#(and this is my propaganda for them now THAN K YOU)

[darkmatilda]

𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: your first solo, undercover mission unexpectedly spirals out of control when a real heist begins at the scene.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x newbaumember!femalereader, robbery, the reader becomes a hostage, is beaten by the attacker (quite severely), killing of hostages, shooting, inspired by s1e9 where spencer saves elle on a train (the plot is very similar but set in a different scenery), spencer's pov, the attackers are definitely not the gentle type, reader is wearing a skirt (her whole outfit is described), glasses reid propaganda

𝐚/𝐧: merry christmas guys <3 fasten your seatbealts and get ready for this rollercoaster.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 14.8 k

"Why do I get the feeling that neither of you is even half as stressed as I am? Actually, scratch that—neither of you is even one-tenth as stressed as me?”

The question left your lips accompanied by a kind of sigh, an attempt to expel the air poisoned with anxiety and replace it with something fresh, clean.

"Because we know you’re going to do brilliantly, sweetheart," Penelope replied without hesitation, sparing you only a fleeting glance as she momentarily tore her eyes away from her computer screen. One of many screens.

Her office was filled with an uncountable number of them, all glowing brightly and lighting up the small, dimly lit space, which was also packed with her colorful accessories—pom-pom-topped pencils and flowerless plants in tiny pots, most adorned with smiling faces or hearts.

"Or rather," Reid interjected, spinning in a circle on his swivel chair, "because we both doubt you’ll even be remotely useful out there." A white box of Chinese takeout rested on his lap.

You shot him a grimace.

"Next time you try to undermine my self-confidence, make sure I’m not holding anything sharp," you warned, pointing one of your chopsticks at him. Yes, less than an hour before your first solo assignment, you were all happily indulging in junk food from the closest restaurant to the office, ignoring the looming possibility of digestive regrets. "Or you’ll lose an eye."

"Aren’t you tired of trying to kill me yet? First, you gave me a concussion…"

"You didn’t get a concussion, Reid. Stop exaggerating…"

"And now, you’re openly admitting that you plan to cause me permanent damage by depriving me of my sense of sight—which, as it is," he said, tapping the frame of his glasses, "is already in less-than-stellar condition."

"You two are just adorable when you argue with each other like an old, bitter married couple," Penelope commented with a small smile on her pink-lipsticked lips.

You first looked at each other, then at her, eyebrows raised, and in a synchronized moment, you both let out a huff. Unfazed, she continued.

"But now we really need to get to work. The exhibit starts in an hour, and you should get there with him. Have you ever used that microphone? It’s the latest model we’re testing, gosh, I’m so excited…"

"You’re adorable when you act like a typical nerd," you shot back, mimicking her little smile and tone of voice.

"A nerd I proudly am! Just like this guy here," she nodded toward Reid, who pouted slightly, looking offended. "You’re surrounded by nerds, sweetheart. Soon enough, you’ll become one too."

"Dear God, forgive me my sins and watch over me…" you whispered, staring at the ceiling.

The mysterious he that Garcia mentioned was named Christopher Allen, and he was surprisingly young for a neurotechnology engineer. He worked on issues surrounding the human brain and developed devices designed to have a broad range of effects on it. But why were you supposed to go with him to some exhibit? Equipped with a spy microphone? And why was it stressing you out so much that for the past ten minutes, you had only been picking at your Chinese takeout instead of eating it?

Well, it's hard to decide where to start explaining from.

You were summoned before Hotch yesterday, who informed you that an opportunity had arisen for you to prove yourself in the field. Alone, undercover, for the first time in your—let’s be honest—tragically short career at the FBI. On top of that, this was meant to test all the new equipment your team had received, the kind that Penelope had been so enthusiastic about. You couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the main reason you’d been assigned this task. Someone had to check the effectiveness of the gear, and at the same time, you, the rookie, needed to gain more experience. Allen’s case was like killing two birds with one stone.

This scientist had worked with the FBI multiple times, and that’s why when danger started looming over him, he was quickly assigned protection. The threat came from threatening letters and even a direct attack at his own home, which fortunately didn’t end in tragedy. Allen was descending into paranoia and was afraid to even attend public events, even ones with full protection, like the tech exhibition—taking place in one of the modest local museums—designed to showcase the latest advancements in neurotechnology and more.

He was probably afraid that during the event, someone would simply rush at him with fists and try to murder him in front of dozens of random technology and brain enthusiasts. Or something like that. Your task was to pretend to be his assistant, never leaving his side and carefully observing the surroundings. And that was it. Nothing too demanding was expected of you, unless things started to go south. However, that seemed highly unlikely, as everyone made it clear to you.

Still, you couldn’t shake the fear—whether justified or not—that something would go wrong. And it would be your fault.

“Reid, clip the microphone on her,” Penelope interrupted your train of thought with the order. “You’ve never used one of these before, have you, sweetheart?”

You nodded in confirmation, watching as Reid set aside his box of Chinese takeout to take the tiny device from her.  He stopped a step in front of you, perched on the edge of one of the desks, his gaze shifting uncertainly between the small black microphone in his hand and you.

“Where… where can I…?” he asked, trailing off as he made a vague gesture with his hand, surprisingly loaded with awkwardness.

“Oh,” you let out a confused sigh, beginning to consider where it might be best to place it. The sleeve? Shouldn’t it be closer to your face to capture even your quietest whispers?

“Okay, I’ve got an idea,” you said, starting to unbutton your white shirt, revealing a significant portion of your neckline. “Here?” you asked.

“Yeah… I think so,” he replied hesitantly but didn’t move.

It wasn’t until a moment later that he swallowed and, with a slow, deliberate motion, reached for a section of your shirt near your cleavage. His actions were careful—almost excessively so—like his top priority was ensuring he didn’t accidentally brush against your skin.

The microphone’s clip was quite small, though, and attaching it to your clothing required him to take another step closer and lower his head near your chest.

Even as your breathing slowed, you couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Penelope shaking her head in amused disbelief. 

You preferred to look straight ahead rather than at his fingers, working with such careful focus, though you couldn’t help but let your gaze flicker to them repeatedly. Just for fractions of a second—it was difficult to pull your eyes away once they landed there.

Only when he finished, his hands dropping quickly to his sides as he stepped back, did you realize you’d been holding your breath for quite some time. You became acutely aware of how stifling Penelope’s little office was—how did she even manage in the summer?

"That's not all," the woman on the screen broke the silence, one you hadn't even realized had fallen. "There's also a transmitter you'll need to keep on you somewhere. Securely, so it doesn't fall out. Are you planning to go dressed like that?"

You glanced down at your outfit. A simple black skirt and white shirt—the first thing that came to mind then you learned you'd be posing as an assistant.

"Inappropriate?" you asked, searching for an answer first on Garcia's face, then on Reid's. The latter gave the barest shrug, barely even looking at you.

"You look amazing. Absolutely stunning, darling. I wish I could have an assistant like you," Penelope reassured you. "But in this economy, I can only dream about it. Anyway, my point is, you don't have any pockets. Where are you planning to keep the transmitter and your gun?"

"I was thinking of just tucking it into my skirt. At the back."

"I don’t think that’s the best idea," Reid interjected doubtfully. He hadn’t reclaimed his spot on the swivel chair and stood instead, arms crossed over his chest. The embarrassment you’d managed to put him in (quite adorable, really) was slowly dissipating, leaving only a faint blush on his cheeks. The corner of your mouth twitched when you noticed it. "I mean, it could fall out, or start sticking out, which could lead to questions like why an assistant is walking around with a gun..."

"Okay, I get it," you sighed. You could’ve thought this through a bit better. "Maybe I’ll have time to swing by home and grab, I don’t know, a blazer or something..."

"You won’t," Penelope declared after glancing at the time. "But you can always borrow my jacket."

You looked at the garment draped over the back of her chair—a bright pink leather jacket. You didn’t even bother responding; you simply stared at it, letting the expression on your face do the talking.

"Alright, I admit it, I didn’t think this proposal through. So, it looks like we’ll have to..." She trailed off, her gaze landing on Reid’s figure. Surprised by the attention, he pointed at himself.

You also directed your attention at him. He was wearing a simple brown blazer, which would go well with your unremarkable outfit.

"Take it off," you instructed.

He was silent for a moment, though there was no visible protest on his face—just doubt.

"It’s gonna be too big," he remarked, his hands gently grasping the edges of the jacket as if unsure whether to take it off.

"Apparently, oversized is coming back into fashion."

"Okay, fine," he sighed, removing the jacket. Underneath, he wore a shirt and a black vest, from which a matching tie peeked out. Initially, he seemed hesitant about the idea, but handed it to you with some urgency. "Here you go."

You sent him a brief, grateful smile.

"You’re saving my mission, Reid. I’ll mention you in the report. And I’ll frame your name with a little heart, drawn with one of Penelope’s glitter pens," you declared.

He returned the gesture, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly as he gave a small nod. You noticed his gaze was almost fixed on your face, as if some invisible force were forbidding him to look away, down or sideways.

You didn't think too much about what it meant, you didn't really have time. You put on the blazer, which was indeed a little too long, and hid the transmitter in the inside pocket. You placed the weapon at your hip, concealing it with your clothes. As you were about to leave, you said talk to you later because the two of them were going to communicate with you through the earpiece the entire time. They wished you good luck, and you were just about to leave the desk when Reid, suddenly as if unable to stop himself, said your name one last time.

You looked at him questioningly. Instead of responding, he made an uncertain gesture near his chest. Confused, you looked down.

For the entire time, half of the buttons on your shirt were still undone.

*

You had never met him in person, but you recognized his face from snippets of interviews that occasionally appeared online, or perhaps he had even been on the news a few times. He was in his thirties, give or take five years, hard to tell. His entire persona seemed to be built around the carefree nature of a young eccentric with a sharp mind and an unrestrained tongue, constantly refining his thoughts and conclusions, often controversial, causing an uproar among the public. Without a doubt, he was one of those people often called a genius. Which, not always, was a compliment.

Allen seemed deeply displeased by your presence. He looked… tired. His red hair contrasted with his very pale complexion, as if made of glass, and dark circles rimmed his eyes. He wasn’t shockingly tall, about your height, but with broad shoulders.

"The FBI was supposed to provide me with protection because some psycho is literally trying to kill me, and they send you?" he asked, bitterly, exchanging a brief handshake with you before getting into the car.

You both sat in the back, the driver at the wheel. You were supposed to arrive at the exhibition together. His reaction caught you off guard, his open anger sparking the same feeling in you.

"What's your problem?" you asked. His insulting tone irritated you the most, especially since he hadn’t even had the chance to get to know you.

For a moment, the man sat staring out the window. His body was tense, almost stiff, as if stressed. His elegant attire, with a shirt half-tucked into his pants and too many buttons undone, suggested that he usually dressed more casually.

He let out a heavy sigh, as if furious, then hastily wiped his face with his hand.

"Just..." he began coolly and cautiously, as if holding back some cruel words. "I get the feeling that everyone is downplaying the seriousness of this situation."

"We're all approaching this with the necessary commitment," you replied, though it wasn't entirely true. Allen had every right to fear for his life, but each of you honestly doubted anything would happen to him during this exhibition. If the threat had been real... Hotch probably wouldn't have sent you. "Believe me, we understand the gravity of the situation..."

"Really? Even the letters I've been getting? The content of them?"

You knew about the threats sent by an unknown sender, but you hadn't delved into what exactly they contained. Seeing you hesitate to answer, Allen scoffed.

"You're fucking great at your job, no doubt. So let me fill you in. They come every day. Every fucking day. And I read every single one of them. You know, I've even started seeing a pattern. First, they beg me. Then they threaten to fucking kill me. Smash my face into the ground, beat me to death with a metal rod, rip out my ribs, douse me in gasoline, and set me on fire..." He paused, dramatically scratching his chin. "Oh, almost forgot. They're going to peel the skin off my back. Then there's a day off. No letter comes. The next day, they apologize. I don’t know if this psycho has some extreme split personality or... or... I have no fucking idea. The cops said, get this, it's normal. 'Cause I’m a public figure."

"They brushed it off?" you asked, slightly shaken.

No matter how famous he was, threats were still threats.

He shrugged. He was trying to speak with a voice full of dismissive irony, but it wasn’t working. He stumbled, taking breaks to swallow. Though he had treated you like a complete jerk earlier, you were starting to understand.

“First off, until someone broke into my house and tried to drag me out of bed and take me…God knows where. Probably if I hadn’t had a dog…” he trailed off, glancing back out the window. You’d arrived at the museum, where the exhibition was to be held, but Allen hesitated to get out of the car. “This guy is nuts, whoever he is. I don’t know what to expect from him. He wants to kill me, kidnap me, torture me? Or maybe he’ll just settle for shooting me from a distance like I’m some goddamn Kennedy?”

“That doesn’t really sound like him,” you said in a calming tone. “He tried to kidnap you from your house, why would he suddenly attack you in a public place…”

“My fiancée is pregnant,” he suddenly blurted out.

You blinked, unsure how to respond to the sudden confession.

“Congratulations?”

“For her safety, I sent her very, very far away, somewhere she shouldn’t be in any danger,” he continued, completely ignoring your words. “And though her and the baby’s well-being is my top priority… I also need to take care of myself. I need to make it to their birth…and longer, of course. But that’s why I’m afraid to even go out to the damn store for milk, and that’s why I was so pissed off when I found out they assigned me a woman who, no offense, looks like she wouldn’t know how to hold a gun.”

You instinctively scoffed at his last comment, though it was hard to stay particularly mad at him, knowing everything he was going through. An awkward silence fell between you, heavy and laden, during which the two of you simply stared at each other. It hit you that you were responsible not only for his safety but also for ensuring that someone’s fiancé and future father would make it home.

“We should get going,” you said, nodding toward the museum. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a certain tension at the thought of leaving the car. You shook your head slightly, trying to dispel it. “And just so we’re clear, I do know how to handle a gun—more than you’d think. But for your sake, you better hope we don’t have to put that to the test.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the corner of his mouth twitch.

"Well then, onward, assistant. Tell me, how much do you know about neurotechnology?"

Well, by the end of this day, you were definitely going to know a lot more. Together with Allen, you crossed the threshold of the museum. Its decor clashed with the theme of the exhibition, but apparently, they hadn’t managed to secure a better location. 

The interior layout was harmonious—rounded arches were supported by symmetrically arranged marble columns, and the dominant shades were gold and royal red.

Your destination was the exhibition hall, circular in shape, where mahogany tables served as display stations for various prototypes in the fields of medicine, neurobiology, and informatics. In other parts of the building, there were tall, arched windows, but this particular room had none. No natural light entered; all illumination was generated by lamps that, to their credit, mimicked the natural diffusion of sunlight quite effectively.

Among the displays were an interactive brain map and various projects still in development but aimed at assisting people with disabilities.

You observed all of this with interest while simultaneously listening to your companion’s impromptu lecture on the human brain (apparently, talking helped him calm down). At the same time, you were closely monitoring the crowd around you.

True multitasking.

The exhibition was open to everyone; no one was checking who entered the venue. Although you counted three security guards in the room—dressed in simple black suits and mostly tasked with ensuring that no one tried to steal anything—there was a subtle air of unease hanging in the atmosphere. If Allen’s suspicions were correct, the person intent on ending his life could be one of these faces. To your surprise, however, he suddenly seemed far less concerned about it than you were.

“You don’t have to follow me around like a shadow,” he said, leaning toward you to make himself heard over the murmur of surrounding conversations. A familiar face with a loud, bright red tie waved at him and began making their way over. “Just don’t take your eyes off me, no matter what. And keep an eye out for anyone suspicious—whatever that means to you. Hey, man!”

He greeted his acquaintance with a friendly handshake. Following his instructions, you took a small step back, deciding to take a short stroll among the exhibits. But after barely two steps, your finger went to the discreet earpiece hidden under your hair.

“Are you there, my lovely nerds?” you asked with a playful smile, knowing they couldn’t see it but imagining their reactions.

