

The Warrior's glaive bears a tragic description: "A king was changed forever when his beloved queen was taken from him prematurely. This was his katana." The weapon strikes swiftly, calculatedly, cutting down foes “in a single heartbeat." It carries magical defense but is especially weak to dark elements. The Warrior's mantle couples well with Ignis's losses throughout the story -- he loses his home, his sight, the light of the world, and his most beloved companion. Even then, he pushes on. He carries his sorrows and pushes onward, regardless, knowing full well the pain of losing everything that matters, and what else there is to lose.

The third Royal Arm Ignis wields is the Mace of the Fierce. The Fierce was said to be "gentle before his people but an ogre on the battlefield," dealing massive, crippling blows with his glaive. This weapon in particular illustrates the side of Ignis he keeps carefully hidden. For all his composure, his careful planning and strategic mind, he can be reckless, ruthless, and violent. When planning to infiltrate an Empire base, for instance, he's not above torturing someone to get information he needs. When he needs to get something done, he will get it done. When it comes to Noct's safety, he will do whatever it takes. He will gladly throw away his own safety, his sight, and his life to save him. This duality is nicely represented by the Fierce's glaive -- nice and composed, but cold and relentless when the situation calls for it.

Beneath his calm, placid surface, Ignis is a blazing fire. He's intensely driven, fiercely loyal, and wholly devoted to Noctis as he has been his whole life. He will throw everything away without question, even himself, if it means saving the ones he cares about. He is thoughtful and strong, careful and precise, but has a tendency to be ruthless, reckless, and destructive -- forgoing his own wellbeing to reach his ends. In the wake of tragedy, he pushes on, holding onto unwavering hope, unyielding devotion, unable to ever let go.

"Even if it costs my own life to save him... I will pay that price!"

All for the True King

The remaining four Royal Arms are used by Noct in the Armiger Chain. They, too, carry significance in his wielding them -- especially in the combination attack, symbolizing the unity of him and those he cares about. Noctis wields the Blade of the Mystic, the Bow of the Clever, the Trident of the Oracle, and the Sword of the Father during the Armiger Chain. The Blade of the Mystic stands for the Founder King. The Bow of the Clever is a weapon especially fit for Prompto, who then wields the Sword of the Wise, one of the fundamental figures of Lucian history. The Trident of the Oracle belongs to Luna, and the Sword of the Father belongs to none other than King Regis.

Noct's use of the Royal arms in the chain complements those his boys use, further symbolizing the unity and togetherness between them and the people -- and the whole world -- they care about. The Kings' stories are present in the Prince's friends, showing just how deeply connected they are to Noctis. There's no doubt Noct loves his boys dearly, and their thematic connections to the Kings and their weapons only illustrate how much they care about each other. They travel together, ride together, and rule together with the blessings of Kings past. Even in the wake of trial and tragedy, they remain inseparable, inexorably bound together, standing tall in the face of the dawn.

tldr AND DARLING DARLINGGGG STANDDDD MY MEEEE

screenshots from ardynizunya on twitter and the final fantasy fan wiki -- please let me know if you need credit for any of these! ;o;/

#ffxv #final fantasy xv #analysis #words words words #uhhhhh #how do I tag this #royal arms #comrades is okay and I enjoy it sometimes it's a 6/10 maybe play if you like crumbs of lore like me

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exeggcute · 3 years ago

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'"La Culte du Prochain Train," often translated as "The Cult of the Next Train," is known to have originated at least a decade prior to Reconfiguration among the male offspring of asbestos, nickel and zinc miners in the desolate Papineau region of what was then extreme southwest Quebec. The chilling game's competition and its upspringing cult soon spread throughout the network of non-ionized and pre-Interdependent railroad lines which carried raw minerals south to Ottawa and the United States' Great Lake Ports.' Over Struck's little desk hangs a model airplane made entirely from different parts of beer cans. While Inc was keen on the whole lurid mirror-across-highway terrorism thing of early O.N.A.N., and Schacht's paper's focus was the violent French-Catholic protests against municipal fluoridation under Mulroney, Struck had picked the A.F.R.-and-Russian-Roulettish-train-jumping-cult-thing connection, and was sticking to it with the same tenacity that kept him on the 18's A-squad despite a serve that deLint described as resembling a debutante's curtsy. The plane's got flattened cans for wings, smunched-flat cans for wheels, part of a tallboy for fuselage and snout.

'As with many games, Le Jeu du Prochain Train was itself substantially simpler than the organization of the competition.' A cool smile from Struck. 'It was played after sunset at specified sites, specifically les passages a niveau de vote ferrée that marked every rural Quebecker road's intersection with a railroad track. In the Year of the Whopper, there were over two thousand (2,000) such intersections in the Papineau region alone, though not all saw heavy enough flow to accommodate the complexities of true competition.

'Six boys, miners' sons, ages ten to roughly sixteen, Quebecois French speaking boys, line up on six railroad ties' juts just outside the track. Two hundred sixteen (216) boys—never either more nor less—are involved in a night's opening rounds, organized into sixes, each group of six taking its turn with a different train, standing on consecutive juts just outside one track, waiting, doubtless tense, awaiting the procession of a fearsome bride, indeed. The night's heavily travelled crossing's schedule of trains is known to Le Jeu du Prochain Train's episcopate of les directeurs de jeu—older, post-adolescent boys, veterans of previous les jeux, many of them legless and in wheelchairs or—for the sons of asbestos miners, many orphaned and desperately poor—on crude rolling boards. No timepieces are permitted the players, who are under the absolute discretion of the game's directeurs, whose decisions are final and often brutally enforced. They all are silent, listening for the sound of the engine's whistle, a sound which is sad and cruel at the same time, as the sound approaches and begins to subtly undergo Doppler Effects. They tense palely muscled legs beneath hand me down corduroys as the next train's one white eye rounds the track's curve and bears down on the game's waiting boys.’

Struck keeps bogging down in these parts where it seems like the guy just totally abandons a scholarly tone, and even probably starts making up or hallucinating details which there's no way Jim Struck could represent himself as having been there to see, and he's blue-delete-looping all over the place, plus grinding his eye and picking at his forehead, his two more or less constant responses to creative stress.

'Le Jeu du Prochain Train itself is simplicity in motion. The object: Be the last of your round's six to jump from one side of the tracks to the other—that is, across the tracks—before the train passes. Your only real opponents are your six's other five. Never is the train itself regarded as an opponent. The speeding, screaming train is regarded rather as le jeu's boundary, arena, and reason. Its size, its speed down the extremely gradual north-to-south grade of what was then southwestern Quebec, and the precise mechanical specifications of each scheduled train—these are known to the directeurs, they comprise the constants in a game the variables of which are the respective wills of the six ranged along the track, and their estimates of one another's will to risk all to win.’

Struck transposes clearly nonadolescent uptown material like this into: 'The variable of the game isn't so much a matter of the train, but the player's courage and will.’

'The last few instants, vanishingly small, when the player may hurl himself athwart the expanse of track, across timber ties, creosote stench, gravel and scarred iron, amid the ear splitting scream of the whistle almost overhead, able to feel the huge push of terrible air from the transport's cow catcher or express train's rounded nose, to go sprawling in the gravel past the tracks' other side and roll to see wheels and flanges, couplings and driving rods, the furious back and forth of transverse axles, feeling the whistle's steam condense to drizzle all around—these few seconds are known, familiar as their own pulse, to the boys who assemble and play.' Struck's now progressed to grinding the whole heel of his hand into his eyesocket, producing a kind of ectoplasmic pinwheel of red in there. Did like even pre-bullet railroad engines have flanges and cowcatchers and whistles that steamed?

In a disastrous lapse, Struck copies hurl himself athwart, a decidedly un-Struckish-sounding verb phrase, verbatim into his text.

'...that the true variable which renders le Jeu du Prochain Train a contest and not merely a game involves the nerve and heart and willingness to risk all of any or all of the five waiting beside you at the track. How long can they wait? When will they choose? Their lives and limb worth how much Queen-headed coin this night? More radical by far than the American youth automobile game of "Chicken" to which its principle is frequently compared (five, not one, different wills to comparatively gauge, in addition to your own will's resolve, and no motion or action to distract you from the tension of waiting motionlessly to move, waiting as one by one the other five quail and save themselves, leap to beat the train...' and then the sentence just ends, without even a close to the parenthesis, though Struck, with a canny sense for this sort of thing, knows the analogy to Chicken'll ring just the right bell, term-paper-wise.