“At your service!” Garcia responded enthusiastically, and you could almost picture her saluting on the other end.

“And what about Mr. Smartass? Did he get bored and wander off to study the reproductive habits of ants?”

“I heard that!” he replied, summoned by his new nickname. “Such gratitude for letting you borrow my jacket.”

“Speaking of the jacket,” you continued, “I found a candy in the pocket. How thoughtful of you to leave me a little sweet treat.” You weren’t joking; there really was a candy inside. You inspected the wrapper and frowned. “Marzipan? Ugh. Do you have the taste buds of my grandma?”

"To what I know, I haven't had a taste bud transplant. Especially not from anyone's grandmother," he replied nonchalantly. "And as for those ants..."

"Sorry to interrupt, my darlings, but I have a few questions about the sound quality of these new microphones..."

True to her word, Garcia began asking you how well you could hear them and instructed you to lower your voice to a whisper and then raise it sharply. Some sort of test or whatever. You did it all patiently while staring at the red-haired mop at the station across from you. Allen seemed pretty relaxed now, probably realizing nothing was going to happen to him.

"Okay, now do the sound like a chicken. I mean the noise."

"What?"

"You know, cluck."

"Pen, is this really necessary?"

"Yes, sweetie. I need to check something else. Last thing, I swear. Scout’s honor."

You sighed, looking around at the people nearby. Few were paying attention to you, you were just one face in the crowd. God, for something like this, you could ask for a raise.

"Exactly, honey. Just louder," Garcia asked.

You rolled your eyes and tried again to make the chicken sound. An older couple glanced at you, their eyes wide with horror.

"Alright, enough," you muttered, embarrassed, into the earpiece, quickly moving to a different spot.

And then you heard the pair on the other side literally choking with laughter.

"I fucking hate you guys," you said. "I hate you. Especially you, Penelope. Give me Reid on the mic, from now on I'm only talking to him."

Another burst of laughter from the woman. You clenched your jaw. And as if that weren’t enough…

 "Did you want to hear me, little chick?" Reid asked politely.

“I should’ve gouged your eye out with a chopstick when I had the chance,” you hissed into the phone, a little too loudly, drawing a few curious glances. You were supposed to be watching for suspicious people, but it turned out you were acting the most suspicious of all…

“Did you catch what she said?” Reid addressed Penelope. “I only heard clucking.”

“Ha-ha,” you rolled your eyes.

For fifteen minutes, you had to endure such jokes. You seriously began to worry that they’d never get tired of it, but finally, after a quarter of an hour of psychological torture, they fell silent. You kept a sharp eye on your surroundings.

“By the way,” you began, still a bit offended by the chicken joke. “You guys should regret not being here to see these inventions. Perfect for you, nerds.”

“Well, actually, we can see them,” Reid’s voice came through the earpiece, sounding very clear, clearly taking the whole mic for himself. “Garcia grabbed footage from the cameras inside the room.”

“So you can see me? This whole time?”

 “Yep. And we saw that terrified couple who ran as far away from you as they could as soon as you started clucking like a chicken. Poor souls.”

You ignored the comment and began scanning the room for the cameras. When you found them, you scratched your forehead with your middle finger.

“Can you see this too?”

“I can see how much fun you’re having,” he scoffed. “Are you going to include that in your report?”

“Exactly. Right under your name, framed with a glittery little heart. Any other requests?” Not waiting for his response, you added, “By the way, how do I look in your jacket? Does it fit me well?”

"I think so. I mean, the blazer is incredibly well-tailored. And of good quality. It’s impossible for it to look bad on anyone." He paused for a moment, and his voice grew more serious. "How’s it going? Have you noticed anything suspicious? Still feeling stressed?"

"Not anymore," you admitted, speaking the truth. Even though the exhibition had just started and was supposed to last about another hour, you felt like you had passed some milestone where nothing could go wrong anymore. "But of course, I’m still keeping an eye out. I had a little chat with Allen…"

"I heard," Reid acknowledged. "Very interesting lecture on the human brain, I must admit."

You let out a small laugh.

"I talked to Allen earlier. Still in the car. After what he told me, I don’t think he's a paranoiac. The guy is just really worried about his safety. And not just his.”

A moment of silence fell on both sides.

"Speaking of Allen, he's heading your way," he informed you, likely watching the feed from the cameras. "I guess I'll hear from you later then. I mean, I’ll be hearing you the whole time, just not the other way around. Unless you want me to constantly broadcast about ant reproduction?"

"Sorry, Reid, but I’ll pass. Maybe some other time," you chuckled, noticing the engineer approaching. As he walked, he bumped into a man in the crowd and exchanged a quick apology. You used that moment to add something else, a bit impulsively. "And what about this? Do you see this?"

You pressed the inside of your hand to your lips before unfolding it, sending a kiss toward one of the cameras. Reid was silent as Allen drew closer.

"I see it," he finally admitted, quieter. You regretted not being able to see his expression, it was unusually hard for you to picture it at that particular moment. Was he smiling? "And I like it a lot more than what you showed me earlier."

You turned your back to the camera so he wouldn’t see you smile. It only hit you afterward that he probably saw it anyway, just from a different angle.

"I see you're enjoying the exhibition," Allen said, standing in front of you with his hands in his pockets. He had stopped pretending to be the classy guy and fully embraced his more laid-back side. "So, uh, sorry, but I think I'd rather head out now."

Worried, you discreetly glanced around.

"Did something happen? Did someone stare at you weirdly, do something...?"

He shook his head, a negative gesture.

"Nothing like that. I just saw what I needed to see. Check it off the list, I’m ready to leave..."

After his words, an absolute darkness fell.

Absolute darkness, in the truest sense of the word. The exhibition hall had no windows. When the lights went out, it felt as if someone had tied a cloth tightly over your eyes. Yet, like a fool, you kept looking around, as if moving your head could somehow tear through the blackness enveloping you, freeing you from the growing panic that was slowly flooding your senses.

“Garcia, what’s up with the cameras?” Reid’s voice sounded in your ear. He was confused, not yet frightened. He didn’t know what was happening yet. None of you did.

The people around you, of course, were also surprised by the sudden blackout. A few muffled gasps echoed, one or two squeals, a smattering of curses. But there were no screams, no one tearing at their throats or blindly bolting forward, trampling others in the process. That came later.

Exactly four seconds after the first gunshot rang out.

Before, the world seemed to freeze in place; everyone’s breaths were trapped in their lungs, unwilling to escape, even out of curiosity. Your body lunged forward as if trying to flee, but it quickly dawned on you that there was nowhere to run. Where had the shot come from? Who had fired it? Was someone hurt?

Something—or rather, someone’s hand—clamped painfully around your wrist. Instinctively, you tried to pull free, letting out a sound somewhere between a growl and a garbled cry.

“It’s me,” Allen choked out, his voice trembling. You couldn’t see his silhouette, but you knew the blood had drained from his face. “What the fuck... what the fuck is happen—”

The second shot rang out, closer and sharper than the first. Chaos erupted in the room. Screams, so hysterical they drowned out the voices coming through your earpiece, filled the air. Something struck you hard, sending you stumbling as pain radiated through your shoulder. It was an empty kind of pain—something you felt and yet didn’t. You realized it must have been one of the panicked people charging blindly through the dark.

“Here,” you commanded, your mind snapping briefly into clarity. In your mind’s eye, you pictured the layout of the room before the lights went out. The corner of the hall, the wooden table behind you, where one of the prototypes had been displayed.

You slipped under the table, dragging Allen with you. He groaned as his head hit the underside of the furniture.

You were so utterly disoriented that it felt as though your own name was echoing on a loop inside your head. It took you a moment to realize it wasn’t just your mind playing tricks—it was someone’s voice, growing more familiar with each passing second.

The third gunshot.

Allen choked on his breath, his hand still gripping your wrist so tightly you feared it might snap—yet you didn’t register it as pain, merely as a sensation. The two of you crouched beneath the table, facing each other, teetering on the edge of succumbing to the abyss of panic.

Reid spoke your name again, faintly, as though he were far too close to the microphone. As though leaning in would somehow make you hear him better—make you respond.

“I’m here,” you managed to stammer, the first thing that came to your mind.

"Thank God, I thought..." he sighed, suddenly stopping, as if realizing it wasn't yet time for relief. "Are you... are you hurt?"

"My arm."

You didn't know why those words escaped your lips. Maybe because, although your mind was too occupied with trying to figure out the situation to focus on something like pain, your body couldn’t ignore the fact that it felt it. Against your will, you let out a hiss and finally pulled your hand out of Allen's grip.

"You've been shot? We... we can't see anything, do you have anything to stop the bleeding, maybe use my jacket..."

"I don't know what's happening, we've completely lost access to the camera feed, someone must have turned them all off, just like the power... Reid, immediately notify Hotch, he needs to know something's wrong..."

On the other side, chaos erupted, comparable to the one surrounding you. Penelope was aggressively pressing the keyboard keys, Reid was rushing between a phone conversation with Hotch and throwing random phrases at you like stay where you are or how's your arm?

But was staying put the right decision? Wasn't it just waiting for the person responsible for starting this... massacre to come for you? On the other hand, how were you supposed to escape? In complete darkness? You had a weapon... but what good was it if you couldn't see anything? A sound of resigned sobbing escaped you.

And then, suddenly, right before your eyes, Allen’s red hair materialized, his fingers pressed into his skull as if he wanted to tear it apart himself. You both looked into each other's eyes. Visibility returned.

“We have light,” you said, though it didn’t loosen the grip on your chest.

“What?” Penelope sputtered, confused. “We still can’t see anything, the cameras are still…”

Allen let out a choked cry. You followed his gaze. Just before your hiding spot, a pair of leather shoes stopped.

“Get out,” commanded a male voice. You lifted your head. Above you stood a man with dark facial hair and a submachine gun, looking like an extension of his broad shoulder. You immediately noticed, besides the weapon, he was also carrying a black sports bag slung over his shoulder. Both of you were too disoriented and terrified to follow the order. “I said, fuckin’ get out and against the wall, I won’t repeat myself.”

Like animals herded into a pen, you followed his instructions to the designated spot. The entire crowd inside gathered against one of the blood-red walls of the room, some pressing their backs against it as if that embrace would ensure their safety...

“What’s going on there now?” Reid asked. “We still don’t have a feed... I can hear you breathing,” he blurted out unexpectedly.

You realized that your breath had indeed become heavy and loud. It dawned on you that you hadn’t gone through any extensive training on how to handle a situation like this; you were useless...

“Just...damn it, I know it’s easier for me to say, but try not to panic, okay? Whatever’s going on... panic will only make it worse. You need to focus, please. Can you do that? Breathe? Slowly, like I’m doing now?”

Your hands clenched around the fabric of his jacket, feeling it under your fingers. Closing your eyes, you could almost imagine him standing right in front of you, in this very building, speaking those words. It helped calm you down, at least enough for your mind to stay somewhat communicative...

“Good. Very...very good. Now, can you describe what’s happening over there?”

You knew that every piece of information you passed on would be worth its weight in gold. You tightened your grip on the fabric of Reid's jacket and began scanning your surroundings.

“One shooter. He’s herding us... all of us, against one of the walls and... stuffing prototypes into the bag, every one he can get his hands on,” you reported, describing everything you’d seen. “It looks like a robbery.”

“Just one?” Reid asked. “What were those shots? Someone... got hurt?”

You were about to deny it when your attention was drawn to a bloodstain spreading across the marble floor at the opposite corner of the room. Allen nudged you, pointing to something else—a body lying motionless.

“Guards. He... he killed all the guards,” you recognized them by their uniforms, the words barely escaping your throat. So, he hadn’t hesitated to kill, not one of those inexperienced types with any moral inhibitions. Trying to make sense of everything happening around you, you pressed your hand to your forehead. “But... but how could he see them in this darkness...”

“Night vision,” Allen interrupted suddenly, his previously hunched figure straightening as he realized it.

You found the man busy with the theft and controlling the area. He was quite solidly built, you could compare him to Derek. And, as the engineer had observed, around his neck hung a device for seeing in the dark.

“The police have arrived outside the museum, but they won’t go inside as long as you’re trapped with him. They don’t want anyone to get hurt,” Penelope informed you, then let out a soft, wheezing breath, as if she was trying to calm herself down. “Sweetheart, the whole team is on their way too. From now on, you’re our informant…”

“Is Christopher Allen among you?” A commanding voice suddenly cut through the sheet of panic blanketing the room, drawing everyone’s attention. It belonged to a truly imposing man with a shaved head and a forehead lined with wrinkles that seemed to stem more from exhaustion than age. But by far, the most significant detail about him was the submachine gun he held in his hands.

Two. There were two shooters.

Your focus shifted to the man standing right in front of you, as if delivering some kind of speech. At first, you didn’t even register what he’d asked. He repeated the question quickly and impatiently, and you froze. Not that you’d been particularly active before, but in that moment, all your bodily functions seemed to shut down completely. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at Allen—not even for a fleeting glance.

“Christopher Allen. Biotech engineer. He should be here,” the man continued, scanning the faces in front of him almost desperately, searching for the one he needed. He sounded almost... distraught? That broken expression, teetering on the edge of tears and madness, starkly contrasted with his militaristic physique.

Suddenly, his accomplice appeared, tugging at his arm.

“Jesus, give it a rest. We need to get out of here. The car’s waiting for us, remember?”

He shoved the smaller man with a force befitting his build, sending him staggering backward.

“I’m not leaving until I talk to him!” he declared with furious determination. “Christopher Allen…”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me…”

“Allen…”

His eyes scanned the surroundings until they landed on the two of you. You felt someone lightly wrap their fingers around your forearm, gripping it almost instinctively. It wasn’t a strong or painful hold, but rather one born of genuine fear, seeking protection. Protection that, from the start, had been your responsibility to provide. Yet now, standing face to face with two armed assailants, with lifeless bodies lying in pools of blood in the same room…you felt the crushing weight of an obligation you were physically incapable of fulfilling, creating a storm of chaos within your mind.

Allen must have been fooling himself into thinking he could blend into the crowd and remain unnoticed. Even as everyone’s gaze began to focus on him, urgently and with some unspoken hope, he stubbornly stood still. Or was he simply paralyzed by fear?

For the first time since he was called out, you looked at him. His eyes conveyed one thing: a simple message. It was him. The man who had been sending him threats, the one who had broken into his house. You furrowed your brows, this whole situation was becoming incomprehensible. He cared so much about kidnapping the engineer that he had organized the heist at the exhibition where he was supposed to be?

 “Come here. I need to talk to you, you… you need to do something for me.”

Once again, in your ears, you heard the description of the tortures that were mentioned in the letter.

"You have to do this," you said very softly, almost a whisper. "We can't let him get angry. Do you hear me?"

 It seemed like your words weren’t reaching him at all. You nervously glanced at the gunmen, hoping that the command you had given hadn’t raised any suspicion or made them think you were trying to outsmart them, deceive them in some way. Slowly, but with deep remorse, you loosened Allen’s grip on your forearm. His chest wasn’t rising, as if he weren’t breathing. But then his gaze shifted, not to you, but to the people around you, to the ones standing in fear, waiting for his reaction. Something in his face shifted, then he took a step forward.

“Slowly,” you instructed.

It seemed like the best solution. Unsub knew that the person he was looking for was among you, he had identified him without any difficulty. Allen couldn’t hide or escape, all that was left for him was to comply with the orders, for his own sake and for everyone else's. It was also important that he stalled for time. You hoped that as soon as your team arrived, they’d be able to come up with something. Maybe they were already there, working to make contact with the shooters and free you all, alive and unharmed.

At the same time, someone called your name.

"Report in."

It was Hotch. At the sound of his stoic voice, a fleeting wave of relief washed over you. You even parted your lips to answer when you realized the second gunman was staring at you. The room fell into absolute silence as Allen slowly approached them. You shouldn’t reveal that you were with the FBI or any other agency—that was a basic rule…

 "Listen to me carefully now," the unsub spat, placing one of his massive hands on Allen's shoulder, causing him to almost buckle under the forceful touch. Someone behind you let out a muffled cry. "You need to remove it from me, do you understand?"