'Le Jeu's historic best, reportedly, however, ignore their five competitors completely, concentrating their entire attention on determining the last viable instant in which to leap, regarding the last, final, and only true opponent in the game to be their own will, mettle, and intuition about the last viable instant in which to leap. These nerveless few, le Jeu's finest—many of whom will go on to directeur future jeux (if not, often, to membership in Les Assassins or its stelliform offshoots)—these nerveless and self-contained virtuosi never see their opponents' flinches or tics or the darkenings at corduroys' crotches, none of the normal signs of will faltering which lesser players scan for—for the game's finest players frequently close their eyes entirely as they wait, trusting the railroad ties' vibration and the whistle's pitch, as well as intuition, and fate, and whatever numinous influences lie just beyond fate.' Struck at certain points imagines himself gathering this Wild Conceits guy's lapels together with one hand and savagely and repeatedly slapping him with the other—forehand, backhand, forehand.

'The cult's game's principle is simple. The last of the six to jump before the train and land intact wins the round. The fifth through the second to leap have lost, but acquitted themselves.

'The first in a round to quail and jump walks home from there, alone under the moon, disgraced and ashamed.

'But even the first to quail and jump has jumped. Far beyond prohibited, not to jump at all is regarded as impossible. To "perdre son coeur" and not jump at all is outside le Jeu's limit. The possibility simply does not exist. It is unthinkable. Only once, in le Jeu du Prochain Train's extensive oral history, has a miner's son not jumped, lost his heart and frozen, remaining on his jut as the round's train passed. This player later drowned. "Perdre son coeur," when it is mentioned at all, is known also as "Faire un Bernard Wayne," in dubious honor of this lone unjumping asbestos miner's son, about whom little beyond his subsequent drowning in the Baskatong Reservoir is known, his name denoting a figure of ridicule and disgust among speakers of the Papineau Region vulgate.' Disastrously, Struck blithely transposes this stuff too, with not even a miniature appliance-size bulb flickering anywhere over his head.

'The game's object is to jump last and land still fully limbed upon the opposite embankment.

'Expresses are 30 k.p.h. faster than conventional transports, but a transport's cow catcher mangles. A boy struck head on by a moving train is shot as from a cannon, knocked out of his shoes, describes a towering, flailing arc, and is transported home in a burlap sack. A player caught beneath a wheel and run over is frequently spread out along a hundred red meters or more of reddened track, and is transported home in a number of ceremonial asbestos and nickel mining shovels provided by the Jeu's older and frequently dismembered directeurs.

'As happens more often, purportedly, a boy who has dived more than half way across the tracks when he is struck and hit, loses one or more legs—either there on the spot, if lucky, or later, under surgical gas and orthopedic saws applied to what are customarily violently angled masses of unrecognizably contuded meat.' The paradox here for Struck as plagiarist, who needs something with sufficient detail to be able to basically just rehash, is that this thing here has almost too much detail, much of it purple; it doesn't even seem all that scholarly; it seems more like the Wild Conceits Bayside C.C. guy seemed to get more and more tipsy as the thing went on until he felt free to make a lot of it up, like e.g. the contuded meat bits, etc.

What's interesting to Hal Incandenza about his take on Struck, sometimes Pemulis, Evan Ingersoll, et al. is that congenital plagiarists put so much more work into camouflaging their plagiarism than it would take just to write up an assignment from conceptual scratch. It usually seems like plagiarists aren't lazy so much as kind of navigationally insecure. They have trouble navigating without a detailed map's assurance that somebody has been this way before them. About this incredible painstaking care to hide and camouflage the plagiarism—whether it's dishonesty or a kind of kleptomaniacal thrill-seeking or what—Hal hasn't developed much of any sort of take.

'It is frightfully simple and straightforward. Sometimes the last of the six to jump is struck; then the second to last leaper becomes the last and victor, and advances, each winner literally "surviving" into the game's next round, a sort of sextupled semi final, six rounds of six Canadian boys each: the, quote, "Les Trente-Six" for the evening. the initial rounds' boys—those who have been neither the last nor the disgraceful first to leap—are permitted to stay at the le passage a niveau de vote ferree, assembled to become the semi finals' silent audience. The entire Le Jeu du Prochain Train is customarily conducted in silence.' In a disastrous and maybe unconsciously self-destructive set of lapses, Struck rehabilitates the prose but keeps a lot of the hallucinatory specific descriptive stuff in, unfootnoted, though there's obviously no way he could pretend to have been there.

'The surviving losers from among the Les Trente-Six then swell the ranks of the silent gallery as the six nerveless winners—the finalists, this night's "attendants longtemps ses tours"—some bleeding or gray with shock, survivors already of two separate long delayed leaps and hairbreadth escapes, eyes blank or closed, mouths working in savored distaste, await the nightly 2359 Express, the ultra ionized "Le Train de la Foudre" from Mont Tremblant to Ottawa. They will jump athwart the tracks in front of its high speed nose at the final moment, each trying to be the last to leap and live. It is not rare for several of the le Jeu's finalists to be struck.' Struck tries to decide whether it'd be unrealistic or unselfconsciously realistic to keep using his own name as a verb—would a man with anything to camouflage use his own name as a verb?

'...that several among the La Culte du Prochain Train's survivors and organizational directorate went on to found and comprise Les Assassins des Fauteuils Rollents is beyond sociohistorical dispute, though the precise ideological relation between the B.S. era's simultaneously chivalric and nihilistic Cult of the Train's savage tournaments and the present's limbless cell of anti-O.N.A.N. extremists remains the subject of the same scholarly debate that surrounds the evolution of northern Quebec's La Culte de Baiser Sans Fin into the not particularly dreaded but media savvy Fils de Montcalm cell credited with the helicoptered dropping of the 12 meter, human waste filled, pie shell onto the rostrum of U.S. President Gentle's second Inaugural.

#infinite jest #I will be humane and put the bulk of this under a readmore so you don't all come at me with pitchforks #but it's worth your while. open that readmore.

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cynicalrainbows · 4 years ago

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Fluff for @2nerd4this!

(In the interest of being honest, this is some modified fic that I already wrote for different characters. But i thought you might like it anyway, and I don’t think you’ll have read it bc the person i sent it to hasn’t published it. Anyhow, enjoy!)

Cathy groaned and rolled onto her side, trying to move away from the pain that was currently ripping through her.

Is this what childbirth felt like? Surely it can’t have been worse than this….

She knew she was perhaps exaggerating a little- she knew, she KNEW it was just a period….but it was hard to keep reminding herself of that when the pain was enough to almost bring tears to her eyes.

She wondered if periods were somehow worse in the 21st century- she could have sworn it never hurt this badly back at court.

Or maybe I just blocked it out.

Not that she would have received much sympathy from that quarter: her husband had had more than his fill of sick, ailing wives and ‘woman’s problems’. She was to be his final chance, his strong healthy wife who had lived long enough to prove her mettle, with none of the passions and fits and fancies of the women of his youth.

She was his easy wife, the one who brought him no problems but instead soothed his own.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

And now, hundreds of years later, here she was again: the easy one, the low maintenance one.

Easy-to-please Cathy, who needed only her laptop and a cup of coffee to be happy. Untroubled Cathy, without the trauma’s and nightmares that plagued the others.

The survivor.

And so, when the mild cramping in her uterus had turned into agonising spasms, she’d hidden herself away in her room, and assured the others that it was ‘nothing really.’

Oh how she was regretting that now. Not that she could do anything about it: Actually sorry everything I said about being self sufficient was a lie, I’m actually quite lonely and scared and in pain and so if you could all just drop everything….

A quiet knock broke through her thoughts.

‘Mmmm?’

‘It’s just me mija-’

Cathy felt her spirits lift but as she was opening her mouth to reply, another cramp ripped through her and she gasped instead, doubling up.

‘Cathy?’

Catalina pushed into her room, looking worried and came straight to the bed, her hand cool against Cathy’s hot forehead.

‘Mija, are you alright?’

Cathy shook her head, screwing her eyes shut and biting her lip against the pain. She didn’t want to look pathetic in front of her friend godmother maternal figurehead…. She didn’t want to look pathetic in front of anyone but it hurt so badly, she couldn’t help her eyes tearing up.

‘J- just a period-’

‘It seems a bit more than that…’

Even as she shook her head, another cramp ripped through her and she winced. Catalina’s expression grew alarmed.

‘Querida, do you feel sick?’

Cathy nodded with the barest jerk of the head.

‘Is the pain on one side of your-’

‘Not appendicitis-’

‘Are you sure? Because-’

The worry in Catalina’s voice induced Cathy to crack open an eye.

‘It’s-’ She winced; her voice was very quiet but her godmother leaned in to hear instantly. ‘It’s just period pain. Jane was right.’

‘Still-’ Catalina’s fingers threaded through her tousled hair gently. ‘It looks terribly painful mija.’

Cathy nodded. There was no point in denying it. Still, she had to keep up a front. She was the survivor after all.

‘I’m ok really- it….it hurts but I’m ok.’ She fought to keep her voice steady as she said it: even knowing that it’d be selfish to drag ANOTHER queen away from rehearsal on the same day that she was already out of action, the idea of being left all alone again to the pain and an empty house made her want to cry.