"Shit," his partner muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. He was holding a bag with the stolen equipment, constantly glancing toward the exit. You wondered if he had anything to do with the threats sent to Allen. "Shit, we need to get the hell out of here before the cops completely block our escape. We don't have time for your fucking delusions!"

“Remove…?” the baffled engineer repeated, completely thrown off.

“The chip. The one inside me. Right here, on the back of my neck.” The man jabbed a finger at the spot. “Someone has to cut it out of me. You work with brains—you must know how to do it. He’s controlling me, watching my thoughts… I saw an interview with you once. I know you’re the only one who can do this…”

The man’s words devolved into a stream of incoherent rambling. Allen had no idea how to respond, and silence stretched on the other end of the phone. Meanwhile, the second gunman tried once again to persuade his partner to escape, but this only triggered an explosive burst of rage that made everyone around them shrink in fear.

“Shut up, or I’ll blow your head off too!” the man shouted. “I’ve waited too long for this. I don’t give a damn about all that crap you stole. I don’t care if they catch me. He’s going to cut out that chip!”

“What chip?” Allen finally managed to stammer. “I don’t understand…”

“The chip the government implanted in me to control me! That’s why no hospital will remove it—they’re all under government control! Only you can do it!”

“The unsub is delusional, that much is clear,” Reid’s voice suddenly crackled in your earpiece, catching you by surprise. He must have made it from Penelope’s office to the museum—where he joined Hotch and the rest of the team—at an impressive speed. “The reality he’s constructed is starting to blur with actual reality, which makes him extremely dangerous. Just from the tone of his speech, you can tell he’s emotionally unbalanced and on the brink of a breakdown. Unfortunately, this means his actions could be erratic and violent, with a strong tendency toward escalation.”

"What can I do?" you whispered as quietly as possible, taking advantage of the commotion in the center of the room.

"Are you there? Can you speak safely?" he asked, exhaling a breath of trapped air. "I mean... What you can do, first and foremost, is stay cautious. Don’t say or do anything that could provoke him further," he instructed, his tone turning focused and determined to provide you with as much guidance as possible. You nodded almost imperceptibly as you listened, as if he could see you. At some point, your fingers began nervously clutching the fabric of his blazer again, a small, unconscious tic.

"Don’t confront his delusions—or rather, don’t outright deny them. Try not to introduce any new elements either, to avoid deepening his paranoia, alright? That could put you in even greater danger..."

"Above all, try to redirect his anger away from Allen and the other hostages," Hotch cut in. "We’re working on a way to get inside. You just need to buy us some time."

Buy some time, it was easy for him to say, you thought with sudden frustration. What exactly could you do? It was incredibly hard to make any decisions when you were fully aware that their consequences could result in the death of an innocent person—or people.

Allen was still in front of the unsub, gripped tightly by the gun-wielding man, slightly shaking his head from side to side, clearly overwhelmed by the situation.

"But... but how am I supposed to get the chip out, do you really believe the government..."

"He doesn’t have the right tools," you interrupted, taking a step forward to draw the shooters’ attention to you. You raised your hands in a gesture of surrender as soon as you found yourself in the second man’s line of sight. You were scared of the direction Allen was heading in—after all, Reid had told you not to deny his delusions. Though you weren’t sure it was the right approach, you tried to make eye contact with the unsub. You had a feeling that he might only fully understand what you were trying to convey if you did.

Everyone was looking at you now. Nervously, you swallowed before speaking again.

"If you want him to remove the chip from your body... you’ll need at least a scalpel. Well, and if it was implanted by the government... that might not be enough?"

To your surprise, the second attacker spoke up.

"She's right, Erick, we don't have anything like that. Leave him, we need to get out of here... though fuck, it probably doesn't matter anymore, I wonder if the police have already caught our driver..."

You hoped that the team had heard this and started looking for suspicious vehicles in the area. Erick, or rather the unsub, began to stare intensely at you, analyzing what you'd said.

"Keep it up," Reid said. "It looks like you’ve planted some doubt in his mind about his own plan. You can keep going in that direction, just please, please, be careful..."

"Reid," Hotch admonished him.

You took a deep breath, your mind was working so fast that it was starting to go blank. You had to say something more before it consumed you entirely.

"But... but I'm sure that if you had met under different circumstances, outside the museum, he would have been able to extract the chip..."

"No! I've waited too long, I can't stand having this crap under my skin for another minute! He'll take it out now, or he won't leave here!"

Allen's raised hands trembled at those words.

"How can we communicate with the police? Is there a phone here?" he asked his companion.

"Are you fucking out of your mind..."

"They'll bring us the equipment. A scalpel. They won't have a choice, or I'll shoot them all, one by one."

"We should focus on how to get out of here..."

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT THAT!" the unsub roared at him. Fueled by this outburst, he shoved Allen away so forcefully that the man fell to the floor. The startled man took a step back, unable to hide his fear. It was clear who had the final say in this duo. Erick was not only physically larger, most likely more ruthless, but above all, incredibly unpredictable. Without looking at you, he issued an order.

"Everyone sit against the wall, you too." Allen awkwardly got to his feet and almost ran to the indicated spot.

You didn't want to sit, to put yourself in an even more vulnerable position. But when a man with a submachine gun and a completely deranged gleam in his eyes is standing in front of you, you don't have much of a choice. Slowly, you sat down on the floor, surrounded by all these terrified people.

You studied the faces of everyone around you—scientists and random people who had ended up here simply because they were intrigued by the exhibit's theme. And that innocent curiosity had led them into such a hopeless situation, where each breath, drawn into trembling lungs, could prove to be the final one. What terrified you was the fact that the only thing distinguishing you from them was the tiny microphone pinned to your clothes and the earpiece in your ear.

The woman sitting next to you, so close that your elbows were touching, looked as though she was about to faint. Without hesitation, you offered her your hand, which she took with no resistance. In situations like that, the escape from fear was desperately sought wherever it could be found—even among strangers.

“What’s happening in there now?” Hotch asked.

You explained the situation to him as clearly and logically as possible, correcting anything they might have missed due to their lack of actual insight into what was happening inside the museum. The woman beside you looked at you strangely, smudged mascara around her eyes.

“Please don’t worry,” you whispered, making sure none of the attackers could hear you. Though maybe you shouldn’t have, you felt you needed to reveal yourself to her, to help her survive the nightmare she had found herself in. “I’m... a federal agent. I have contact with the team outside, they’re working on how to get us out of here.”

You didn’t know if those words had particularly soothed her fear—just as you spoke them, Allen practically pressed himself against you, trying to whisper something into your ear.

“Give me your gun,” he practically ordered.

You looked at him with your eyebrows raised in shock. No words were needed. Your face clearly expressed one big what?

He looked like one of those people going on and on about a newly invented device they had been working on for years, staying up every night. In his eyes was a comparable crazy but incredibly self-assured gleam.

“I know you have it, but you won’t use it. Because you're scared. And I don’t blame you!” he quickly added, moving slightly away from you. Still, your faces were tilted toward each other in a conspiratorial whisper.

“But listen to me. He cares about me, right? Or rather, he cares that I get the nonexistent chip from him. He won’t hurt me when I get closer, he’s too desperate, in his eyes, I’m his only chance…”

“You must have lost your mind,” you said through clenched teeth. Was he really willing to take such a risk and play the hero when he and his fiancée were expecting a child? “And what about the other guy, huh? Do you think he’ll just stand there calmly when...?”

“Then I’ll shoot him first. I used to go to the shooting range, I was pretty good at it. The other one will be too scared to hurt me, and then I...”

“Absolutely not,” Reid interjected.

You snorted.

“As if I would even consider it…” you muttered. Looking at Allen, you tapped your forehead. “No way. You’re not risking your life on such a stupid plan where everything could go wrong…”

“Do you think I’m asking for your opinion?” he hissed, clutching his head in desperation. “The answer is no. I’m just saying, give me your gun. Where is it?”

As he said this, he grabbed the fabric of your blazer, searching under it for what he so desperately wanted. You tried to catch his hand, but he trapped it in his grip, digging through the layers of your clothes, under your skirt. You jerked your whole body in an attempt to break free.

“Leave me alone, they’ll notice us soon…”

“What’s he doing?” Reid asked sharply. Although he couldn’t see what was happening, his voice was not only confused, but also clearly worried, maybe even angry.

“Just give it to me, what the hell does it hurt…”

His hand, despite your resistance, finally reached the grip of your gun, slightly sliding it out from beneath your skirt. You shot a quick glance toward the attackers, still engrossed in their conversation—or rather, argument. Terrified by the thought that they might notice what Allen was pulling from under your clothing, you instinctively swung at his face, causing his head to snap back with a muffled cry of pain.

“What language do I need to speak for you to understand? What you’re planning is idiotic,” you said, your words flowing together with a surprisingly calm yet furious ease. You struggled to keep your voice low, feeling as though shouting might make him grasp it faster. But that wasn’t an option. “You’d risk not only your life but everyone else’s,” you said, gesturing toward what you now had no choice but to call the hostages. “And no one wants to die because of some brainless idiot with a hero complex.”

After you hit him, Allen backed away to a distance that no longer invaded your personal space. With your breath quickened, you adjusted the position of the gun, suddenly panicked that it might fall out during his attempt to grab it against your will. Despite yourself, a strange feeling overcame you. Out of everyone—of all the people trapped in the museum—you were the only one with even minimal knowledge of what to do in this situation, the only one with outside communication to the police, and, most importantly... a weapon. And yet, with that arsenal at your disposal, you were doing embarrassingly little to improve the situation.

Your jaw tightened at the thought, your fists clutching the fabric of your blazer so hard that your knuckles turned white. It was astonishing how much that small action helped you regain your composure. Not just the feel of the fabric but also... the scent. You could almost imagine you weren’t entirely alone in this. And though you wouldn’t trade places with Reid or anyone else from the team for anything, you couldn’t shake the feeling they would handle this far better than you were.

And speaking of Reid...

"Are you okay?" he asked again, his tone much softer than before.

"I'm fine," you tried to give your voice a casual, almost dismissive tone, though you doubted you fully succeeded in masking the tension. You let out a helpless scoff in an attempt to lighten it. "I mean, fine as much as one can be fine in this situation..."

You trailed off, and he hesitated before replying.

"Hang in there, okay?" he said, so quietly you thought you might have misheard. It made you wonder if it was because he didn’t want anyone else to overhear what he was saying into the mic. If that were the case, was it because he didn’t want anyone accusing him of chatting with you when he should be doing something more important? Or maybe, he just didn’t want this simple yet anxious message to reach unwelcome ears and lose its sense of privacy. You heard him swallow. "We’ll get you all out of there soon. Garcia got the phone number of one of the attackers, the delusional one—his name’s Erick Larson, by the way. If he has it on him..."

As if on cue, the sound of an incoming call rang out. They stopped talking, and the surprised man reached into his pocket.

"What are you going to do? Negotiate?" you asked.

"Hotch is going to talk to him. The main goal is to get the hostages released."

The word hostage sounded so strange to you; you couldn’t connect it to your situation. A hostage didn’t have a gun tucked under their clothing or communicate with an FBI team through an earpiece. Those people, holding each other's hands in fear and huddled on the floor, were the hostages. Not you.

"Can you stay on the line?" the words slipped out before you could stop them. "Just, I don’t know... tell me how it really is with those ants or something." You squeezed your eyes shut as a wave of embarrassment crashed over you. You were acting like a scared child who needed a bedtime story to forget the monster under the bed. "Forget it, that’s stupid. You’ve probably got your hands full. Focus on helping us, on the negotiations."

"I'm still on the line," he reassured you, even before the echo of your last words faded. "And I’ll stay on it the whole time. And since talking to you might help you not lose your mind in there... well, I guess that counts as helping all of you. The information you’ve given us, everything you’ve told us... you’re playing a crucial role in all of this."

"I don’t think so. I could be doing so much more."

"Like what, something that idiot was planning?" he asked, stressing the word idiot. "Please, don’t even think about it. You’re doing exactly what’s needed. You’re not sticking your neck out, you’re staying in contact with us. You’re calming the others down, like that woman. That... that’s heroism, not blindly rushing at two armed men."

Moved by his words, you weakly smiled. You’d forgotten again that he couldn’t see you, or maybe it was just automatic.

"Stop, I’m going to blush. But... but thank you, Reid."

"You don’t need to thank me. Oh, he picked up..."

And indeed, Erik pressed the phone to his ear, probably realizing that it was the police trying to make contact. You fixed your gaze on him.

A completely new stage of the robbery was beginning, one on which everything depended—negotiations.

*

Spencer had never had a particular obsession with control. 

In the vast majority of crisis situations, all he needed was a deep understanding of the causes and course of events. A thorough analysis of what had happened so far, drawing conclusions based on that, and then coming up with possible solutions, each with its pros and cons, which he also had to consider.

It involved emotionally distancing himself from the situation and relying on advice from his trusty friend—logic. And when he was guided by that cold logic, he didn’t feel the need to actively participate in what was happening around him or take any direct control. But in that particular moment—ever since he had heard the first shot coming from inside the museum, shortly after losing access to the cameras—he was almost losing his mind over how little he could do. Powerlessness was the first blow, the fact that her life, and others', depended on a man with probable schizophrenia, driven by dangerous delusions, the second, much stronger one.

As with every hostage situation, a makeshift operations camp was set up outside the building, where all necessary units gathered. Garcia stayed at her post, but he saw no other option but to go there personally. The rest of the team quickly gathered, and Hotch arrived so fast it seemed like he lived just around the corner. After all, there was a member of his team inside, the one he had sent there, never expecting such a turn of events. The two perpetrators, who were working together, seemed to have two completely different goals. One, apparently, was persuaded to go along with a simple robbery and escape. The second, Erick, however, had a different, more complicated desire from the start. He wanted Allen, who was supposed to extract a non-existent chip from his body, allegedly implanted by the government.

Allen. He spoke that name with an incomprehensible bitterness and disdain. He was disgusted by his thoughtlessness, pure stupidity. Though he was familiar with his achievements in the field of neurotechnology, he couldn't call him a scientist, really not anything other than an idiot. And it was all because he had nearly put her and everyone else in danger, because he pressured her so much that she had to defend herself by striking him in the face. He remembered how once they had slept in the same bed, so small that they almost fell off it and were forced to lie literally on top of each other. By accident, he had jabbed her with his elbow in the ribs, and before he could even whisper an apology, she hit him with such force that he lost his breath. He hoped Allen had taken an even harder blow.

He forced himself back to reality, as everyone gathered around Hotch, who was leaning over the phone. The unsub had answered, and the discussion began.

"We'll deliver what you need. All the equipment. But first, you must release the innocent people inside and promise you won't hurt anyone else. Not Allen, or anyone."

They argued, a lot. Of course, they wanted him to let everyone go, which was, realistically, impossible. Eventually, the number sixteen was agreed upon, a little more than half of the people present.

Through the microphone clipped to her clothes, they could hear him pointing at the people who were to be released. The second perpetrator seemed to have completely given in to his paranoid companion, and stopped trying to convince him to escape. He must have realized it was already too late for that.

“You’re the one who’s leaving,” he said, his words very clear, suggesting he was standing very close to her, pointing at her.

Spencer straightened up, a sudden rush of premature relief washing over him. Premature—that was the key word.

“No,” she protested sharply. “No, let her go instead of me. She’s older and not feeling well. I should stay…”

He pressed the microphone to his mouth, trying to talk her out of it.

“Do what they say, resisting might make him angry…”

“No, Reid, she’s right,” Hotch interrupted him. Spencer looked at his boss in surprise, shaking his head in confusion. Instead of explaining his decision to him, Hotch turned to her.

“You have to do everything you can to stay inside. You’re our only source of information, our access to what’s happening in there.”

“Hotch…”

Someone, JJ, placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from protesting further. It dawned on him that they were right, but... it was hard for him to accept. It was true that, as an FBI agent, part of her duty sometimes meant risking her life for the greater good. Still, this decision made his hands ball into fists, and he had to take a deep breath to steady himself. Suddenly, it struck him that if an unfamiliar agent, not a member of the BAU, not his friend, and someone who hadn’t shared a bed with him when his fear of the dark grew stronger, were in the same situation... he would have agreed with Hotch without hesitation.

“I told you to leave, so you leave. There’s gotta be sixteen people, or they won’t bring it to me, goddammit.”

“So let someone else go…” She cut off abruptly, a rustling sound echoing through the air, as if— as if he tugged at her clothes. Spencer almost spoke again but stopped herself. The same thought had crossed Hotch’s face, he saw it. 

“Seriously, this will be better. I... I can help with removing the chip...”

“Allen has to do it.”

“Yes, but…” her voice grew more desperate, trying to come up with something more, an excuse to fulfill her duty.

“Oh, what don’t you understand, you stupid bitch…”

Spencer anticipated the sudden outburst of aggression, he had felt it building for a while. Though the unsub was unpredictable, his anger rose and fell within mere seconds, Spencer knew it was all heading in that direction. So, he squeezed his eyes shut just before the horrible, dull thud rang out, followed by a muffled cry of pain. Then the sound was drowned out by a rush, something like a thud, and he could only guess that she had fallen to the floor.

He didn't open his eyes, but something pricked at his chest. He knew that if he looked at Hotch, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from giving him a big, i told you so. It wasn’t even about being right—he didn’t care about that, not at that moment. What mattered to him was that nothing happened to her, and that was exactly what had just happened.

No one from the team said a word, though Derek turned his gaze away from the speaker, his expression one of discomfort, like someone averting their eyes from an unpleasant scene. Hotch stared at some fixed point ahead, his face unreadable, before leaning into the microphone just as—

“What the hell is this?!” the unsub suddenly screamed. “A gun? Why the hell does she have a gun on her?!”

Reid’s eyes shot open as he nearly dropped to his knees by the microphone, as if somehow that could help. The weapon must have slipped out when she fell, sliding free from where it had been concealed beneath her clothes…

He noticed Elle nervously biting her thumb, her face pale as a sheet. He read the same grim, terrified realization on her face that had already taken root in everyone’s minds. She was burned. Her cover as the assistant was completely blown.

“He can’t find out she’s FBI,” Gideon declared, leaning heavily against the edge of the table. “He’s a paranoid maniac who thinks the government is after him. If he realizes a federal agent has been in there the entire time…”

“Wait!” the second attacker spoke up. He had long since given up and was now quietly following his partner’s orders. “I heard the hostages talking... something about there being someone from the FBI among them, someone who’s in contact with the cops. I thought they were just talking crap, but...”

“How does he know that?” JJ asked, her lips slightly parted in shock.

“She told one of the women,” Spencer blurted out, though it felt like the words came from someone else. Some part of him—still detached from the full realization of what her exposure meant—clung to the fragments of logic not yet consumed by his nerves. “To calm her down... but that woman must have passed it on to someone else.”

“FBI?” the unsub repeated, almost in a daze. “Fucking FBI?”

The sound of something slamming echoed sharply—an explosion of frustration and shock. Every pained whimper, every labored breath she took, reached Spencer with cruel clarity, amplified by that damned new microphone clipped to her chest, capturing every sound in merciless detail.

He wanted to cover his ears, to block it out, but he couldn’t. His lower lip trembled, caught between screaming or vomiting the moment he opened his mouth. 

Covering his ears would have been a selfish gesture, one that would only bring relief to him. She didn’t have that option; all that was left for her was to endure, as he assumed, the next kicks...

He lowered his head, not looking at the others, not wanting to see their equally helpless expressions. And although he hated himself for even thinking about it, he took two steps to move away. To escape from this place, from these sounds. Because he simply couldn’t bear them.

However, he didn’t get far; he staggered as if drunk and had to grab the table tightly to keep from falling. JJ, in some protective impulse that she probably wasn’t even aware of, reached out her hand, wanting to touch his shoulder, but he pushed her away.

“I’m calling him,” Hotch announced, immediately moving into action. “Maybe that’ll stop him…”

“Check if she has a microphone on her. If she’s with the FBI, she could have been spying on us the whole time,” suggested the second attacker, in a strangely satisfied tone. He was probably some sadistic bastard who enjoyed this turn of events.

This caused Erik to stop his attack. He completely ignored the incoming call. She took a breath, inhaling deeply, though it clearly caused her pain.

“She has…”

The unsub’s voice became very clear, he must have located the microphone and then disconnected it from her clothing, carefully watching him.

“We need to go in, we have to do something,” Elle said desperately, but it didn’t stir anyone else. 

Yes, they needed to do something, but... what? Going in meant putting the hostages at risk, and their survival was the priority.

"I knew the government was spying on me," Erick muttered to himself, the microphone had probably slipped from his hand and fallen to the ground. "Not just with the chip, but they also sent that fucking..." He kicked her. "...agent."

"Give it to me," Spencer requested, exhaling with a resigned hiss. He was, of course, referring to the microphone. She still had the earpiece in; she could hear him. He didn’t yet know what he intended to say. Maybe he���d ask her to stay strong? Assure her that it would all be over soon? Would that even count as a lie if he had no real certainty they could take any action to save her? Or was this one of those morally gray situations where a lie was better than the truth?

Without protest, someone handed the microphone to him, practically shoving it into his hands.

But then they lost the connection.

The unsub must have destroyed it, stomping the microphone underfoot.

And before it happened—before the static filled the line—a gunshot rang out.

Spence found himself sitting on a chair. Not that he’d blacked out in the literal sense, but one moment he was standing upright, and the next he was slumped onto the seat—probably the only chair in their makeshift camp across from the museum. It was one of those folding chairs made of black metal and unbelievably uncomfortable. For some reason, their look always reminded him of golf courses in the blazing sun. Sometimes they’d be there… wait, why the hell was he thinking about chairs?

Disoriented, he lifted his gaze. Derek was pacing back and forth, his hands on his head, while Elle and JJ were nowhere in sight. Hotch stood in front of him, turned slightly to the side, eyes fixed on the ground, a phone pressed to his ear. His rolled-up sleeves exposed tense veins on his forearms, his hands clenched into fists.

“You killed a hostage,” Hotch said the moment the attacker picked up. Hearing the words spoken aloud, the gunshot echoed again in Spencer’s mind. He flinched, though he hadn’t the first time it happened for real.

It really happened. This wasn’t some hysterical thought creeping into your mind when someone you care about is late to a meeting and doesn’t pick up their phone, the kind of thought where your brain starts whispering that something terrible must have happened. It wasn’t a dream either, nor a nightmare blending with reality. And it wasn’t some devastating novel, a climactic moment designed to shatter the reader’s heart into pieces.

This

really

happened.

"I’ll remind you of the terms of our agreement," Hotch continued. His tone was usually sharp, leaving no room for argument. But now, having just lost a member of his team and addressing the person responsible for it, his words didn’t just cut—they sliced. Spencer fixed his gaze on him, unable to comprehend how Hotch could remain so composed in the moment. He himself…

“You don’t harm anyone else, and in return, we provide you with the necessary tools. Shooting that innocent person…”

How did it come to this—that the person who, just that morning, ordered Chinese food with him to calm her nerves; who had teasingly told him to clip the microphone onto her, leaving him flustered; whose sweet scent of hair lingered so strongly in his senses that he had to hold his breath just to focus; who, one moment, could make him laugh until tears blurred his vision, and the next, worry so deeply about her that he felt feverish with concern; who listened, truly listened, even when he had grown tired of his own voice; who helped him discover pieces of himself he hadn’t known were there; who revealed, day after day, some new and enchanting fragment of her soul; and whose laughter made him want to capture its melody, bottle it, and keep it for eternity—was now reduced to the cold, detached phrase an innocent person shot dead?

He realized his mind had become entirely consumed with replaying those moments. Thanks to his eidetic memory, each recollection was painfully vivid, yet at the same time—perhaps due to the awareness of what came next—filled with a paralyzing void. Detached from reality, he wasn’t even listening to the ongoing negotiations, only snapping back when the shadow of someone’s figure fell over him.

“Spencer,” Gideon called his name, alternating between looking at him with concern and averting his gaze, as if unable to bear the shattered expression on his face. “Did you hear what Hotch said?”

He couldn’t bring himself to shake his head, though he doubted it was necessary. Rarely did something fail to interest him, especially something Hotch had said, but whatever it was, it had landed firmly in that narrow category. After all, what could Hotch possibly have said? That he’d reached an agreement with the murderer, who would now release eighteen hostages instead of sixteen? Or perhaps, in an act of twisted mercy, he’d declared that once they brought the requested items, the killer would allow one person to go inside and retrieve her body?

He had seen many bodies with gunshot wounds to the head in his life. A vision of her with similar injuries haunted him, so vivid and detailed that he closed his eyes in an attempt to escape it. But the moment he did, the image only grew stronger, searing itself into his mind with unbearable clarity.

"He wants you to go inside pretending to be a surgeon. That’s what the unsub is asking for in exchange for the hostages. Your task would be to fake removing a chip from his body, pulling off one of your magic tricks," Gideon explained matter-of-factly, though his expression betrayed a certain doubt about the plan. He suddenly fell silent, hesitation creeping into his voice. "If you can’t do it… this isn’t an order, kid. No one will blame you if you say no."

“We didn’t know it would be such a terrible mistake,” Gideon said quietly.

“Well, that’s the thing about mistakes,” he scoffed bitterly. “You don’t usually realize you’re making them. But you should be able to predict them, especially when someone’s…” His voice broke, and he looked away, his anger momentarily crumbling into something rawer.

Even though he had lashed out at Gideon, the older man didn’t react with anger. Instead, he stared at Spencer with a calm, almost sorrowful expression. When Spencer stood, he felt the weight of Gideon’s hand resting on his numb shoulder.

“I’ll do it,” he declared after a moment.

There was no fear in his voice, no visible sign of stress. Under different circumstances, he’d likely have been unraveling, nerves fraying at the thought of entering the building with the task of saving her. But now…now all he wanted was to stand face-to-face with the man inside. More specifically, next to his neck. With a scalpel in hand.

There was no time to waste. He practiced his sleight of hand trick—making the chip suddenly appear in his palm—a few times. It had been a while since he’d done it, but even so, it came off flawlessly every time. He clenched the small device tightly in his hand and, before he knew it, found himself standing at the foot of the museum steps.

The doors opened, and the first hostages began to emerge. Their reactions followed the same pattern. First came the shock—the struggle to process that they were truly stepping outside again, alive. Then, as they began to accept it, their terrified, hesitant steps turned into a relieved jog, and their eyes brimmed with tears of gratitude.

Spencer stopped, his gaze fixed on the faces of random strangers as they rushed past. Somewhere, deep down, he held onto a foolish, fleeting hope that she might appear in those doors as well. She didn’t, of course.

But if she had… he thought, his chest tightening at the mere idea. If she had, he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop being thankful. Not necessarily to God, but to everything—every twist of fate—that had brought her back.

He had seen the interior of the building on the camera footage and had managed to memorize it. He knew exactly where to head to meet the unsub. The unsub was standing right in the center of the room. Spencer knew there had to be a second shooter somewhere, but he was afraid to look around. If his gaze happened to land on her, not only would his chip trick fail, but he was also certain he’d never be able to shake the image from his mind. It would embed itself in every cell of his brain, one after the other.

He focused all his attention on him, on Erik. He turned to him trustingly, showing the spot on his neck where he believed the chip was located. Everything about his posture radiated the peak of madness. His voice and expression oscillated between hope, desperation, paranoia, and much more that could be listed.

Spencer tried to concentrate on the chip in his hand, not on the scalpel in his other hand. He knew it would be incredibly foolish, but as he was so close to this man's throat, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He realized that the only thing holding him back was the awareness that the second shooter was likely keeping him in their sights. It was almost certain; he didn’t need to look around to know that. But as soon as the blade touched the man’s skin at the back of his neck, his gaze, against his will, began searching. He looked at the wall where the remaining hostages were gathered, the ones who hadn’t made it into the lucky sixteen. He didn’t find the shooter.

But he found her. If he weren’t wearing his glasses, he might have assumed he’d mistaken her for some other woman. He could only blame his brain and possible hallucinations... but before he could entertain those thoughts, one simple sentence took over his mind.

She was there. Blood dripping from her nose, clothes torn, curled up on the ground among the rest of the hostages, but she was there. She was there, alive.

*

When you stood up for that woman, a brief struggle broke out between you and the unsub. He ordered you to go outside, but the voice in your ear told you to stay inside at all costs. Unsure of what to do, you started mumbling excuses and explanations, leading to an argument... during which he swung his weapon at you, aiming for your face.

As you fell, your weapon—clumsily shoved into your clothing after an argument with Allen—slipped out. And then things escalated rapidly.

Upon learning you were with the FBI, the unsub went into his usual paranoid frenzy. He dropped the microphone he had taken from you, and the heavy kicks of his leather boots landed on your body, on your ribs, on your back. You could barely keep up with protecting yourself, as the blows kept coming faster and faster.

And in that moment, something happened that probably saved your life. But at the same time, it cost another man and his family everything.

Allen sprang at the second attacker, who was almost hypnotized by the injuries being inflicted on you. He seized the moment of distraction, yanking the weapon from his hand and turning it against its owner. You remembered the fleeting look of triumph on his face as he aimed it at Erik. And then, the look of confusion when he was overtaken and the bullets tore through his body.

Somewhere in that moment, your microphone must have been destroyed, leaving you without contact with the team. And without it... you were just like any other hostage. Beaten, forced to stem the blood running from your nose with your blazer. You remembered glancing at it, running your finger over the fabric soaked in crimson, and thinking you'd have to wash it before returning it to Reid. Then, the hopeless realization hit you that maybe you wouldn’t get the chance to do that, and helpless tears filled your eyes for the first time.

It was strange that the unsub decided to spare you. Was it the incoming phone call that distracted him? Or perhaps the death of Allen? Was he the reason for this whole attack? You weren’t sure, maybe both at once. But you managed to return to your spot against the wall, where the other hostages had moved as far away as they could from the two lifeless bodies lying in a pool of blood.

Behind your back, the unsub was arguing with the police, probably Hotch. You weren’t paying attention to their negotiations, instead kneeling beside Allen. Completely staining your clothes, you reached for his hand. His eyes were wide open, his chest... maybe rising slightly, or maybe it was just your perception. In any case, you didn’t grab him to check his pulse, to see if there was anything that could be done to save him. You knew there wasn’t. You took his hand in a gesture of gratitude for everything, filled with sincere and deep compassion, despite everything that had happened between you. Maybe he turned out to be a jerk in that one, crisis situation where it’s normal for people to lose their minds. But what mattered was what kind of man he was in everyday, calm conditions. What kind of friend, fiancé, father he was.

You froze in place, staring at his face, his messy red hair. You snapped back to reality only when you realized the unsub was releasing the hostages. You weren’t part of that group. He didn’t look at you, or Allen, or his dead accomplice, as if you didn’t exist. The people were let out of the building, and then…

You nearly jumped to your feet at the sight of Reid, but the sharp pain in your ribs stopped you. Instead, you stared at him, confused as to why he’d gotten himself into such a messed-up situation alone. No one was with him, and you couldn’t even tell if he was carrying a weapon. Why was he taking such a risk? Couldn’t they have sent someone else?

Although your gaze bored into him, asking without words, he stubbornly avoided looking at you. It took a while, but then it hit you—he’d probably been told to hide the fact that you knew each other. He was pretending to be a surgeon, you realized.

You watched in shock as the unsub dropped his weapon and turned his back to Reid, begging him quietly to remove the chip from his body.

Before Reid touched the scalpel to his neck, he looked straight at you. You couldn’t read the expression on his face, but you knew there was a lot going on. It was a long moment of eye contact, which he broke to get to work. Focused, brow furrowed.