It reminded her too much of her first life- the long empty hours alone while her husband stewed and plotted and seethed and she waited on tenterhooks, and then the long painful hours after Mary was born, as she felt her strength sap slowly, her husband gone and no one left to care if she lived or died.

‘Ok.’

Catalina nodded and Cathy felt her heart sink. That was it? She was just going to take her word for it? She tried to keep the disappointment down as her godmother pressed a kiss to the top of her head and made for the door.

‘I’ll give the others a call-’

Before Catalina had left the room, Cathy could already imagine what the others would say- what the fans would say, to hear that she’d not only called in sich herself but dragged Catalina all the way back to the house for ‘just’ period pain.

What sort of survivor was she?

She managed to hold herself together until the footsteps down the hall died away before letting herself cry. This time, it wasn’t just from the pain. She buried her face into her pillow, feeling the bed shake with her silent sobs.

Always the same, no matter what life: she was destined to be alone. Alone and forgotten and abandoned and all because she was the strong one, she was the one who didn’t need care or love or support or anything at all, and that was good because she surely wasn’t going to get it, after all everyone knew she was the survivor, the one who didn’t need help because goodness knew nothing that bad had ever really happened to her….

‘Oh mija!’ A weight settled onto the edge of the bed next to her and the mattress dipped; a familiar hand smoothed stray strands of hair away from her face. ‘Is it very bad? Here, I’ve brought you some painkillers, let’s get you sitting up so you can take them-’

Cathy was too stunned to resist much as Kat gently eased her up to lean against her shoulder; automatically, she swallowed the pills and water handed to her and sniffled into the tissue that was pressed into her hand.

‘I- I thought-’

Her voice was husky with tears and Catalina frowned. ‘What is it mi vida? What did you think?’

Having to say it made her eyes sting all over again.

‘I thought you LEFT-’

‘I did.’ Catalina looked puzzled ‘I had to get you the pills mija- why Jane insists we keep the medicine in the kitchen and not the bathroom I will NEVER know-’

‘No!’ It was hard to make herself understood as a fresh cramp made her writhe in Catalina’s arms but she made an effort. ‘I thought you LEFT.’

‘Oh!’ Catalina’s face cleared and then she looked horrified: the next thing she knew, Cathy was being swept up in her arms and bundled tightly against her chest. ‘Oh mija, no! Never! I just went to sort things out, to get the things you needed to feel better…. I never thought for a moment you’d think we were-’

‘We?’

‘Anna drove me back to check on you when we heard you weren’t coming in-’

‘Cathy?’ At that moment Anna appeared in the doorway, juggling a steaming mug and a hot water bottle. ‘Babes, what’s the matter, is the pain worse?’

‘She thought I’d just walked out on her!’ Catalina sounded anguished. ‘She thought I was just going to leave her alone-’

Oddly, it proved a curious sort of balm to Cathy’s wearied, lonely soul. To hear someone care that MUCH about hurting her….

Anna’s eyes went wide. ‘Oh Cath, really? Honestly, she just went to call us all in sick, to let the others know where we were, that you were sick and needed looking after, and to let me know what to fetch from downstairs…. We never for a second-’

‘’S ok-’ Still tucked into Catalina’s arms, Cathy felt her face heat up in humiliation and turned away, to hide it against her godmothers’s collar. ‘Not your fault. I was just being stupid, I’m sorry, I- I didn’t mean for you both to come, I didn’t want to cause any trouble, I-’

‘Hush.’ Catalina’s hand gently cupped the back of her head, smoothing down the flyaway hairs. ‘It’s all ok mija. Just a misunderstanding. Nothing to worry about. Ok?’

She nodded into Catalina’s chest.

‘And of course you’re not a bother-’ Anna joined in. ‘Honestly, the others wanted to come too except i think that would have pushed Joan over the edge. But it’s no trouble! We just wanted to check you were ok-’

Despite the reassurance, Cathy couldn’t quite raise her eyes. Surely they were both wearied of her overreactions by now. Shame bubbled in the pit of her stomach, a brief distraction from the pain.

Even so, she couldn’t help but feel a little comforted when another dip in the mattress told her that Anna had joined them on the bed too.

‘So I brought you a hot water bottle for your stomach and a cool flannel for your head- Catalina said you were a bit warm- and some hot chocolate, just because it probably won’t make you feel worse.’

‘Thank you, but you shouldn’t have-’

‘Well I did. Too late now.’ Blunt as Anna’s words were, Cathay could hear the gentle smile behind them. Catalina shifted her slightly in her arms.

‘How about we get you settled again so you can make use of them? Hm? I promise they’ll make you feel better mija.’

Reluctantly Catalina peeled herself out of Catalina’s embrace and peeped up- her godmother's warm smile was reassuringly un-annoyed.

Maybe she really isn’t cross with me.

‘Now first things first- you can’t possibly be comfy with your duvet all tangled. Do you think you can stand if we help you?’

In less than five minutes, Cathy found herself being helped back into a freshly made bed. The hot water bottle helped soothe the sore muscles of her lower stomach, the flannel cooled her hot, tear-streaked face. Once she was safely in place, Anna and Catalina climbed up onto the bed either side of her; Catalina raised an arm and Cathy burrowed underneath, curling into her side and feeling rather like a baby chick being swept beneath a protective wing.

‘Better, mija?’

She nodded in Catalina’s cardigan and heard Anna’s soft chuckle.

‘Good. Now what can we do to take your mind off it all hm? Do you want to watch something on Netflix?’

Cathy shook her head, still burrowed; she didn’t really want to disturb the quiet peace that had settled over the room since the queens had entered.

‘I could read to you if you like.’

The suggestion seemed to take both Cathy AND Anna by surprise.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. If she- if YOU want.’

‘Do people even read aloud any more?’

‘Maybe you don’t.’ There was the hint of a teasing challenge in Catalina’s voice. ‘But I do.’

Cathy was about to tell Catalina not to worry, not to go to the trouble (because surely it WAS trouble)- but before she opened her mouth, she stopped herself. She couldn’t remember anyone- anyone EVER- offering to do something as tender as read aloud to her before. Not even as a child.

Catalina seemed to sense her hesitation. ‘Is that a yes mija?’

She nodded again, feeling her cheeks getting hot again as she did so. Even though Catalina had offered, taking her up on it still felt somehow presumptuous and demanding. Still….she also couldn’t quite bring herself to tell Catalina to stop.

‘Alright then. Anna, could you grab me something from the bookshelf?’ Cathy felt Catalina’s chuckle this time. ‘I seem to have a former monarch on me.’

(The arm holding Cathy to her tightened as she said it, even before Cathy could draw away in embarrassment and apologise.)

‘This do?’ Anna’s voice moved away and then came closer. ‘All she has are books about history and religion… Cath, when you’re better, we’re going to Waterstones, ok? Urgently. You need some light reading, I’m going to introduce you to the world of horror novels...’

‘That’s fine.’

Shifting slightly, Catalina drew Cathy infinitesimally closer and cleared her throat. Anna settled back onto the bed and Cathy felt a hand rubbing slow circles on her aching lower back. The relief was almost immediate- she had to fight the urge to purr.

‘Behold Lord how I come to you, a sinner sick and grievously wounded...’

Cathy peeped up- to catch Anna’s warm smile and Catalina’s absorbed expression- and then nestled back down. As her eyelids fluttered shut, she allowed the soft cadence of Catalina’s voice carry her away.

All was well.

#six #six the musical #six the musical fanfiction #sixfic

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strictomiles · 4 years ago

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💚💚💚🥺 you're incredible and I adore you

@strictomiles made this post about spare clothes Gladio has. I decided to draw him wearing every piece as like, a dare. Though I could probably make them into two separate horrendous outfits as well. (blue jean, cowboy hat+jeans with sweater. And Hawaiian shirt, crocs, and bonus some red short gym shorts/no shorts. Might do that at some point too.)

#i am in love #¶ all muscle no mettle || self

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wexburnxbright · 4 years ago

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Intro!

Well, after wrestling with this bad boy for a while, I think I’ve finally settled on a backstory for my problem child, Cain Marbrand! Cannot wait to start RPing with all you amazingly talented people 😊

the courts offer bread and salt to cain of house marbrand. many say that the twenty seven year old sibling of the lord of ashemark is known to be entertaining and loyal, though ill tongues whisper that he is stubborn and brash. when his name is uttered , one is reminded of the most self assured yet least confident person in the room, a comedian who their biggest fan of their jokes is themselves, perception being far from reality, a fire behind the eyes with a smirk on the face, and the shiniest steel something that is simple, beautiful, yet deadly. may he be blessed and protected in this war of crowns. ( fc: wade briggs )

Cain Marbrand never took to being a noble. All the responsibilities, the expectations, the etiquette and just the general stuffiness to it all just didn’t sit well with him. Let his elder brother deal with the pitfalls of ruling, let him go off and do his own thing instead. It’d be better that way.