You shook your head in disbelief when he really pulled the tiny device from his body. Wait, so what? It had really been there all along? The unsub wasn’t a paranoid delusional?

At the sight of the chip, Erik staggered with a mix of hysterical joy and relief, and after a moment, he literally collapsed to his knees, burying his face in his hands. His body was shaken by sobs as he muttered his thanks. He was... absolutely harmless. The hostages took advantage of his vulnerability, using the opportunity to silently leave the museum. You found yourself among them, even helping those who, due to shock, struggled to move. How? With your injuries? You had no idea.

You pointed one woman toward the ambulance waiting outside the building, ready to take any injured hostages. Around you, sounds echoed, people were running in all directions. A sense of disconnection and disbelief washed over you, as if you couldn’t quite grasp that it was all over.

You turned around, sensing someone's presence behind you.

The first thing you noticed was that Spencer was still wearing his blue rubber gloves. Strange, but the first thing that came to your mind was to focus on that detail. You even opened your mouth to speak, but stopped when he gently cupped your face in both of his hands. As if you were a fragile relic, he tilted his head slightly from side to side, almost as though he was trying to deny the fact that you were standing before him.

"As if you saw a ghost," you whispered, a faint smile appearing on your face.

Taking advantage of the fact that he was leaning toward you, you pressed your forehead against his. With your eyes still open, you saw his eyelids tremble. When he closed them, you caught sight of that single tear beginning to form beneath them.

*

"Reid," you said, as he and the rest of the team were heading towards the exit. All heads turned in your direction, but you only cared about that one. "Can we talk?"

He opened his mouth, seemingly surprised by the request, but then swallowed and nodded.

"Sure. If... just, sure."

You couldn't help but let out a small laugh. Since your rib injuries were numerous, you had to be taken to the hospital for an X-ray. Your face wasn’t looking too good either. Only a few hours had passed since everything happened, and all your wounds were fresh and painful. After taking a decent amount of painkillers, you felt a bit like you were floating. You were sitting on the hospital bed, your legs resting on the floor as if on a bench. You made space beside you, and although he hesitated for a moment, he sat right next to you, so close your shoulders almost touched.

What you wanted to say, everything you felt, was hard to put into words. So you spent a few minutes in silence, during which you concluded that the simpler, the better.

"Thank you, Reid."

His dark eyes narrowed slightly, and he shook his head dismissively.

"Thank you? For what? I should be thanking you."

You knew this would happen. That he would downplay what he did, and it would be incredibly hard for you to express all the gratitude you felt towards him.

"For what? For everything," you stated briefly. He was preparing a response, but you beat him to it. You even raised a finger decisively, signaling for a moment of silence. You had a lot to say. "Not just for pretending to be a surgeon and getting into that museum. And don't shrug it off like it was a small thing! You saved those people."

"Maybe a little, but…"

"But that's not all. You were… you were with me the whole time. You kept talking to me the entire time…"

"Just like everyone else…"

"Everyone else gave me orders. Told me what to do to survive and what not to do. And of course, I'm incredibly grateful to them—if it weren't for them, I would have probably pissed off that unsub after less than fifteen minutes and we'd all be dead by now."

Reid flinched when you said that. Maybe you should hold off on such words, while the whole situation was still so fresh.

"You... you kept asking how I was feeling, talking to me, just... your voice, the fact that I had you on the other end, it helped me not panic. When, at the very beginning, you asked me to breathe with you..."

You shook your head, holding back the involuntary recollection of that moment, that memory when you were still trapped in that building with two armed men. Helpless and lost, clutching his jacket with all your strength. 

You realized with growing difficulty that you were holding back tears.

Reid had been listening to you quietly the whole time, but suddenly, he lowered his gaze. His hand found yours, hesitated for a moment, then gently grasped it. You immediately squeezed it tightly. Something came to your mind.

"And what did you want to thank me for?" you asked, referring to when he interrupted you the first time.

"It's not... I don't have as much to say as you do," he confessed, circling the topic more than addressing it directly. He still hadn't let go of your hand, and as he thought, his thumb seemed to absentmindedly stroke its surface.

"Wow," you murmured. "I never expected Spencer Reid to say something like that in my presence, but here we are. So?"

He smiled for a moment at your comment. However, that expression quickly gave way to a more serious one, carrying with it the unburied remnants of the horror you had both endured just a few hours ago.

"Just for you being alive," he said. Your brows furrowed slightly when you heard that. It wasn't what you expected. "For a while... when you were still inside, and your mic was destroyed..." With a sigh, he tilted his head back, holding back from returning to that moment. It couldn't have been easy for him, referring to exactly the moment that caused him pain. "We heard a gunshot. Everyone thought it was you.  That's why... that's why I just wanted to thank you for that."

Given that you had absolutely no control over it, those were the strangest thanks anyone had ever given you. But still, they squeezed your heart like no others ever had.

You leaned in to place a kiss on his cheek.

taglist: @she-wont-miss @mggslover @nyeddleblog @dylanobrienswife0420 @wmoony

@heddgie @khxna @marauder-exe-old @yujyujj @charleyreid @kitty-kai @sp3ncelle @pleasantwitchgarden @beesin03 @misserabella @re1dsb1xch

[hussyknee]

THE LEFTIST THIRD PARTY HAS WON SRI LANKA'S PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION.

WE HAVE A PRO-LGBT, PRO-UNION, ANTI-ETHNOFASCIST, ANTI-IMPERIALIST PRESIDENT. MY ANTHROPOLOGY PROFESSOR IS GOING TO BE PRIME MINISTER. A COMPETENT ACADEMIC WHO HAS WORKED ON FEMINIST INITIATIVES AND RESEARCH ALL HER CAREER.

please please please please god don't let them fuck this up don't let them turn into a bunch of cunts to retain their new voter base don't let them fuck up the economy don't let them let the minorities down please please please they won't ever get another chance if they ruin this one we'll be stuck with more idiot corrupt nepo babies till we die please please please PLEASE LET THIS BE THE END OF THE EXECUTIVE PRESIDENCY AND PREVENTION OF TERRORISM ACT AND PERSECUTING THE NORTH please please please let them decriminalize being gay and not bury LGBT rights please please please let there be a god I can't take anymore of this shitshow please please please don't let hope be something that keeps pissing in our faces please please please please please please please

ANURA KUMARA DISSANAYAKE WILL BE THE NINTH PRESIDENT OF SRI LANKA. TAKE THAT YOU TWO PARTY VOTING MOTHERFUCKERS.

Edit:

WHAT DO YOU MEAN FUCKING COLOMBO WENT TO THE IDIOT NEPO BABY???

AKD HAD 52%!!!!! HE WAS ALL BUT SWORN IN?????

THEY HAVE TO COUNT THE SECOND PREFERENTIAL VOTE FOR ONLY THE SECOND TIME IN HISTORY??

There is a very real chance that nobody will get over 50% of the vote. That would be really, really bad.

Fuck.

I HATE YOU MOTHERFUCKING URBAN MIDDLE CLASS LIBERAL CUNTS SO MUCH. PLAGUE ON THE WHOLE DAMN COUNTRY. FUCK YOU.

Edit 2:

Ok so first counting gets AKD 42% and SP 32%. It's very likely the preferentional vote will put him over the 50% line.

It's so poetic that Ranil's greed for power ended up handing the country to the very Marxists that his uncle hunted like animals. You love to see it. 🥰

Edit 3:

So the preferential vote didn't give anyone a 50% majority and we're still at AKD 42% and SP 32%. But apparently that's enough to declare AKD President as per the Constitution. I don't think that's ever happened before. He was sworn in an hour ago.

Point of clarification: The NPP are not Marxists. Foreign news is just uncritically regurgitating the pro-government Red Scare propaganda. AKD and his JVP party used to be Marxists back in the '80s and '90s. They're now more very pro-union socialist. The NPP is their coalition, which is even more mildly social democrat and just happens to be a little more left than the other two. Calling them a Marxist is like how MAGA thinks the Dems are commies. 😂

I truly don't have great hopes that much will change, but there's a chance one or two important things might. Which is more than we've been able to hope for in decades.

See this post for a run down of the what's really been happening.

Edit 4:

I retract the "openly bisexual" part with many apologies. I completely misremembered. It wasn't AKD but JVP senior K. D. Lalkantha, who said in a 2018 interview is that he has also had same sex encounters with his friends as a boy and young man, and that he knows others who have had as well. And he specifically said he doesn't see the need to maintain a label for his sexuality. Still, the fact that his party allowed this in a country that still criminalises homosexuality, to a Sinhalese magazine, speaks to a commitment to LGBT rights. He also explicitly stated his support for women's rights, trans rights, polyamory, open relationships, explicit sexuality in media. It's impressively progressive for this country. The interview is in Sinhala and you can read it here.

Here's an excellent write-up of AKD's career, political outlook and creation of NPP in The Hindu by correspondent Meena Srinivasan, a journalist whose reporting I've always liked.

[loving-family-poll]

2nd Ultimate Incest Tournament - Round 2

Propaganda under the cut

Liam/Noel:

The Gallagher brothers have a very intense relationship that doesn't make any sense to the outside viewer unless one considers the possibility of incest. For 30 years now they have been utterly unhinged about one another in the public eye. Noel has often made incest jokes; Liam once said on-stage once "we had sex last night" referring to him and Noel. Even people writing in actual books and magazines have picked up on the vibes (some stuff that has been printed about them fully feels like it was written by tumblr incestinas except it's like. actual fucking journalists). Also there was this one time in 1996 where they kissed each other with tongue in front of 40 thousand people.

They have been described as “in love with each other” by both themselves and third parties. the lyrics “you’re my lover, i’m your brother.” they kissed with tongue at loch lomond in 1996 and have also been photographed/videoed kissing on the mouth other times. liam regularly groped noel onstage. liam’s entire twitter is just propaganda too. liam talked about impregnating noel once. noel frequently talks about how physically attractive liam is. liam claims that he’s noel’s muse

their song guess god thinks im abel has the lyrics "i could be your lover" while comparing themselves to you guessed it abel and cain. and like. a thousand more instances of them being weird about each other. also noel REALLY wanted a sister and he mentioned it quite a few times and said well liam IS basically a sister or something like that. normal behaviour

Liam literally called himself Noel's good boy on twitter, and called him god a few times after reunion. Noel said he loves make women cry and the only thing that's better is make Liam cry so he can laugh and call him a woman. They literally kissed with tongue and loch lomand is not their only kiss they have two more photos of different kissing to, they literally used the japan kiss video for reunion video. YES THEY DID THAT TF. Noel said they are head over heels in love and said it's illegal in many countries. Also Noel said Liam is like his ex-wife a few times or shit like those cunts are fucking crazy

Other people have described them as more like boyfriend/girlfriend than brothers and said they’re in love. someone on twitter asked liam “if you’re john lennon, who is noel?” and liam said “yoko ono.” another time someone said on twitter “you defo rimmed noel when you were younger” and liam replied “you jealous?"

Deeply weird about each other getting married (them not attending each other's wedding which occurred month apart and then getting divorce around the same time and they stayed at the same hotel for months), intense infamously love-hate relationship and is everyone's favorite soap opera, noel saying "on stage i just wanted him..there's only two of us that will ever get this", prominent theme of shame and crime and impossible dream in noel gallagher works, the elusive meaning of wonderwall which noel insisted is not about anyone but there's good amount of evidence that it referenced back to their childhood and their shared bedroom, liam having mental breakdown several times on twitter about noel, liam's my brother is getting a divorce playlist to which he shared with his 3 millions twitter followers, incest-baiting on main ever since the reunion, brother and lover being interchangeable for noel when writing lyrics, noel (allegedly) lying to liam that his girlfriend cheated on him in order to sabotage their relationship before oasis took off, liam hating noel's latest (ex) wife (sarah), noel writing "the owner of the star on stage" after liam's autograph and so many more insane shit

"[Liam] thinks all the songs are about him. He even thinks Wonderwall is about him." –Noel Gallagher (1997)

"It's all about me it always was and is" –Liam Gallagher (2023)

Japan kiss (kiss is at the end) loch lomand kiss

PLUS they’re back together after 14 years of estrangement! The narrative!

Alexia/Justine:

Sisters that are the emotional center of the movie. They 1) share the cannibalism gene as a metaphor for sexual/freaky desire, 2) have a 'waxing the other's pubes' scene, 3) biting chunks of flesh out of each other scene, 4) a showering off the blood together scene, 5) subtle kissing with a glass between them because 'you're my mirror and i'm codependent with you' scene, 6) sibling-type power play in general that includes a sexual interest proxy. And yet nearly no one talks about them, helppppp

there’s a scene where they’re biting each other’s faces and it literally looks like theyre making out. they hurt each other and spite each other but they always patch each other up after it’s over. there is a scene of them showering with each other, washing the blood off after alexia ate justine’s boy toy. alexia covered it up when justine ate her finger. they hurt each other so bad but they keep coming back to each other.

[primoresplendens]

EXACTLY BUT I CANNOT POSSIBLY OUTWRITE YOU NOW DGHDHGJSGJF SO---

1. They both love Lord.

2. They both love fighting.

3. They are so opposite YET similar.

4. They're both idiots in their own way.

5. They understand each other so well------

They are THE power shembo couple ever and I will ship them in hell and convert them all to it while I'm at it

Talk framstrid to me

okay okay okay thank you let me talk to you and the rest of the world why i adore framstrid so much. first of all, they just share vibes- they're both energetic and cheery (in a way) and they often comment on each other's words or behaviors more than anyone else (other than lord). they're friends, first and foremost.

and i imagine it can be overwhelming for astrid to take on the world with how she sees a fourth wall and all, despite her lightheartedness about it. being with fram will feel... simple, grounding. fram is grounded to earth and steadfast. to astrid, fram can be someone to hold on to when things get too much.

that, and i am SUCH a sucker for the "only you understand how important this person (lord) is. only you can understand my desperate worship and yearning behind all my laughter and jokes i dare to show" trope. they're the only ones who can understand each other's obsession and faith for lord. (yes, yes, johan, charlotte, the blake cousins exist but fram? the one who's been around the longest i presume, and astrid? the one who will go through multiple lifetimes just to see lord again? gosh they fit each other so well. they gush a lot about lord, i bet.) they find comfort in each other's love for lord. because who else will understand this, if not the other person?

it's also fun to imagine them as sparring partners, because canonly even in their first meeting they have this exchange:

and this comment about fire fram:

astrid and fram fighting until they're bruised in the training ground and they're both grinning, iokhiera and durendal still floating and spinning, smoke surrounding them? an image i will forever hold on to fr.

bonus, but fram immediately finding a likeness between the two of them is so cute.

there's also these- in every lifetime it seems that they will have (or even have had) the chance to be friends. they just. they just GET ALONG WELL. DONT THEY. DONT THEY. there are multiple moments where they're seen getting along and it's so cute. oh my dumbass friends to lovers trope. they're too fixated on lord to even realize their feelings for each other. i like to think they seek each other when they know they can't tell their problems to lord. look at them LOOK AT THEM

gosh, the way i can just see how they've gotten to know each other

see, i like that fram's simple-mindedness (/pos) is a good match with astrid's playful teasing and her attitude of acting like she knows everything/more than others sometimes. fram isn't swayed with that, fram will take everything at face value and accept astrid's words as they are. fram says once in extreme mode that astrid always has fun stories to tell, and it seems astrid is always happy to share her thoughts and stories with fram <3

ultimately, i think they're just..... they very much enjoy each other's company. and i love their companionship and their possible comfort with each other, especially concerning a certain person they both yearn for.

[problematic-faves-appreciation]

Sorry to bring up "Uglies" again, but this discourse has been so infuriating, and I promise it is relevant to the theme of your blog:

Not sure what it is about the movie, but it showed previously unknown lows of media literacy (which is impressive), and one that is particularly... interesting to me is how people have reacted to Laverne Cox, who for those not knowing her, is a black trans woman who is not just a quite famous actress, but also an outspoken advocate for queer people, playing the villain Dr. Cable.

Dr. Cable is the de-facto leader of the city the movie takes place in, and a cyborg super soldier. This dystopian regime, and that is where the issue lies, mostly relies on beauty culture to keep people under control, though that is far from the only thing. Specifically, people get plastic surgery at sixteen to eradicate discrimination based on looks - and the scary part is, they succeeded at least at the surface, making this world indeed almost feeling like an utopia. Almost.

I can see how this can be misinterpreted in a transphobic way if you really want to and disregard most of the canon and message, which is that forcing people into uniformity based on arbitrary standards is bad, which very much is a statement against cisheteronormativity. The series doesn't have any canon queerness because it was published in 2005, and for the movie presumably from a mix of wanting to stay true to the source material and desperately trying to make it more mainstream appealing, but it feels quite queer subtextual.

Now comes the really infuriating part: The people I saw being the most worried and the most aggressive about Laverne Cox playing Dr. Cable were not TERFs and other fascists. Now, I haven't combed through the entire twitter tag because I value my sanity, so there probably are some who indeed realized that they could misinterpret that for their advantage, but the transphobes I saw didn't got into the plastic surgery ankle. They just spewed the usual uncreative bullshit they always say ("thats a man" etc).

But left-leaning people in the tumblr tag... "Forced into plastic surgery by a trans woman for the woke agenda" - You wanted to miss the point so badly, buddy... "Hmm, a trans woman forcing children into plastic surgery and brainwashing them, is it just me or was that written as a piece of fascist propaganda" - It is just you, not just was it written in 2005, Scott Westerfeld (author) also is an outspoken queer ally since at least 2003, where he featured a sapphic couple in his space opera "The Risen Empire" and since then he has tried to use his platform to help queer people, including going on several fights with fucking J. K. Rowling over trans advocacy.

It just is this age old problem of "if you write a minority as anything than a perfect hero, you are a bigot or at least help bigots". Which feels so condescending.

Now, I know that actors are obliged to market their movies, but again, Laverne Cox is a very famous actress, and also she does queer advocacy since what, at least ten years? I don't even know her, but it feels so condescending and insulting to her insisting that she must be too dumb or brainwashed or something to notice that a role could harm her community. She doesn't need the money, and she would have had the power to just step out. On her instagram, she is quite enthusiastic about the role, even saying that she looked forward playing such a character for once.

Another layer of this is that most of the people complaining about her playing Dr. Cable aren't even trans. A small number are, but the majority are just cis people.

It just feels so icky.

Now, I know most marginalized people don't feel this way, but when I personally see a villain with my identities (who isn't a caricature of said identities, but just happens to share them) I feel empowered, not insulted. Being a horrible person, making bad choices and going on power trips is part of humanity too, and by insisting that all minorities are only ever allowed to be perfect, you do not just infantalize them, you strip them of their humanity, counter-intuitive as that sounds.

Dr. Cable is not a trans caricature. In the book we don't even know if she is cis or trans (and also not what her ethnicity is). Her main arc is that she thinks she needs to protect this utopia with all means necessary, stripping away parts of her humanity in the process and getting more and more brutal and paranoid until her hubris brings her downfall. That is not a trans-only story.

It is not even a woman-only story. In fact, this is a kind of villain arc women are hardly ever allowed to have. Yes, I am aware how this brutality can intersect with harmful trans and black stereotypes, but also she is such an interesting character, and it just doesn't feel right to say that black people or trans people should not allowed to have interesting villain characters.

.

[gunnerfc]

Alexis Loera NSFW Alphabet (18+, minors DNI!)

for my loera anons <3 who’s propaganda worked bc now im down bad 🧎

A: Aftercare

She’s so soft after sex, even if she was on the receiving side of things for most of the night

Alex will trace random shapes on your body as you both catch your breath after and whisper how good you were

B: Body Part (their favorite body part of themselves and their partner)

Alex’s favorite body part is her thighs, she loves wrapping them around your body or when you hold onto her thighs when you go down on her

Her favorite body part of yours is your hands, aside from the obvious reason, she just loves holding your hand or feeling them on her body at any time

C: Cum (anything to do with cum)

Loves pulling you into a deep kiss after going down on you or after you go down on her

D: Dirty Secret 

Alex does enjoy when sex is a bit rougher than normal

E: Experience (Are they experienced? Do they know what they are doing?) 

She is experienced but you both learned new things about what you enjoy in the bedroom since you started dating

F: Favorite Position 

She doesn’t have a favorite position, it changes all the time because you both switch being on the giving/receiving end

G: Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous?)

Alex will crack little jokes before or after but during sex, she’s much more serious and focused on your body

I: Intimacy (How intimate are they during the moment?)

Sex with Alex is very intimate all the time

J: Jack off (Masturbation HC) 

She only gets herself off when you two are apart but she will send dirty texts after knowing you won’t be able to think about anything else

K: Kink (One or more of their kinks) 

Praise kink, both giving and receiving praise turns her on

L: Location (Favorite place to have sex)

Your shared apartment for privacy!

M: Motivation (What turns them on?) 

Whenever you place light kisses anywhere on her body, her head is spinning

N: No (Something they wouldn't do)

She’s not open to threesomes, she doesn’t want to share you with anyone

O: Oral (Preference on giving or receiving)

She likes both equally but she goes down on you more

P: Pace (Fast & Rough? Slow & Sensual?) 

Mainly slow and sensual unless one of you is feeling a bit jealous

Q: Quickie (Thoughts on quickies) 

They happen sometimes, mainly before training or leaving for a game

R: Risk (Are they open to experimenting) 

Alex isn’t that into experimenting but she is willing to try anything you bring up

S: Stamina (How many rounds) 

You two can go for a few longer rounds

T: Toys 

You use a strap sometimes but you both prefer using your fingers/mouth to pleasure each other

U: Unfair (Do they like the tease)

She loves to tease you but it is quickly followed with lots of praise

V: Volume (How loud are they? What sounds do they make) 

Alex can be quite loud, another reason you prefer to have sex at home

W: Wild Card (Random HC)

You two were roomed together during an away game and had to hold yourselves back from taking advantage of being roomed together but you failed after the game where you both scored and played really well, you had to keep each other quiet or else your teammates would have known

Y: Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

It can be a bit on the higher side sometimes, especially if you’ve been apart for an extended period of time

Z: ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

You both fall asleep pretty quickly afterward

[weeb-polls-with-pip]

Autistic Anime Boys Round 4 Match 6

Propaganda:

Saiki -

"This boy is so autistic he literally has world-ending levels of psychic power and the ONLY thing he uses it for is to try to avoid people/get out of awkward or bothersome social situations. He actively dislikes being around other people but his classmates have adopted him and adore him, he’ll never admit it outright but he secretly does appreciate them (which is why he’s always going out of his way to solve problems for them but again he would NEVER ADMIT its because he cares about them, he always frames it as doing it for selfish reasons but i see right through you.) Also he has literally altered the Laws of the Universe to make himself stand out less (ex: born with pink hair - makes it so that unnatural colors are normal literally rewriting all of human DNA in the process just so people will notice him less)."

Edgeworth -

"Being pushed by my friend for this but also they're 100% correct. This man is stiff, formal yet impolite, terrible at understanding the feelings of those around him, but has an inexorable sense of justice and an excellent eye for detail. He's a loser nerd who deals with his emotions for his rival by setting up a nonsense chessboard about it. His autism swag and eccentric pretty boy design was so popular he actively changed the direction of the series, and now makes an appearance in more games than any other character, including the original protagonist. Also he gets to play mind chess in one of his spin off games."

[beatrice-otter]

Fic: when at last we knew

Here is my Fic In A Box fic! I love Mace Windu, and also, he is a Jedi Master. I'm supposed to believe that being thrown out a window was enough to kill him? Yeah, sure, he got his arm chopped off. So did Luke at Cloud City.You will notice Luke didn't die.

Title: when at last we knew Author: Beatrice_Otter Fandom: Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Kenobi Characters: Luke Skywalker, Mace Windu Length: 10,993 words Rating: teen Written For: Huntress79 in Fic In A Box 2024

AN: Title comes from the poem An Old Story by Tracy K. Smith

On AO3. On Squidgeworld. On Dreamwidth. On Pillowfort.

Military pilots never got sent on intelligence missions. At least, not if they had working ships. The Alliance had lost a lot of ships in close succession, first at Scarif and then at Yavin, at the same time as they'd started fighting the Empire directly instead of just the occasional ambush or hit-and-run attack on lightly defended targets. They were short on combat pilots, and even shorter on ships.

So Luke was very confused when he got a message to see General Draven and not tell anybody about it.

Draven was in charge of intelligence, and worked with Leia on coordinating her recruiting and supply missions, but Luke had never dealt with the man.

Draven's office was small, cramped, and very neat. No documents or displays were visible, which Luke supposed made sense; keeping things out of sight made snooping harder.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Luke asked.

"Yes," Draven said. "One of our oldest and most reliable intelligence channels has put in a request for you, specifically, to do the next handover."

"Why me?" Luke cocked his head. "How did they even learn my name?" The Alliance hierarchy had debated whether or not to use his name in propaganda about the Death Star before deciding that any gain wasn't worth the additional danger of the Empire's attention. That might change if he ever found a Jedi to train him.

Draven shrugged. "Word is beginning to get out, and it's trickling down our own intelligence channels first. Not all of them are as good at compartmentalization as they should be. As for why you … that wasn't part of the request. Just you, by name."

Luke thought about that. "They must be pretty important if you're taking me off combat runs to do it," he said.

"It would be good to keep them happy, and they've never made a request like this before," Draven said. "I'd like to know why now. If you can find out."

"Right," Luke said. "Who am I meeting?"

"I don't know," Draven said.

"You don't know?"

"Compartmentalization isn't just for lower-level operatives, Skywalker," Draven said. He shrugged. "All I need to know about an information channel is how reliable it is … and in all the years this channel has been in operation, their information has never been wrong, it's usually been useful, and it almost always arrives in time to act on it. It's mostly low-level information, but it's more reliable than any other source we have. It's worth some trust … and if something goes wrong, you'll have Captain Solo and Chewbacca to help you get out of it."

"Han and Chewie are coming along?" Luke asked. He frowned. "Why aren't they here for the briefing?"

"They don't need to know the details of your mission, only the planet and city where you will be meeting your contact," Draven said. "The fewer people who know the details, the less chance that something can leak."

"Han and Chewie are perfectly trustworthy!" Luke protested.

Draven snorted. "Everyone who knows you're the pilot who took down the Death Star is perfectly trustworthy. That hasn't stopped your name from floating around … and it's only a matter of time before it reaches the Empire, and puts a great big fat target on your back. The fewer people who know anything, the less chance there is that some careless accident will reveal it. You will not tell any of your friends any details of your mission, which are classified. You will not tell your squadron where you are going, merely that you have been detached for a classified mission and will return shortly."

***

"So, you can't tell us what you're doing, huh?" Han asked. "Not even now we're in hyperspace and on our way?"

They were sitting in the Falcon's crew lounge. Han and Chewie were playing holo-chess, and Luke was sitting at the nav station reading a book Leia had recommended.

"I'm afraid not," Luke said.

"I can tell you what we're doing," Han said. "The Alliance is paying us to deliver their cargo, and then we're supposed to scrounge something up for the trip back. Either a cargo that takes us close to the base, or something from the list of supplies the Alliance wants."

Chewie said something about paying off Jabba, and Han waved that off. "Yeah, yeah, we'll get to it, but we're nowhere near Tatooine or Nar Shadda or anywhere else he's got a base." He turned back to Luke. "Must be something real secret, if you won't even tell me."

Chewie objected to that, something about Luke showing proper respect for his mission, and Han and Chewie bantered back and forth about that until the buzzer went off that they were nearing their destination.

***

Dolsuf would have astounded Luke a year ago. Now he knew it was a fairly average colony world in the Inner Rim, with lots of agricultural space and lots of industry, the fruits of which were mostly shipped to the core. The port they settled in was one of thousands dotted across the planet, and while it wasn't in the largest city it was still a thousand times larger than anything they had back on Tatooine.

Following the instructions that had been written in the document Draven had handed him, Luke bought a pass for the public transit system and took an underground train to the theater district. (Fortunately, he had gone on leave with Wedge and Dak to Anamuu, and they'd had a subway system there, so he knew how to use it without having to ask Han for help.)

Luke wandered around like a tourist for several hours before slipping in the stage door at one of the smaller theaters, off the beaten track. Nobody challenged him, though several people were sitting in the small antechamber playing cards. He wandered the back halls until he found a door that led to the auditorium, and took a seat near the back.

The backstage area had been worn and threadbare, but the auditorium seats were plush, comfortable, and showed no signs of wear. The walls and ceiling were covered in ornamented carvings that Luke could make out only vaguely in the dim light.

The stage was brightly lit. Four people were on the stage, one of them demonstrating a movement. The other three watched intently, until one of them nodded and tried it himself. After a few comments back and forth, the first man nodded. He turned towards the front of the stage and walked towards the stairs down into the seating area.

This was probably his contact. Luke ran through the code phrase in his head for practice.

The actor was a human or near-human, probably late middle age, with dark skin and curly black hair, shot with gray. "We're flattered by the attention, but we're not open to the public yet," he said, stopping next to Luke's chair. "You can come back and see us tonight. We're doing The Cracked Word."

Yes, this was his contact. "I'm a spacer, shipping out in a few hours. Besides, King Nemlii has been a favorite since I was a kid." It wasn't as smooth as he'd like, but Luke didn't think he'd done too badly for his first undercover mission.

"Mace."

Luke bolted upright in his seat. That was Ben Kenobi's ghost—what was he doing here? Except he probably shouldn't have reacted—did that make him look suspicious?

The actor's expression didn't change, but his eyes flicked off to the side, to about where Luke had heard Ben's voice from. Had he heard him? Could he see him? Luke sometimes thought he could, but wasn't sure if he was just imagining things. Ben was very faint.

"Well," the actor said, "if it's your favorite, I suppose we can make an exception. You might as well come up and watch from the front."

Luke got up and followed him down to the second row, and sat in the seat the actor indicated. He watched the rehearsal and tried to look as if he knew what was going on and was enjoying himself. Come to think of it, he should probably have looked up the play and what it was about, if it was supposed to be his favorite.

The actors on stage paid him no mind. After a bit, he shifted in his chair as unobtrusively as he could, and ran his fingers under the seat until he found the data rod taped there.

"The lead actor and director is Jedi Master Mace Windu," Ben said.

Luke didn't jump again, but only because he'd been expecting Ben to say something more. But he couldn't keep his face still at the revelation that here was a Jedi! Right in front of him! A real, live Jedi master! He wanted to pepper Ben with questions, but they were in public and he was undercover. He couldn't just start talking to thin air.

Luke looked down and put a hand over his mouth, so that maybe nobody would notice his reaction, or at least not enough to realize something interesting was happening.

"I thought he was dead," Ben said. "Killed by Darth Vader, when he tried to arrest Palpatine, the night Palpatine declared himself Emperor."

Luke wanted to hear more—a Jedi who'd challenged the Emperor directly! And almost died in the process! How had he survived Darth Vader?—but this wasn't the place for it. "It would be a lot easier to maintain my cover if you weren't saying shocking things," he muttered.

"Oh, of course, I'm so sorry," Ben said.

Luke had been planning on leaving fairly soon—anyone watching would assume that he was needed back at his ship, or that he'd gotten bored—but there was no way he was leaving a real live Jedi Master. This had to be why he'd been requested specifically!

What was the Jedi Master doing, though? Surely, he could have helped the Rebellion more by joining up directly, rather than by simply feeding them information? Draven didn't know who he was, so he couldn't have done anything that would stand out.

Ben had spent twenty years hiding, but then, Ben had been watching over Luke. Was Master Mace Windu doing something similar? Were there other Jedi who survived, that Ben didn't know about? Luke was almost vibrating out of his skin, watching the rehearsal.