One thing that Cain DID stick to, however, were martial pursuits. Whether it be riding, or dueling, jousting or archery, Cain took to it like a fish to water. He reveled in the feel of steel in his hands, the adrenaline running through his veins, the burning in his muscles. It was a rush, and one he found himself craving more and more as he grew older.

The young man began hunting for tournaments, eager to prove his worth and test his mettle as a warrior. As he rode around Westeros, he found his second passion: travel. Why stay in one place, when there was seven kingdoms to see, or Free Cities, or a Dothraki Sea, or a great pyramid? He couldn’t, and wouldn’t, be happy until he’d seen what else was out there.

So, at the age of seven and ten, he set out, a blade at his hip and gold in his purse, to travel the world. He wished his family, who he loved dearly, a goodbye and set off to make his way, live his life and experience the fruits the world had to offer.

And experience he did! Oh, the tales Cain Marbrand could tell of the ruins of the Wall or the great Pyramid in Mereen. Drinking with mercenaries as they waged war in the disputed lands or battling off Dothraki hordes. Training with water dancers and sailing upon the sea. And, yes he absolutely does want to tell them to you in grandiose detail, perhaps over a few cups of ale?

#broken.intro #sorry if it sucks!

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ofdragonsdeep · 3 years ago

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15: Thunderous

The loudest sound to a mind used to song is silence.

(spoilers up to 5.4, and for coils raids)

The whirr of the airship’s fans powering down greeted Ar’telan’s return to Azys Lla. Beyond the dock, half-crazed robots running on broken programs tottered about the rock-and-metal structures of the Alpha Quadrant, heading to do the Twelve only knew what. Ardashir’s workstation was still set up near Helix, though Gerolt had long since departed the area, machines humming and shelves piled high with notes as he continued his research on the concept of anima. He waved at Ar’telan as he passed, Ar’telan nodding back a cheerful greeting as he carefully sidestepped a spinner-rook hurtling past at a dangerous angle.

He had been back to Azys Lla more times than he might have expected, the first time he had come here. The memories of the chase Thordan and his Knights had set them on were still fresh, despite the many moons that had passed since. The buildings and ships still hummed with empty purpose, the dock where the Gration had touched down was empty, but the spaces where the garleans had spilled out of it still bore their mark. So many had died here, and not only for the Allagan’s sake.

He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. The noise was a pathetic one, given his damaged throat and lack of voice, but it was enough to call his chocobo from the airship hangar and to his side. The aether currents were strong in Azys Lla, the artificial confluence at the Flagship forcing them to be so, and it was easy to navigate them between the floating islands, over the heads of the monstrosities and broken machines, sailing across the void to his destination.

The Delta Quadrant was an odd place. He had studied the maps of Azys Lla that G’raha had pulled from the terminals as part of his search of the archives, and the place seemed as though it was named in Dragonspeak, but something seemed off. In times past, he would have asked for Midgardsormr’s opinion, but the events with Omega left him able to do little more than pilot his tiny vessel on automatic, his great mind slumbering in the aether to recharge. Tiamat still waited in her self-imposed exile, her songless children - cloned, not born - wandering the isle in desperate sadness.

Ar’telan was here to pay a special visit.

When he and Alisaie had fought their way through the ruins of Dalamud, a mad dash to put a stop to Bahamut’s reconstitution, they had encountered any number of threats. More allagan robots, these ones still functional but with no order but ‘kill’. Biological monstrosities that were gibberingly insane. Tempered creatures - Nael’s face contorted into a wicked snarl, the hot flames of the phoenix. But more than anything, what had hurt were the dragons.

They had gone back for them, after Bahamut had been fully discorporated. One by one they had released the locks on the stasis chambers, and what had tumbled out was ooze and the stench of death. Most of the dragons were alive only by the strictest definition, and perished shortly after being freed. Some of them stabilised, then turned around in madness, Tempered and broken. Some of these they had subdued, horrified at what they had done, and returned them to the stasis chambers, disconnected now from Dalamud and its prayer-siphoning. All but one.

The wyvern that they had taken to calling Twintania was an unusual creature. Leashed by allagan technology, though it had been badly damaged in the fight, she was filled with a burning, single-minded hatred for those who had enslaved her - mortals which looked, to her, like the people who were trying to save her. Cid had jimmied together a repair mechanism after examining Tiamat’s chains, and they had made the heartbreaking decision to leash the wyvern in the Delta Quadrant, in one of the ruined buildings near the Pappus Tree.

Ar’telan walked, feet crunching through the overgrown grass, listening to the babble of water on its wending way through the quadrant. The roiling aether of the sky cast a sickly light over the area as he gave his chocobo strict instructions to wait outside, and ducked into their makeshift prison.

Twintania bellowed in anger as he approached where she was penned, though the bindings let her do little else. She watched him with the single-minded hatred of the Tempered in her eyes as he set down his supplies - a tiny magitek battery charged with aether, a key to unlock her chains - and summoned forth the anchor that Alisaie had conjured for him before he left.

He had never done this on his own before. He had watched it done more than once, by now, but he was still a little nervous. The dragons were different to the races native to Hydaelyn - who could say it would work? Would he do it right? Would it make any difference to Twintania, freed but knowing full well what he and his had done?

Still, he had come this far, so he was not going to turn back now. He channeled aether into the focus, a combination of his own and a little from Alisaie and Alphinaud, stored in the battery. G’raha had offered, but Ar’telan had been wary of taking the aether of someone connected to Allag, even by proxy, so this was all he had. The porxie snorted happily, flapping its ears to indicate that it was fully charged, and the two of them set to work.

The flash of aether was blinding to behold, the bright white of the life-energy he had poured into the casting meeting the angry blue-gold hiss of Bahamut’s Tempering. There was a crackle, a flash, and Ar’telan staggered with the wave of lethargy that washed over him as the spell finally hit home, draining him of his energy in one swift burst. He fell backwards to the floor, hands flying out to steady himself, and blinked back in the bright light show that played across his eyes, flickering afterimages of light.

There was a moment of silence.

“...The screaming doth stop, and I am alone in a Songless current. What brings thee to this place, child of man? What compels thee to save the lost?”

It had worked.

“Because you deserve the chance,” he replied, getting to his feet. He took the tomestone in his his hand and poked at it until it released the restraints - perhaps it was a feint, but he would weather the consequences of being too trusting if that were so. The wyvern watched as they fell to the floor at her feet, unholy amalgamation of magitek and allagan cruelty, and did not move to strike.

“My sire is dead, his Song forever silenced. My siblings lost in a quiet void. I am alone.” Her head swiveled to look at the sickened sky, filtering through the gaps in the ruined masonry. Beyond it, Tiamat sat in her silent vigil, and the wyvern would almost certainly know. “The world has turned as I stayed lost in my madness. Tell me why.” Ar’telan followed her gaze, wondering what he could even say, why he had thought this might even work - why she might have wanted it at all. Was it fair? Was it right?

The choice should have been hers, not one made through Tempered necessity.

“You are not alone,” he said. “Some of your brethren yet live, sealed within the stasis prisons the Allagans locked them in. We have the means to save them now, from the madness the Ascians gifted your brood with, if you wish it.” He shook his head slowly. “I know it is a cruel and empty world that your eyes are opened to, but if you would choose to look away from it, you can do so with eyes unclouded.”

The wyvern was quiet for a long time, settling down into the sitting position that Ar’telan had seen in Vedrfolnir a handful of times before. She was smaller than him, just, but still large enough that Ar’telan thought she had been close in clutch to her Brood’s sire. She was larger than any of the other dragons they had found within Dalamud’s core, for certain.

“Once before did we make a decision drowned in sadness and despair. We shall not do so a second time,” she decided. “Though it hurts, the discordant notes of our primal Sire were no true Song. This I see now. No magic shall ever return him to us, nor those lost to the madness that followed.” She stretched out wings that had gone long unused, muscles tensing and releasing as she tested their mettle. “No longer shall we blindly trust the children of man, but nor shall I turn away from thy kindness. If but a handful of our kin live, we shall persist. In honour of our Sire, we shall carry his Song through the ages. Can thee and thine do this for us, mortal child?” Ar’telan nodded.

“It will take us time - the energy needed to charge the magic that cleanses the effect comes from our own life’s aether, and we are few who can do it. But we shall, if that is what you wish of us.” He took a cautious step towards her, and was not immediately repelled. “Allag’s sins are not ours, but the Empire is broken and lost. If we can make amends for the sins of the dead, in whatever small way we can, then we shall.” Twintania rumbled in agreement, acquiescing to his request by stepping forwards and touching her chin to the top of his head.

“Take me to thy compatriots, and to my brood-mates. I shall see what is left in the silence.”

---

Returning to the airship with a wyvern in tow raised a not-inconsiderable alarm among the Ishgardians who piloted it, but a space on the deck was cleared for her after a small amount of hemming and hawing by the pilots. She flapped her wings irritably as they flew, clearly wishing that she could fly herself rather than rely upon the contraptions of man, but she raised no verbal complaint.

Ar’telan, for his part, activated his Linkpearl and communicated through series of half-formed noises to Alisaie that he needed her help. She was already in Ishgard, waiting in case things went badly, so it was simple enough to arrange to meet her at the airship landing.

---

“It worked!” Alisaie exclaimed as Ar’telan and Twintania dismounted from the airship. “Oh, I’m so glad. Not that I doubted you for a minute, of course.”

“I am told that my kin are under thy protection,” Twintania said, having no time for pleasantries. Alisaie grimaced, but nodded in agreement.

“I suppose you could call it that. It’s not pleasant, though,” she confirmed. “We can take you there, if you’d like, but it will be a long time before we manage to cure them all.” She paused then, sighing softly, and shook her head. “We stopped releasing the locks on the stasis chambers once it became clear we couldn’t do anything for those who were still… alive. I can’t guarantee that even half of them will be saveable.” Twintania inclined her head in acknowledgement.

“I understand. The extent of the corruption hath been revealed to me by thy companion,” she assured Alisaie. “I would stand guard over their resting place. I have lived many of thy lifetimes, and will live many more yet. When the last of my brood-mates is free, whatever form that doth take, then we shall decide what we must do as one.” Alisaie looked to Ar’telan, and he inclined his head in agreement.

“...Well, alright,” she said. “I’ll need to make sure everyone we need is there, and see if we can’t find someone to assign in a more permanent capacity to trying to cure the Tempering. It’s still an inexact science, even in mortals like us. Never mind dragons.” She turned away, one hand on her ear to active her Linkpearl, and began contacting people in earnest. Twintania looked at her surroundings properly, taking in the cold stone of Ishgard and the people walking nervously past the gathering at the airship landing.

“Ishgard has a troubled history with dragons,” Ar’telan said, regret colouring his every movement. Twintania simply inclined her head.

“Thy kind and mine are too different to avoid such troubles, it seems.”

---

Ar’telan went with Twintania on their trek across Eorzea. The majority of the stasis pods that they had found initially had been in the shard of Dalamud embedded in the Broken Wall, in Thanalan, and they had repurposed the area for their desperate attempts to sustain the dying. From Ishgard, the walk took them across the Black Shroud, a journey of several days on its own. Ar’telan deflected the more human of their problems - concerned Wood Wailers, poachers who were not aware of how much they had attempted to bite, and a few Ixal angry at the encroachment on ‘their’ territory. Twintania spent her time idly snapping at the forest creatures which tried to impede their crossing, the elementals thankfully allowing them passage. She had spent many moons in her bindings, and though her reflexes were dulled, she was more than capable of snapping up an errant squirrel or a diremite or two.

The Shroud broke on a part of Thanalan close to their destination, for a mercy. The few scattered Amalj’aa that still made a scouting camp in the area were easily chased off by the sight of a dragon in the flesh, and the phurbles and snurbles - Ar’telan still could not tell the difference - were easy prey for Twintania’s jaws. Ar’telan was glad that the allagan monstrosities that had once joined them on the path had died down to near-invisibility since the primal had been quelled, for the reminder would likely not be a pleasant one.

“These places are cold and cruel,” Twintania said as they approached the door, flapping her wings in disdain for it. Ar’telan nodded in agreement, breaking the seal on the the entryway.

“They are. It was the only place we could safely keep them where they would not be prey for bandits, but I wish there were other options,” he said.

---

They walked down the smooth walkways, allagan lights glowing at their passage. Deep within the engine of the Ragnarok, the engine that had borne Dalamud to space and then served to keep it there, the cluster of the remaining stasis pods sat. Alisaie was already there, assembled with her crew of ‘people who could teleport’, a space remaining for, presumably, Ironworks engineers who had been too busy to arrive immediately.

“Glad you’ve arrived in one piece,” she said by way of greeting. “We’re going over the diagnostics at the moment. The short version is that there’s thirty-some pods which are likely to hold dragons we can save, and too many others which likely… don’t. I’ve taught the cure for Tempering to these two here.” She gestured behind her to a hyur and an elezen that Ar’telan didn’t recognise, who waved sheepishly at the greeting. “We can get one or two out each moon, maybe. But you probably don’t want to push it.” Twintania rumbled in acknowledgement.

“Greetings, children of man,” she said, inclining her head. “Time is of no issue. My vigil shall last as long as it must, and I have much to learn of this world still as I wait.” Alisaie cleared her throat, clearly still a little nervous.

“Right. And we’ve got some people from the Ironworks coming in - they’re the people who can get your brood-mates out of the pods to begin with. They might change a little bit for the first few weeks, but eventually we’d like to have a small, permanent team here until everyone’s out. Is that alright?” Twintania nodded her head again.

“It shall serve. You have my thanks, child. It is good to see that menfolk of the sort that my Sire once aided still walk the earth, despite what the Allagans desired.”

“We will do everything in our power to ensure that none like them ever rise again,” Ar’telan said. “There is never any way to guarantee such things, but we will try.” Twintania made a noise that sounded almost like a laugh.

“Our memory is eternal, child of Light. We shall not forget the betrayal, nor the love. And we shall never let rest the memory of the Ascians and their lies. We shall not be fooled a second time.” Ar’telan smiled.

“I hope so,” he said. “I will come and make sure all is well whenever I can. Good luck.” The ancient wyvern inclined her head, respect in her calm eyes.

“To you as well, child of Light.”

#revs up the crackfic because why the hell not #ffxivwrite2021 #This was actually really fun!#I might put this in Art's canon just because I mean #it's so nice #and I feel bad for riding my Twintania mount around given recent developments #ff14 #Warrior of Light (solo story)

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concussed-to-pieces · 4 years ago

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The Mettle Of A Man; Part Six

Fandom: Fallout (4)

Pairing: Eventual Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Enjoy!

Part One: ArcJet

Part Two: The Prydwen

Part Three: Orders

Part Four: Finding Brandis

Part Five: Weston Water And Oberland

“General!”

The unfamiliar voice roused Danse from his staring match with the coffee pot and he lunged to his feet, Righteous Authority at the ready.

“At ease, Paladin. It's one of my friends.” Backhand soothed him, waving at the young man striding through the tatos towards them. “Preston! What brings you to this corner of the wilderness?”

Preston was on the taller side, well-built and wearing a strange combination of period clothing that Danse quickly identified as a higher-ranking Minuteman’s uniform. A scar hugged the brown skin on his left cheek, its path similar to Maxson's (though not as deep). His eyes, while kind, were haunted even in the bright light of morning.

“We got the radio set back up in The Castle, and then we tuned into a repeating distress signal from a weird short-range frequency. Figured it was worth checking out.” The Minuteman touched the large brim of his odd hat while speaking to Backhand, almost like he was deferring to her. "You might have sent a message warning us that a Brotherhood research contingent was on their way. I'm not sayin' we would have left the queen untouched , but...well, you know how much folks around here like their seafood."

Preston Garvey ( head lieutenant of the Commonwealth Minutemen ) didn't appear to have a malicious bone in his body, his handshake for Danse firm when Backhand introduced him. Danse found himself pinned by those intense brown eyes, the paladin squirming inwardly while the dark-skinned man studied him.

“You Brotherhood boys are bad news for the Commonwealth, but we can't exactly afford to be picky,” Preston stated bluntly with a disarming smile. “So, welcome aboard!”

Danse felt his face go hot at the insinuation, opening his mouth to say... something , he wasn't sure what, but Preston was already refocusing on Knight Vega. Or should he say General Vega? This was the second time someone had referred to her as ‘General’.

Danse wasn't used to being so simply dismissed. He was, after all, a paladin . An overgrown specimen of a man in or out of his armor, with a carefully-crafted demeanor of stern authority. Preston didn't seem particularly rude though, mostly just exhausted. He had propped himself up with his laser musket as Backhand explained their mission of the day. Mainly, reacquire Danse's armor and mop up any remaining threats in Weston.

Danse realized he had no control in this operation as he was sans-armor and he almost laughed aloud at the role reversal in the field. Playing the damsel was definitely a novel sensation for the hulking paladin and he said as much, prompting Backhand into a fit of giggles.

“Pretty sure I was the damsel at first, this guy has a hell of a throwing arm!” She informed Preston, thumbing the reinforced strapping of her combat armor. “Tossed me like I was a skipping rock!”

“You threw the General?!” Preston sputtered.

“It was a reflex .” Danse stressed the word, flustered.

“Yeah but you threw a whole human being? ” The Minuteman asked incredulously. “I mean, damn, what do they feed you guys?”

“To be fair, the power armor enhances-”

“Oh yeah, and he can move his armor even when the core's blown.” Backhand tacked on like she was a proud parent. Preston looked at Danse a little sideways, as though he suspected Knight Vega was talking him up.