***

Mace had had decades of experience with galactic politics at the highest level, in addition to considerable practice at amateur theatrics, before the destruction of the Jedi. The two decades of being a fugitive, combined with subsequent professional acting, had polished his abilities to a high degree.

So it wasn't particularly difficult to keep his renewed grief off his face, as he concentrated on the rest of the rehearsal.

The young Force-sensitive in the audience, however, had no such abilities. Fortunately, his focus on Mace was obvious even from the stage, and so it didn't take much to nudge his fellow-actors' minds in a less-dangerous direction.

Force, but he was bright. Not powerful, necessarily, but in a way that suggested he'd never learned to shield himself, not even the rudimentary shields most Force-sensitives developed reflexively, if they lived in a populated area. His every thought and feeling was broadcast like a beacon—how had nobody ever noticed him? It was true, the Inquisitorius was not large; but they made up for it by travelling constantly. And the Jedi and Sith were hardly the only Force-users in the galaxy.

More to the point, how and why had Obi-Wan never taught him any better? As he was, Luke was dangerous to himself and to the people around him. Obi-Wan must have some sort of connection to him, to be haunting him.

Mace ached to know what had happened to Obi-Wan in the years since the fall of the Jedi; his ghost looked old, much older than Mace had ever seen him; he couldn't have been dead for very long. It grieved Mace to know that his old friend and colleague had been alive all this time. It would have been a joy beyond measure to know another Council member had survived, and a great relief.

"You're a bit out of it today, Gann, do you feel all right?" Kangan said.

Sixi snorted. "No, he's just distracted by the tail he's going to get when we're through here."

Mace rolled his eyes. He trusted his fellow actors, and Force knew they'd all proved themselves willing to turn a blind eye to his work, even not knowing what it was. Still. The less they knew the safer they would all be. "Have you ever known me to be distracted by a date? He reminds me of someone I used to know, that's all."

"Someone he used to know in the religious sense." Sixi's leer was predictable.

"I'd be more interested in your innuendo if you weren't trying to insert it into your portrayal of Prince Zirnzevan," Mace said.

"Hey, it could be there, he could be—"

"If you had any shred of textual evidence to back that up, you would have argued for it already," Mace said, dryly. "We're playing this one straight and traditional. He's driven by fear of loss, by grief, by the way his parents and tutors didn't understand him, and the deep scars that left behind. I think if you make it less about Duke Kostrom, that would help."

Sixi was nodding.

Mace continued. "Zirnzevan's actions really aren't about Kostrom, are they? They're about what's going on inside Zirnzevan's head. He's too deep in his pain and fear to really see Kostrom for what they really are. To see anyone for what they really are. Let's try the scene from the top."

***

It took forever, but at last the rehearsal was over. When the actors were done, Master Windu shooed them off the stage. One of them pointed to Luke, but Master Windu shook his head.

Windu ignored Luke, fiddling around with the sets and props for some time.

"He's waiting until everyone else has left," Ben said.

Which made sense; if he was a Jedi, he wouldn't want anyone to hear what they had to say to each other. Still, Luke was holding onto his patience by a thread by the time Windu finally climbed down off the stage.

"Are you really—"

Windu raised a hand. "I prefer to talk in more … private places."

"Oh," Luke said, chagrined. "Right."

"If you've got time for a meal, you're welcome to join me," Master Windu said.

"Of course!" Luke said. He hopped out of his seat. "Let's go!"

Windu got them both food from a market, and then led them to a small and unassuming hotel.

Once they were in Windu's hotel room, Luke opened his mouth to speak, but Windu held a hand up to stop him. "Please set out the food."

Luke took the bag of takeout, grabbed his patience with both hands, and got the cartons and silverware out of the bag.

Windu rummaged around in the bottom of one of his bags, pulling out a machine. It started playing a noise that Luke realized, after a few seconds, was rainfall with the occasional bird sounds. "We can talk a bit more freely, now."

"Is that a jammer?" Luke asked. "Are you worried that people are going to notice you bringing me here and think it's a spy meeting, or something?"

Windu smiled. "No, and no. If anyone was watching, what they saw was an actor bringing a visibly starstruck young person back to their hotel room. And then turning on a privacy box—cheap hotel rooms are notorious for having thin walls, so people who regularly spend a lot of time in them often have privacy boxes. They aren't quite as good at preventing intentional spying as a dedicated jammer, but they're much less obvious … and they're good enough for our purposes."

"Oh," Luke said, blinking. He hadn't thought of it that way, but it made sense. "Do we … need to do anything to sell the illusion?" He blushed, a little, at the thought of pretending to have sex for potential surveillance to overhear.

Master Windu laughed. "No, the privacy box is sufficient, as long as we speak quietly."

Luke nodded, relieved.

Windu gestured to the room's tiny table and chairs, and they both took a seat. "So," Windu said, "did you know you are being haunted by a Jedi ghost?"

"Yes, of course," Luke said. "Old Ben has been hanging around since he died. I can hear him, sometimes, and sometimes I think I can almost see him, but that might just be my imagination. He taught me how to feel the Force, and how to meditate."

"I see," Windu said. "Well. Usually I would beat around the bush for a bit longer to sound you out, but I think Obi-Wan fully proves your bona fides. I am Jedi Master Mace Windu, head of the Order."

"I'm Luke Skywalker—"

Windu's eyes went wide, and he reared back in his seat.

"Did you know my father?" Luke asked.

"Of course I knew your father," Master Windu said. "He was one of the most powerful Jedi in the Order, and one of the most troubled. He was the one who told us that Palpatine was the Sith Master we'd been hunting for. Then, after our attempt to arrest Palpatine had failed and Palpatine had slaughtered the other Masters with me, Anakin came to Palpatine's rescue, threw me out a window, turned to the Dark Side and joined the Sith, and then led the army into the Temple to slaughter everyone there."

At first Luke couldn't even understand what he had said. "No," he said, once the words had penetrated. "No, that's not right, my father was killed by Darth Vader." Or … had he been killed by Darth Vader after turning? Ben had told him a little bit about the Sith, how they were always betraying each other.

"I was there," Windu said gently. "I saw it happen. Obi-Wan was on Utapau. I was trapped on Coruscant, in the undercity, trying to heal and then save what I could and escape, for … a long time. I saw what Anakin did, as a Sith Lord. I felt his darkness. I have, once, fought an Inquisitor he trained. There is no doubt. Anakin Skywalker is still alive, and he is a Sith Lord."

"That can't be true," Luke said.

"I am sorry." Windu's voice was warm with compassion, but it was also implacable and unyielding. Windu had no shred of doubt he was speaking the truth.

Luke reached out with the Force, as best he knew how. As Ben had trained him to. (But could he trust Ben—Obi-Wan? Had Obi-Wan lied to him?) But the Force answered him, with a finality that reverberated through him like a bell: Master Windu was telling the truth.

"Ben, why did you lie to me?" Luke's voice was choked, and he felt like he couldn't breathe, but he got the words out.

"Luke, has Ben taught you how to release your emotions to the Force?" Windu asked.

"What?" Luke felt like he was swimming through water, as he turned to look at Windu.

"When Jedi are in the grip of some strong emotion, there are ways to release that emotion into the Force," Windu said. "This gives us a clear head, and a heart that is not distracted."

"Distracted?" Luke's breath sped up. He wanted to shout, but he couldn't—someone might hear. "Distracted? Ben lied to me!"

"We don't know that yet," Windu said. "There are a great many hard truths that we must face—truths filled with death, and pain. There are harsh things that must be said. It is very easy, in such times as this, to be guided by our emotions: to let our fear and anger and confusion and pain goad us into saying and doing things that we later regret."

Luke wanted to rage, but … Uncle Owen had often said something similar (though less poetic), when Luke was upset. He'd been right, though the simple childhood fights he'd been talking about paled in comparison to this betrayal. "All right."

"First, let's eat our food, before it gets cold," Windu said.

Luke nodded; Aunt Beru would have said something similar. Everything's harder on an empty stomach. He took a bite of his wrap. It tasted like sand, but he knew better than to waste food. His body needed the fuel. He took a sip of his drink.

"What's your favorite food?" Windu asked.

"What?" Luke frowned.

"Your favorite food," Windu repeated. "Mine's Eoffo pudding. Best place I've ever had it was a little food cart tucked away in Hithol City on Scanu. It was so tender, it felt like it melted in my mouth. And I don't know what that person did with the gravy, but it was amazing."

"Oh," Luke said. He tried to think. "A nerf burger, I guess. Correllian-style."

They talked about inconsequential things until the food was done, and by the end of the meal Luke had relaxed a little bit. They put the containers in the recycle chute, and Windu gestured for him to sit on the bed cross-legged with him.

Windu walked him through a basic meditation. It was a little harder than usual for Luke to get into the trance, but he got there.

"Good," said Windu. "Now, feel your body. Where are your emotions, in your body, right now?"

Luke's stomach was roiling, and his breath kept wanting to speed up, and his body didn't quite feel real, but he did his best. Windu led him through the parts of the body, and helped him to notice how each one felt, and what it meant to him.

"Name your feelings to yourself, even the ones you aren't comfortable with," Windu said.

Luke resisted. He didn't want to. Didn't want to face how Ben had betrayed him. (Didn't want to face the ruin of his hopes and dreams.)

Windu waited for him, and Luke tried, a bit, but there were things he couldn't face.

"Now look up to the Force," Windu said, and led his attention outward. It was as deep as a starry night in the desert, as warm as a sun and cold as the void. Luke himself was barely a pin-prick within it.

"Let it pass through you like a wave, and carry away with it all that you don't need."

Luke had seen waves, now; Rogue Squadron had had leave on a planet with an ocean and beaches, once, and he'd played in the shallows while a few of his squadron had surfed. He pictured one of those sweeping through him. Not enough to knock him off his feet, but enough to tumble him around a bit and scour him clean.

"And now, we come back to ourselves," Windu said.

Luke opened his eyes.

"Do you feel better?"

Luke considered. "Yeah?" he said. "I'm still hurt, and confused, and angry, though."

Windu smiled. "Jedi are not computers, Luke, and even computers can have emotions. The point is not to be rid of our emotions; the point is not to let them overwhelm us. If we're so wrapped up in our own feelings, we can't hear the Force. Or we'll hear what we want to hear, and tell ourselves it's the Force."

"Does that happen often?" Luke asked. "The Force is so much bigger than I am—than any Jedi is."

"But we can only sense it through our own selves," Windu said. "The Force is vast, but often subtle or nuanced. Or obscured. The louder our own wants and fears are, the harder it is to hear the Force … and the easier it is to convince ourselves that our own reactions are the Force prompting us. This is why Jedi must strive for peace within ourselves, and self-knowledge. Great power and sensitivity to the Force will not prevent our own self-deception."

"Oh," Luke said.

"On a more prosaic note, overpowering emotions also prevent us from hearing and understanding others," Windu said. "So now that we are both a bit more centered, let us ask Obi-Wan for his side of the story."

He unfolded his legs and turned so that his back was against the wall. "So. Obi-Wan. Did you know that Anakin Skywalker fell to the Dark Side?"

"Of course he—"

Windu held up his hand. "He wasn't there."

Luke opened his mouth to object again, but Windu spoke over him.

"Things were very tumultuous, and there was no chance to meet afterwards and piece together what had happened. Our entire world was destroyed in the space of a few hours. I've no idea how he escaped. I've no idea what he suffered, what he did, to survive. Neither do you. And neither of us will learn, if we do not listen."

Luke pursed his lips together, but nodded. He took a deep breath and settled himself in a more comfortable position. Ben had sacrificed his life to help Luke and the others escape; he'd helped Luke take down the Death Star. Luke should at least listen to hear what he had to say.

Windu nodded. He turned to the wall where the table was. "So. Obi-Wan." He nodded as if he could see him.

Obi-Wan told his story: being shot down by his own men, meeting up with another Jedi Master named Yoda, slipping into the Temple and watching with horror as his apprentice whom he loved like a son bowed to a Sith Lord.

Luke could hear the pain in his voice. He could almost smell the charred flesh, like his last day on Tatooine, discovering the bodies of Uncle Own and Aunt Beru. He shook his head. That didn't justify lying. Not about something this big.

But the story didn't end there. Ben had gone to his mother—a Senator! A former queen!—and told her what had happened, then followed her as she went to confront his father. How his father had attacked her, hurt her, how Obi-Wan had intervened. How they had fought, and his father had lost.

"I know I should have … finished him," Obi-Wan said, voice broken with pain. "It was cruel to leave him to die that way, and if I had, Palpatine couldn't have found him and saved his life. But I couldn't. I knew that I should—I've killed Sith Lords before, I knew how dangerous they were, I knew that they can sometimes survive things you wouldn't believe possible. But I couldn't do it."

Luke tried to imagine it. Fighting someone he loved. Knowing someone he loved was capable of that much evil. If it had been Uncle Owen or Aunt Beru, or Biggs, or Leia, or Han—could he have killed someone he loved, even if they'd done that much evil? He didn't think so. He hoped he wouldn't—but was that even the right thing to hope for? How many people would have been saved if Obi-Wan had finished Anakin then and there? (How many people would have been saved if his father had listened to his mother, and turned away from the Dark Side?)

(How many would have been saved if his father had never fallen in the first place?)

If Luke had had to kill someone he loved, or tried and failed to kill them, how would he have lived with himself afterwards? Obi-Wan's reputation as a crazy old man—a ghost haunting the sands—made a horrible sense.

But it still didn't explain the lie.

"I went back to the ship—the droids had loaded Padmé aboard—and took her to a discreet medical facility Bail Organa knew of. But it was too late for Padmé. She died. The droids couldn't find anything wrong with her—they fixed what he did, it was a simple injury. The birth was … no worse than usual. I've always wondered: was there something wrong with the droids? Was it something an experienced healer would have caught? Did Anakin do something to her with the Force, something more than merely choking her? Or was it something Palpatine did, some sort of Sith magic—she would have been a threat to him, to his control of his apprentice, to his Empire, if she'd lived. Might a Jedi skilled in healing have been able to save her?"

"Those are all reasonable questions," Mace said, his voice warm. "But … Obi-Wan, you know how useless it is to dwell on things that can't be changed. To center your thoughts in the past, rather than in the present."

"I know, Mace." Luke couldn't see Obi-Wan, but he sounded exhausted. Weary, with the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders. "I've known that for eighteen years. But I was never able to make myself do it. Could you, if it were Depa?"

"Depa was my last apprentice, before the war," Mace told Luke. "I don't know. I hope I would have been able to. I'm sorry you were alone, that there was nobody to help you carry that burden."

"I didn't know anyone else had survived, besides Yoda," Obi-Wan said.

"More survived than you'd think," Mace said. "Jedi are very hard to kill. And there are a lot of people, across the galaxy, who didn't believe Palpatine's lies even at the very start."

This was all very interesting, and at any other time Luke would have been thrilled and fascinated to learn that other Jedi had survived. "You haven't said why you lied to me, Ben."

"It's what he told me, himself," Ben said. "I fought him, once, a decade after he fell. He said Anakin was dead, that he had killed him, that there was nothing left but Darth Vader."

Windu scoffed. "The Sith are masters of deception, including self-deception. He may have believed that; it doesn't make it true."

"Why would he say that, though?" Luke said. "It's obviously not true!"

"It can be true on a metaphorical level," Ben said.

Windu sighed. "He lies to himself about it because that is part of the way Sith manipulate themselves and their apprentices, to keep them tied to the Dark."

"What do you mean?" Luke asked.

"When someone chooses the Dark Side, it is very difficult to turn back from it, and they will be forever changed by their experiences," Windu said. "They will always be plagued by it. But it is possible to turn back … and no Sith master would wish his apprentice to do so. There are several things they do to make it less likely. One is to demand, at the very beginning of the apprenticeship, a task so heinous that it severs every tie the apprentice has and causes them to hate themselves for doing it."

"But if they hate themselves, won't that make them more likely to change?" Luke asked.