But the Minuteman simply shrugged after a moment, adjusting his hat. “So what's the plan, General? I'm going to assume it's his armor that was pinging the distress signal.”

Danse's breath hitched as it dawned on him that yes , that was exactly what was happening. The severe damage would have activated the emergency beacon, just like with Brandis’ team. And if some haphazard, ramshackle radio at Fort Independence could pick it up…

If it's been going off since last night ...

Their beacons carried their call tags. The Prydwen would have known it was his armor specifically. They had vertibirds to spare, despite Maxon's posturing when they had departed. Surely there had to be some logical reason as to why no one from the Brotherhood had come to investigate the signal. Danse couldn't think of anything at the moment, but surely …

…

The armor was exactly where it had been yesterday, a protective shell resting on a leg and three-quarters. Seeing the damage up close was sobering for Backhand, and judging from Danse's stony expression he was in the same boat.

“At least it was super mutants. If it had been raiders or, God forbid, gunners …” Preston trailed off, touching the brim of his hat. His hand shook a little.

“I know, trust me. We would have been in for a really terrible time.” Backhand muttered.

Danse, who had been essentially silent, abruptly began speaking. “Back in the Capital Wasteland, I once took an Enclave bullet to the leg. Hit a rust patch just right. Penetrated my armor and shredded my calf. I learned then that our equipment is not infallible by any stretch of the imagination.” Danse's fists were tight at his sides. “It's... distressing when a soldier jettisons his gear in combat, but I'll be fine.”

"You think you can get it working again?"

Danse scoffed at Preston's query, a grin quirking his lips as he tugged a fresh core out of one of his utility pouches. "Give me an hour. I'm no proctor, but I know a thing or two about my own armor."

The paladin muscled his armor onto its back, looking for all the world like he was slowly grappling with the empty suit. Backhand fought the urge to snort, shifting her attention back to Preston instead. "So how's Independence coming, hot shot?" She jibed, making him give her a tentative, self-conscious smile.

"Really well, I'd say. Crops are planted, we have 'round the clock radio coverage and old Minutemen are showing up to get their transponders re-tuned for our new frequency!" Preston replied excitedly. "We gotta' get yours fixed up too, General."

"You're still accepting the deserters?" Backhand wasn't exactly surprised , but it was a little strange to see how enthused Preston was about welcoming old Minutemen back into the fold.

"W-Well, new recruits are coming in too! We needed more trainers and-" Preston hurried to justify himself and Backhand jostled his shoulder.

" Relax , tight lace, I'm only teasing. It's any port in a storm. No matter what you've done, you know I'm proud of you." She said softly. Preston's cheeks darkened further with a ruddy flush, the young man coughing and tugging bashfully at the brim of his hat.

"That's...real kind of you to say, General." He muttered after a second.

"I try to only speak the truth with my friends." Backhand gestured vaguely towards the paladin who was straightening out the plating on the torso of his armor. "Sometimes they're a little... hardheaded , but I know it'll get through to them eventually." Her statement was pointed enough that Preston raised an eyebrow. "He's a decent man. Something is fucked up between him and their leader, Maxson. I'm not quite sure what ." She continued in an undertone.

"Careful about how deep you're digging the hole, General." Preston warned. "Brotherhood's got a fanaticism that's borderline religious."

"Garvey, I was in the original . If there's one thing I'm familiar with, it's military maniacs."

"Fair enough I suppose." Preston fanned himself with his hat, idly watching Danse beat his armor back into shape. "He's good looking, I'll give him that. Penchant for a type, General Vega?" He teased with a smile.

"I can neither confirm nor deny!" Backhand laughed, "you're nosier than a pre-war tabloid journalist, Garvey. Planning on taking up with Piper?"

"If it helps spread the word about the Minutemen, absolutely!"

The two of them lapsed into a companionable silence for several minutes. Danse abruptly glanced up, the lack of conversation seeming to penetrate his single-minded focus. "Am I being too loud?" He asked awkwardly. "I can try to be quieter."

"Nah, keep doing what you were doing." Garvey gave him a wave that was almost lazy. "I'm just taking in the scenery."

…

The plan that Knight Vega proposed was ludicrously simple.

She had found a metal bucket in one of the trailers beside the water treatment plant. She would put her Pip Boy into it, turn on the radio and set the volume to max. Hopefully the racket would lure any remaining mutants out of the facility, wherein the all too eager trio would fall upon them with gusto.

Preston was game for it as well, already cranking up the power in his laser musket as Backhand settled the bucket on its side by the front doors.

The usual vein of music issued from the Pip Boy, echoing a little in the bucket. Blaring brass overpowered any of the more delicate parts of the tune and Backhand laughed, playfully extending a hand to Preston. "Dance with me, LT? I'm sure we've got a few minutes."

To Danse's utter dismay, the Minuteman did just that. Surely, this was some breach of protocol? The young man referred to her as his superior officer! Regardless of how lax their standards were, this couldn't possibly be proper. This…

This was the most precious thing he had ever seen.

Danse would be eternally grateful for the rigorous self control that enabled him to school his face into a neutral expression. Preston wasn't a half-bad dancer but Backhand was terrible , just downright uncoordinated.

The two of them were laughing like they had forgotten the issue at hand and for one blissful second, Danse found himself strangely at peace. Just watching both individuals fumble through some semblance of a dance he would never know, grinning and poking fun, entirely unconcerned about the world around them.

Danse was used to being watched. Scrutinized. Held to a higher standard than anyone else around him due to rank or simple expectation. Knight Vega...he should say something. Tell her to shape up. This behavior was unacceptable . Maxson could have her stripped of her probationary knight rank for this. Maxson could…

Maxson .

The paladin gritted his teeth.

Elder Maxson could do a lot of things. The intensity of the depression that followed the thought startled even Danse. It was like a wet blanket wrapping itself around his entire body. Maxson could do a lot of things. He could have ended this before it even started. He could have mounted the assault when Brandis' team vanished. He could have-

The doors to the complex swung wide open, four super mutants sprinting out. Danse's heart leaped into his throat.

Backhand and Preston-!

His body moved without thought, the armored paladin placing himself between the threat and the two who were now scrambling to prepare themselves. Danse cracked his knuckles in his gauntlets, bullets whipping through the air by his head. Three of the mutants were only armed with boards and sledgehammers, but the largest one carried a rifle of some kind.

A musket shot boomed from behind the paladin, pulping the head of one of the mutants. Danse surmised coldly that it must have been Preston's kill. Danse wasn't unarmed, but the enemy also wasn't inclined to give him the time to sling his laser rifle back around, and so it was with his armored fists that he rushed the trigger-happy mutant.

…

"Gotcha'!" Backhand's shotgun sounded off, the loud report muffled by the way she had rammed the barrel into the mutant's chest. Beside her, Preston kept winding up his musket to power his next shot. That first shot had been just what the doctor ordered, quickly putting the odds more in their favor.

There was a loud, angry grunt and Backhand looked up to see a super mutant go sailing past her and slam through the side of one of the trailers. Preston gaped at the sight, ceasing to crank his musket momentarily.

A roar of " abomination! " echoed through the courtyard, the sheer volume of it enough to give Backhand pause. The paladin had gotten too close to the mutant with the gun for the creature to continue to use it effectively and Danse pressed his advantage. Backhand watched slightly dumbfounded while the large man went toe to toe with the massive mutant.

The mutant yammered at Danse, nonsensical rambling about cracking him open and the paladin repaid those threats with his metal-plated fists. "Should we…?" Preston queried. Apparently neither of them needed to worry as Danse proceeded to shoulder check the mutant, forcing it backwards through the doors into the building.

"It's probably therapeutic for him. He really, really hates muties." Backhand couldn't help but still feel slightly concerned and she sighed. "C'mon, let's make sure he's not getting devoured."

…

Danse manhandled the beast through two walls until he found one sturdy enough for him to pin the mutant against. It squirmed and struggled against the iron grip he had on its throat, choking out more insane nonsense. "This is for Cutler, you freak ." Danse's voice cracked as he drew his fist back.

"You okay in here, Paladin?" Backhand's voice distracted him momentarily and the paladin paused. " Danse? "

His fist crushed the mutant's skull, sending bone and brain flying. Danse released the now-dead mutant, shaking his gauntlet and hissing at the pain. Inadvertently punching a wall was assuredly not his finest moment. "Yes, Knight Vega?" He called.

She carefully picked her way over the two piles of rubble that had previously been walls, her shotgun ready. Behind her came Preston, sweeping corners in a practiced manner. "Just making sure nothing happened. You know we're supposed to be sticking together." Her tone was playfully chiding, even though her eyes betrayed a startling level of concern.

"Figured I should grab the opportunity by the throat." Danse answered after a moment of silent contemplation.

To his credit, Preston did attempt to keep his laughter under control. Vega grinned at her snickering lieutenant, patting his shoulder and then squinting at Danse. "You better watch it, Paladin. I'll have you written up for bullheaded heroics or something."

"A fate worse than death." Danse replied dryly. "Though I'm afraid your report would fall on deaf ears."

"Too true. You would probably be promoted to...double paladin, or whatever the next rank is for you."

"Knight sergeant."

"What?! But paladin sounds way cooler!" Backhand protested indignantly while Preston started laughing all over again. "The whole point of moving up in the chain of command is to get a better name! Even I know that." She teased.

Danse felt like he was back on the Prydwen attempting to educate a mess hall full of squires. "Well, I could be promoted to star paladin. But that's very unlikely." He explained. "They are exceptionally rare, akin to sentinels."

" Star paladin?" Backhand looked like she was about to burst with curiosity.

"Yes. They are paladins who have been specially recognized for their dedication or ferocity in battle."

"Uh General, not to cut this short, but-" Preston began hurriedly, rechecking the levels on his undoubtedly finicky musket.

"Right, yeah, job to do."

Danse finally swung his rifle around, doing a quick run-through of all the switches before he turned on the tact-light, beautifully illuminating the dust his demolition-style entry had stirred up.

He proceeded deeper into the facility, purposely taking point despite his unarmored head. Preston flanked him on the left while Backhand walked drag, their footsteps all but silent in the wake of the larger man's sabatons. "Remain vigilant." Danse cautioned.

"D'you think there's anything else in here?" Preston whispered, "I feel like they would have come for us."

"I've actually been in here before, last time the basement was flooded and there were mirelurks," Backhand muttered. "I was doing a favor for those 'bots at Graygarden."

"No rest for the wicked when it comes to you, eh General?" Preston quipped.

"Listen, I feel like making friends with the agriculturally-inclined robots is definitely a good strategy." She reasoned. "After all, they can work around the clock and everything!"

Danse hushed the two of them, leading with the barrel of his rifle. The tact-light flickered as he continued their sweep, ears open for any signs of hostiles.

...

Backhand tapped at the compass of her Pip Boy, scrolling the compass display a full three hundred and sixty degrees. Her scroll jerked to a halt when two red ticks appeared, ahead and to the right.

"Bogey at two o'clock." She whispered. Danse nodded grimly and Preston flipped the crank over to prime his musket.

Now Backhand could actually hear sounds, an odd snuffling and scraping noise. A hound, maybe?

Danse clearly heard it as well, the man advancing into the next room and sweeping the corners with his rail-mounted flashlight.

Something skittered by just outside the light, vanishing into a gap in the crumbling wall. Danse wordlessly stormed forward and with one brutal motion he rammed his gauntlet through the plaster and heaved out--

A child?

The paladin froze, one large metal hand wrapped around the leg of the waif he had just forcibly extracted. The little boy screamed and flailed in Danse's hold, tiny fists beating a tattoo on the gauntlet that suspended him upside down in midair. He was filthy , clad in a dingy pair of overalls. He had a cut over his right eye, possibly from Danse's speedy removal.

For the barest, heartbreaking second, Backhand thought that it was Shaun. But no, no, she was imagining things.

"Whoa, easy there." She breathed, trying to get her heart to stop hammering. Danse still hadn't moved. "Hey, hey hey, look at me." She caught one of the child's arms, easily dodging the bite he aimed at her hand. " Easy big fella', we aren't going to hurt you." Backhand soothed, "you're okay. Were you hiding from the muties?"

"Big d-d-dog tried t-to eat m-m-me." The little boy hiccupped, changing his tune instantly and clinging to her arm as Danse carefully, carefully set him down. "H-Hid in the wall. M-My mama, she told me not t-to wander off, b-b-but it got dark and I g-got lost." he sobbed, rubbing his eyes.

Backhand reached into her satchel and pulled out Sergeant Cathan's 'lucky' bandanna. With gentle precision she wrapped it around the little boy's hand, knotting it at his wrist. "I need you to do me a favor, okay?" She asked seriously. "I need you to hold onto this bandanna for me. It's lucky, but only if you're holding it super tight. Can you make sure we stay lucky?"

The child frowned after a moment, sniffling and then gripping down on the bandanna. Backhand heaved a mental sigh of relief, thankful that the distraction tactic had worked. Sometimes she couldn't get her target to buy into the grift; it was always a gamble. Sergeant Cathan had taught her (long ago and far away now) the benefits of implication, suggestion and placebo effects on survivors. She had carried the 'lucky' bandanna since her honorable discharge, it being one of the few possessions she had refused to relinquish even while being sealed in cryogenic stasis. It made her feel a little warm inside to be able to use it's so-called powers for good once more.

" It doesn't have to be real. It doesn't have to be lucky, or important, or special in any way ." The sergeant had informed her when he explained the trick of distraction. " All it needs is belief, Backhand. That's it. If you can get them to believe in it, the hard part is already over ."

"Okay kiddo, how about we bring you back outside?" Preston cajoled gently with a smile. "You want something to eat?" The little boy nodded furiously, his eyes wide in the glow of Danse's rail-light. "Alright, take my hand. You're gonna' be just fine."

A loud howl echoed down the hallway and Danse jerked to attention, his rifle snapping upwards. "Go, get out!" He demanded Preston, "pick up the child and go! Knight Vega, on my six, now! " He barked.

Backhand thanked God that Preston was the type to help first and ask questions later, the young man easily scooping the little boy up in his arms and ducking out in the direction of the foyer. Danse shone his light back down the hallway, illuminating a hound so old its green skin had gone gunmetal gray. It sampled the air and bayed hoarsely, milky eyes staring ahead. It was ancient, obviously blind, possibly deaf-

Danse pulled his trigger once, and then a second time for good measure. Backhand noticed that his hands were shaking as he straightened up. He strode forward to the end of the hall, shoving the dog's body aside without so much as looking at it.

Backhand looked down at her compass, scrolling it this way and that. But it was empty, no signatures reading on it whatsoever. "Paladin, I think that's it." She said, holding her arm up so he could see her use the compass.

Danse nodded in an absent manner, still looking down the hall and running his light over the walls around him.

"We should get back outside. Make sure Preston and that kiddo are okay." Backhand suggested gently.

"I could have killed that child."

Ah . Backhand understood why his hands were trembling now. She let him carry on with his double-check, giving him the time he needed to decide whether he would say more.

"I...I could have…" Backhand heard him swallow, the noise loud in the silence. " Christ , Vega. I'm not setting a very good example for you, am I. We were almost killed by a behemoth due to my own inattention, I had to jettison my power armor, my helmet is unsalvageable , and I very nearly slaughtered a lost child."

"It's been a hell of a shakedown campaign." Backhand agreed, pushing the glasses up on her nose. "Imagine the trouble we could get into if we keep sticking together."

Danse's laughter was a grim bark of a noise, the paladin nodding his head ruefully. "Just imagine. If I keep up my trajectory, the Commonwealth will be in flames by tomorrow morning."

Backhand placed a wary hand on his gauntlet, fingers grazing the worn red-orange paint that denoted his rank. " Or it'll be a better place." She reasoned, patting his arm and turning on her heel. "Now, c'mon. We've got a little one to return to his parents." She urged, waving the paladin on.

Preston had made it safely outside, the man still cradling the child as Backhand emerged from the double doors onto the front steps of the establishment. He raised his brows in question.

"There was an old hound, probably too old to hunt anymore. Blind." Backhand explained, sliding her satchel around and digging through it until her fingers brushed the plastic-wrapped snack. "Ah, here we go. You must be hungry, right slugger?" She asked the little boy, extracting the snack cake from her bag and waving it to catch his attention. "How about you munch on this until we get back to Oberland, and then my friend Preston will see about finding your parents. That sound good to you?"

The boy nodded, still sniffling but eagerly accepting the pre-war confection.

"You still got that bandanna? I know you must have held onto it real tight, because that hound didn't even know we were there!" Backhand praised with a grin, thrilled when the child gave her a weak smile in return.

Danse emerged from the building, towering over the trio in his armor. "It seems that beast was the last holdout." He said finally, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Have you checked the child for injuries?"

The cut over the little boy's eye had already stopped bleeding, and aside from a few minor scrapes and bruises he appeared to be fine. Obviously his largest issues were being lost and hungry. Preston continued to hold the child while Backhand cleaned the dried blood off his forehead, well aware of the eyes trained on her. "There. You'll be just fine." She assured the boy, barely resisting the urge to kiss the bandage and instead kissing her fingertips to press against the bandage. After all, she wasn't this kid's mom.

"A-Are you the Minutemen?" The little boy asked after a moment of hesitation. "My papa said you guys help people."

"We are! Good guess." Preston praised, adjusting his hold on the kid so he could tip his hat. " There at a minute's notice , or that's the idea anyway."

"Let's move out. The sooner we get to Oberland, the sooner you can broadcast your APB on him." Vega adjusted her satchel and began carefully picking her way back through the flooded area, boots sloshing in the water. "What's your name, wall boy?"

"Matt." The child replied through a mouthful of cake. "Mat'ew Amadeus O'Brian."

Backhand blinked, a little stunned at the elaborate name that the kid had rattled off. "Well, Matthew Amadeus O'Brian , my name is Elizabeth Backhand Vega, and the nice man being your legs right now is Preston Garvey." She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the silent paladin who was bringing up the rear of their little party. "The big one is Paladin Danse."

"He's big," Matt repeated, watching the paladin narrowly before tacking on, "An' scary ."

"He's not really scary, but it's easy to think that." Backhand could almost feel Danse growing more and more tense. "He's sorry for surprising you earlier, I promise!"

Matt's eyes stayed suspiciously squinted at the paladin, the little boy continuing to inhale the snack cake. "Are you sure? " He asked in a stage whisper. "'Cuz he looks angry. Like how my papa looks when he says I'm bein' too os'servant ."

Preston snickered at that. "You must be real observant then, if your folks are scolding you for it."

Matt puffed out his chest a bit, stating proudly that, "My mama says I've got good eyes and nothin' between them. Then, she laughs."

Danse made a choking noise, the large man obviously attempting to stifle his mirth. "Your mother sounds immensely charitable." He remarked, a faint smile playing across his mouth.

The little boy looked befuddled for a moment, pursing his lips. "I 'unno what that means, but I love my mama. So that better not be somethin' nasty." Clearly, the child had recovered some of his original pep, no doubt aided by the copious amounts of sugar in that snack cake. "Otherwise I'll kick your butt."

"Whoa now, language." Preston chided gently.

"He started it!" Matthew protested, "callin' my mama some...carrot, carrotible ."

" Charitable . It means good, kind. Even when you don't have to be." Backhand laughed as she explained, watching the realization dawn on the kid.

"Oh. Okay then. That's fine." The child allowed, "as long as it's nothin' bad."

...

Danse wiped the sweat from his brow, hammering the last nail into place. There . With the metal scrap and lumber they had salvaged from the area surrounding the station, Danse actually managed to cobble together a half perimeter fence that was a bit more fortified than the old chain link lining the once-uniform garden. It wasn't anything incredible , but it wouldn't fall over at the next stiff breeze.

Upon their arrival, Knight Vega had sat Matt down by the old pump out front of the station and carefully scrubbed the rest of the child's face clean. The boy somehow managed to keep up a constant stream of chatter even as he was being scoured to within an inch of his life. Danse knew he ought to find it irritating, as his entire military career he had been taught that squires should be seen and not heard, but instead he found it oddly endearing.

Preston had eventually managed to raise the Castle (or rather, Fort Independence), the Minuteman relaying the information that they had acquired a precocious young man by the name of Matthew Amadeus O'Brian.

Preston and Backhand had kept busy in the aforementioned garden for most of the day, tearing up weeds and tilling the soil. The two had an easy rapport, going back and forth on a variety of topics. Matt occasionally chimed in around a mouthful of almost gone-by tato, the child more than eager to assist in the stripping and demolishing of the plants.

Danse had half-listened to their chatter while he engaged wholeheartedly in building the defenses up as best as he could, wanting desperately to make himself useful even as he soaked up the conversation. Agriculture had never been his strong suit. Coming from the Capital Wasteland, he was incredibly leery of any produce borne of the radiation-rich soil. He certainly didn't eat any of it without properly preparing it. This led to less adventurous but also less dangerous meals, the vegetables usually gray and tasteless from their time in the pot of his mess kit.

Danse took a step back to admire his handiwork. It had been too long since he was able to actually devote the time to a task that it required, instead of just smashing resources together and hoping they held. He knew it was technically a fence made out of the refuse of the area, nothing to be proud of, but he relished the opportunity to craft something useful.

He heard a low whistle from behind him and realized that Preston was looking up at the fortifications, a massive grin on his face. "Damn, we could have used you at the Castle!" The Minuteman commented, clapping a hand on Danse's shoulder. "You got the place squared away in half the time, color me impressed."

"Being able to find or create a defensible position is a necessary skill for field ops. You never know when you may need to bivouac in less than hospitable territory." Danse knew he must sound unbearably stiff, and he grimaced inwardly at his casual usage of the word bivouac . That had been something from Cutler's verbiage. "This wall should function optimally, but it can always be improved upon."

"I appreciate it. The Minutemen thank you for your assistance." Preston said warmly, his hand squeezing Danse's shoulder gently before he turned back towards the garden. "General, we should probably break for dinner! I know you two will be leavin' early tomorrow, wouldn't want you to be overtired." He called to Backhand, who tossed him a thumbs-up.

Danse opened his mouth, hesitated, and then carefully stated, "if we stay another day, I may be able to erect something for the lower side of the hill. It won't be as tall as this, but as it's the lower hillside, inhabitants will have a better chance of spotting the enemy and preparing."

Preston's eyebrows shot up. "You'd do that for us? I'd be incredibly grateful, I'll be honest. We're spread so thin, I'm probably only going to have one armed individual to assign to this outpost. Whatever help you can give-"

"Only one?" Danse looked at the copious tilled soil, his brow furrowed in thought. "You may have too many resources here for you to defend them with just one gun and a wall of scrap, Lieutenant Garvey."

"At the moment, the only resource is the water pump. I'm hopin' by the time the crops pop, we'll be a little fatter in our ranks. If not, well, I'm always up for extra field duty." Preston drew a finger along the brim of his large hat, sighing. "Nobody said it would be easy, y'know?"

Danse nodded. He knew overwell the disproportionate work load that a commander must shoulder in exchange for the safety and stability of their regiment.

After a hearty supper of some of the remaining tatos (safely over-stewed to within an inch of their lives), canned beans and fresh-last-week bread that Preston had brought with him, Danse took up his post along the defenses he had built. His armor creaked a little louder than normal, but he supposed that was to be expected after the beating it had taken.

Backhand had been quiet during their dinner. He assumed she was simply tired. He could hardly blame her; it had been a very eventful few days.

Danse bit his lip. He knew he ought to be rushing back to the Prydwen, but he felt an odd sense of responsibility for this new development. After all , he reasoned, what better way to win hearts and minds for the Brotherhood? Showing that they were benevolent, willing to work with existing factions regardless of their differences…

Well, at least Danse was at any rate. And with a little luck, his obviously-high rank would convince the battered survivors of post-apocalyptic New England that the whole of the Brotherhood was here to help.

Possibly in spite of Maxson's lofty aspirations for wiping out the Institute. What good was it to remove the proverbial boogeyman of the Commonwealth if the Brotherhood's resources were stripped from the campaign? The more prudent option would be to gain the trust of the locals, and then press them for support should the need arise.

That was all he was doing. Gaining the trust of the locals.

He glanced up at the light that wavered in the window of the towering station. He could imagine Knight Vega tucking the little boy in, maybe pressing a kiss to his forehead…

Danse's heart ached. She had lost her son, he recalled, though she hadn't said how . He couldn't even begin to imagine the agony of losing a child. Losing Cutler was devastating enough.

When Vega came out to relieve him at two hundred hours, Danse noted that she still looked worn. Her eyes were puffy, like she had been crying. "Tell me about what happened to your son, Knight." He requested quietly.

"That's...it's kind of a long story, Paladin." She tried to brush him off, fiddling with her combat armor straps. "You should sleep."

"That's an order, Knight."

Vega hiccupped, her sob rattling Danse's composure. "The Institute. They...they ripped him right out of my arms in the Vault." She whispered. "The stasis was put on hold, somehow , and they just...they took him. The next thing I knew, I was waking up alone." She stared at the ground. "I know it was the Institute. I know there's a way in. But I don't know...God, Danse, what if he's dead? " She asked helplessly.

Even though he hadn’t known, Danse still felt like a bastard for making her relive that horror. She had been so sure before, so certain that her child was alive. But now for whatever reason, she was entertaining the alternative and Danse was lost . What the hell could he even say?

"You didn't let me give up on Paladin Brandis." He pointed out. "So I'm not letting you give up on your son."

"Is that an order, sir?"

"A promise , Knight, not an order." Danse saluted her sharply, his gauntlet clattering on his breastplate. "As a Brotherhood of Steel paladin, I swear to you that I will do all I can to help uncover the truth of what happened to your son. And for as long as feasibly possible, we will operate under the assumption that he is alive and well. If we give in to despair, then they've already won."

Backhand looked up at him, her expression distraught. Danse didn't expect her to wrap her arms around his armor, the woman barely able to reach past his sides due to the bulky frame. She tucked her face against the handles on his breastplate and Danse was terrified of making the wrong move. So he stayed still, one massive gauntlet eventually moving forward to cautiously rest on her back.

"We will find him." He assured her softly. "I promise."

Part Seven

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