"The opposite, I'm afraid," Windu said. "It means that they have a driving motivation to never question their allegiance to the Dark, or what was it all for? If they ever do try to come back to the Light, they must face the evil thing they have done. As long as they continue to choose the Dark Side, they can see it as justified or right or necessary, or simply expedient. In the Light, they can see clearly that it was none of those things. If they can't imagine forgiveness or redemption or even new life is possible … they have every reason to cling to the Dark.

"As for the name, that is similar," Windu went on. "Anakin was a person with friends, a community, a commitment to the Light Side of the Force and the Jedi Order. Anakin had people who cared about him, people who might have held him to account, people who might have walked with him along the path out of the darkness … if he hadn't killed them. Darth Vader has none of those things. If he is not Anakin Skywalker, then he has no connections to Anakin Skywalker's life, no connections other than those he has made through the Sith and the Dark Side. If he is not Anakin Skywalker, then the terrible things he did to Anakin Skywalker's people are no tragedy to him."

"Do you think it's possible for him to turn back to good?" Luke asked, startled. Could his father be saved? His mother had thought so, even after he'd attacked her.

"In the Force, all things are possible," Windu said. "But that is not the same as probable. And it is not a choice anyone can make but Anakin himself. He began his fall with one great evil act, and he has committed countless more ever since. He has tried to kill everyone who reached out a hand to him, to offer help returning to the Light. Including those who loved him, and whom he loved. He must choose his own path—and whether or not he can live with what he has done. You can't choose it for him."

Luke nodded. Leia would have said the same thing. Had said the same thing, about Han. Han had come back, had joined the Rebellion, but not because of anything Luke had said or done. Because he'd chosen to do the right thing.

***

As Luke lost himself in thought, his emotions kept roiling.

Mace hid a wince. He'd have to teach the young man to shield himself as soon as he could; how had Obi-Wan not taught Anakin Skywalker's son to shield? If anyone had found him, he would have been the most important pawn in the galaxy, with dire consequences for Luke himself and everyone else.

But with Luke distracted, there was time for Mace to ask the questions he most cared about, without interruption. He centered himself in the Force, and asked it if this was a safe conversation to have. He felt no danger, saw no shatterpoints other than the remnant of the one that had broken when he had first seen Obi-Wan's ghost and Luke. "You said that Yoda survived the initial few days after Palpatine's rise. Is he still alive?"

The ghost nodded. "Yes. He secluded himself on an uninhabited planet called Dagobah. It has a large swamp, and in that swamp is a cave with a vergence in the Force—a Dark one. From a distance—"

"From a distance, it would conceal all trace of him in the Force, even in visions," Mace said, nodding. "And there would be nothing to draw anyone to an uninhabited planet."

"And a swamp is the most comfortable habitat for him," Obi-Wan said. "At least in so far as a solitary retreat in the wilderness can be comfortable."

"I can see why he made that choice—he was always a very distinctive person, easily recognized—but secluding himself that way meant there was no chance of the Force leading him to me or to any other Jedi," Mace said. "It's a pity. We could have used him."

"Other Jedi?" Obi-Wan sounded startled, as surprised as a ghost could be.

"Nobody you know," Mace said. "Nobody who Palpatine or Anakin would have considered notable. A few who escaped when their battalions turned on them, or who were never involved directly in the war. A few Corps members. A few young Force-sensitives we've rescued from bad situations."

"Where are they?" Obi-Wan asked. "They're obviously not in your acting troupe."

"We have a hidden enclave," Mace said. And he wasn't about to say more than that without better security, even with the Force telling him they were safe for the moment. "But several of us travel around in various guises, looking for survivors, or for Force-sensitives in danger, or for … useful things. Sometimes we find information that would be useful to the Alliance, or to other groups that are working against the Empire, and I pass it along."

"An enclave," Obi-Wan said. "With other Jedi, and younglings to train in safety." He, of course, had no need to worry about security; only a trained Force-sensitive would be able to perceive his words.

"Training?" Luke said. He had all the eagerness of a young tooka. "Could I come? Obi-Wan's been doing his best, but … as a ghost, it's hard."

"You could," Mace said. "It would be a hard path; becoming a Jedi is no easy thing, and—" he shook his head. "Normally, this would be the point where I tell you all about the danger of becoming a Jedi, with the Empire seeking us out to kill us. But given who your father is, and that you're apparently using his name?"

Luke nodded.

"I can't see that training you would put you in any more danger than you're already in, just by existing," Mace said. "And learning to hear and use the Force would be a great ally in staying safe and out of Palpatine's clutches."

***

Much as Luke wanted to begin his training immediately, it simply wasn't possible. Mace had never brought a lover along on one of their tours, and Luke's cover as a theater-loving spacer wouldn't last through a two-second conversation with anyone who knew theater. Moreover, Luke had to see to it that the intelligence Mace had gathered reached the Alliance in a timely fashion.

"You could tell me the name of the planet and I could make my way there by myself," Luke pointed out.

Mace stared at him. "I am not saying the name out loud. Not even if we had a proper stealth generator running."

"If I can't hang out with you until the tour is over and you go to the enclave yourself, and you won't tell me the name of the planet, how am I supposed to get there?"

He was a very impatient young man, Mace noted. "I'm not sure you should go there. If your father doesn't know of your existence already, he soon will—and he will be searching for you in the Force. If he had a vision of you, and could make out any identifying marks of the enclave in that vision, he might be able to track it down. I can't put everyone else at risk."

"Perhaps he should go to Yoda, on Dagobah," Obi-Wan suggested.

"Yoda hasn't taken an apprentice in over a century," Mace pointed out. "And he has never trained an adult who did not grow up within the Temple." And his given the failures of the line of that last apprentice—three who had chosen the Darkness, two of whom became Sith—Mace wasn't sure he was the best choice for Luke.

"Over a century?" Luke said. "How old is he?"

"Somewhere around the 900 years," Mace said.

"He is one of the greatest Jedi to ever live," Obi-Wan said. "He has trained countless generations of Jedi."

"Oh," Luke said, voice filled with awe.

"All of which experience took place in the old Republic," Mace said. "Things are different, now." He considered what Luke might find interesting and relevant. "Your father was brought to the Jedi at the age of nine. We almost turned him away—did turn him away, at first—because he was too old."

"Too old? At age nine?" Luke was appalled.

Mace nodded. "There are advantages to training a child starting when they are a youngling. It ensures that they are part of our culture, and grow up understanding and living by the tenets of our religion, and minimizes the bad habits they will have to unlearn. People who had Force-sensitive children, but who were not themselves part of a Force-sensitive tradition, would often give their children to us." He shook his head. "It is not the only way Jedi have been trained, over the millennia, because our history is ancient. But it is the way Jedi have been trained for the last thousand years. It caused problems with your father—he was so very different from what we were used to. We expected him to adapt, and when he struggled in ways that someone who had come to the Temple younger would not have, we did not know how to help him—and some did not even try."

Mace spread his hands. "It is something I think about often; all of the people we are currently training are older than Anakin was, when he became a Jedi. And we don't have the resources or support that we did then. We have had to adapt. We have learned a great deal. Yoda has trained more Jedi than anyone else in the history of the Order, that we know of."

"But he's been all alone for the last eighteen years," Luke said. "He hasn't learned what you've learned." He sat back, looking thoughtful.

"What do you suggest?" Obi-Wan asked.

"Luke goes back to his base, arranges for leave, and goes to Dagobah."

"But you said—"

"I continue on with the troupe through this engagement," Mace said, "and possibly the next, and then once there's no obvious connection with Luke, I announce that I found another gig and will be taking leave of the company for a while. I join you. It will be … a gift beyond price, to see him again, and we can see what he needs, and what you need."

***

Once Luke had left to go back to his ship, Obi-Wan turned to Mace. "Why did you make such a fuss about Yoda, if you were just going to tell him to go to Dagobah anyway?"

"He idolizes the Jedi, doesn't he?" Mace said.

"I suppose so."

Mace nodded. It had always happened; even at the height of the Order's powers, they were a tiny percentage of the galaxy's population, and the vast majority of people would never see a Jedi in their entire lives. That, plus their abilities, and their role as peacekeepers and bringers of justice, led to a certain amount of myth-making. Their destruction had only heightened that tendency, among people who didn't believe Palpatine's lies. "He can't possibly learn to be a good Jedi himself until he unlearns that, and can see us clearly, both good and bad. We do not want blind obedience. We want a mature Jedi who can see clearly, and learn from the mistakes of the past."

Obi-Wan shifted. Mace narrowed his eyes. He knew that movement; it was guilt. "Unless you do want blind obedience. Why did you lie about his father? Guilt and grief and believing Sith lies can't be the only reason."

"He may idolize the Jedi now, but he's idolized his father all his life," Obi-Wan said. "At best, it will be a distraction. At worst … he will refuse to do what he must. And then we will have no hope left. No hope to save the galaxy; no hope to protect your enclave."

Mace considered this. The deception stank of the worst mistakes the Jedi had made, during the war and in the years leading up to it. Sacrificing ethics for expediency. But he couldn't see the reason for it. "What do you think he 'must' do?"

"Kill Vader," Obi-Wan said. "Anakin, if you prefer. As I should have done, and failed to do."

"Skywalker?" Mace shook his head. "What does that matter? Why would killing the apprentice save either the galaxy or the enclave?"

Obi-Wan's ghost frowned at him. "Vader is more powerful than Palpatine, and the one who has directly slaughtered both the Jedi and countless others. If the enclave is discovered, Palpatine will not come destroy it himself; he will send Vader."

"And if Skywalker is killed, Palpatine will simply replace him with a new apprentice and nothing will change," Mace pointed out. He rubbed his forehead. Obi-Wan had let his attachment to his former apprentice blind his reason. It was understandable, but Mace would have thought that eighteen years to think about it would have given him time to clear his mind. "What would happen if Palpatine were killed, and Vader were left alive?"

"Then Vader would rule in his stead, and take an apprentice, and there would still be two Sith plus whatever acolytes and inquisitors Vader chooses to train."

Mace shook his head. "What, in all the things you know about Anakin Skywalker, implies to you that he would be able to keep the Empire together and rule it?"

"He would kill anyone who tried to defy him," Obi-Wan said.

"No government, not even the Empire, can rest solely on fear of punishment," Mace said. "Particularly not fear of one man. It's true, he could and would slaughter anyone who displeased him, but consider: he can only be in one place at a time. Expanding his powers beyond what he, personally, can be present for requires people to cooperate with him when he is not present. The galaxy is large. Even as a Jedi, Anakin possessed little understanding of politics, and less patience for it. Palpatine rules because, regardless of his considerable skill with the Force, he is an excellent politician. He is very good at getting people to cooperate with him and do what he wants, because he understands what they want and how to manipulate them because of it. Anakin has no such skills. At least he had none when he was a Jedi. Do you think that eighteen years as a Sith will have taught him patience and understanding?"

Obi-Wan scoffed. "Hardly."

"It would devolve quickly into civil war," Mace said, "as other high Imperial officials grabbed for power and tried to either unseat him entirely or break away their own fiefdoms. This would be very hard on the galaxy, and would cause great suffering and death. But it would also provide an opportunity for worlds to free themselves from the Imperial yoke. Not ideal, but better than Imperial rule in the long run." He waited for Obi-Wan to nod.

"As for the enclave, Vader and any apprentice he took would be far too busy trying to maintain their power to come after us," Mace went on. "We'd be safer than we have been since he fell."

He thought about Obi-Wan's reactions, the things he had done since the fall of the Jedi. They had only just begun to scratch the surface of what had passed; there would be many hours of conversation, of meditation, before either would know what the other had lived well enough to understand or judge their decisions.

But it seemed to Mace that Obi-Wan had never considered the possibility that the Jedi might have a future, not just a past. He had thought a great deal about how to kill his old apprentice, but if he had put any at all into what would happen after, it had yet to come up. He certainly hadn't given Luke even the most rudimentary training that might prepare him to carry on the Jedi legacy. And given Luke's excitement at meeting Mace, that lack could not have been Luke's idea.

Had Obi-Wan been trapped, in his head, in those last, few, terrible days? Mace ached at the thought. He himself had spent … a long time, trapped in his own pain, both physical and emotional, and the grief within him was a deep well of sadness that would always be a part of him.

But Mace had, eventually, learned to live. He had crawled out of the hovel in Coruscant's lower levels where he had holed up. He had gathered together what few survivors he could find who had managed to escape the Temple, and they had gotten each other offworld. He had had to set aside his pain enough to function, or they would never have made it. And by the time they had reached a place the Force told them was safe to settle down, and made it habitable, and had time to properly grieve—the worst of it had been behind him.

Behind them. Because they'd had each other to lean on.

Obi-Wan had been alone.

"Why didn't you stay with Yoda?" Mace asked, quietly.

"I—" Obi-Wan broke off, as if he hadn't thought of it. "I had to take Luke to his family, and then watch, to make sure Vader didn't follow. To be there to defend them if he did."

"Were you hoping he would?" Mace asked. "Was that why you let him keep the name, and put him with Anakin's family?" It would be an excellent way to lure Vader in, so Obi-Wan could kill him as he had failed to the first time. But an awful risk for Luke and his family.

"No," Obi-Wan said. "I didn't expect Vader would ever come to Tatooine. He always hated the place, and it has no value to the Empire."

"Did you stay with Luke's family?"

Obi-Wan shook his head. "Even if I had wanted to intrude, Owen held the Jedi responsible for what happened to Anakin, what he had become. He wanted to protect Luke."

The 'from me' went unspoken, but Mace heard it anyways.

"What did you do?"

"I retreated into the desert."

"Did you have anyone?"

"I was alone." There was a wealth of pain in those words.

"I'm so sorry," Mace said.

"I didn't have to be," Obi-Wan said. "I could have rented a room in Anchorhead or Mos Eisley. But I couldn't bear to be around people."

If Obi-Wan were still alive, and had a body, Mace would have asked if he could hold him, physical comfort for both of them. He would have asked if they could meditate together.

But Obi-Wan was dead, and all they could do was sit together in silence.

***

"Hey, kid, you're kinda quiet."

Luke looked up to Han, who was standing over him. Luke hadn't even noticed him and Chewie come into the crew lounge. "Huh? Oh. Yeah."

"Everything okay? Nothing happened? You weren't gone that long."

Chewie yowled that Luke could find trouble in no time at all.

"You said it, Chewie." Han spread his hands. "Okay, what's wrong?"

Luke hesitated. Besides the Alliance's own classification of the intelligence source, he'd been sworn to secrecy about Mace and the Jedi. He trusted Han, of course, but the fewer people who knew, the better. He realized there was one thing he could say.

"I met someone who knew my father," he said slowly.

"You're not looking like that's a good thing." Han slid into the chair across from Luke.

Luke heaved a sigh. "Depends on what you mean," Luke said. "I learned the truth."

"Which is …?" Han trailed off, inviting Luke to speak.

"He's still alive," Luke said.

"And you're sitting here looking like the world is ending, so I'm guessing it's not that easy."

"Ben lied to me," Luke said. "Anakin Skywalker wasn't killed by Darth Vader. He became Darth Vader."

Chewie yowled something Luke had no hope of understanding.

"The Emperor's enforcer?" Han said. "The guy who personally slaughtered three whole brigades on Rorlun IV? That guy?"

"Yeah," Luke said. "That's the guy."

Han swore. "And Ben didn't tell you that maybe you should change your last name, or at least not go around telling people your father was Anakin Skywalker? If Vader hears about you, I got no idea how he'll react but it can't be good."

"I know."

Chewie asked why Ben had lied to him, and Luke sighed. "I don't know. They were very close, and Ben's kind of messed up about the whole thing."

"He's dead, kid," Han pointed out. "Maybe he was messed up about it, but he's not anything, now."

"His ghost hangs around," Luke said. "Sometimes he talks to me."

"His ghost?" Han's voice dripped with disbelief. "I hate to break it to you, but there's no such thing as ghosts."

Chewie said there were enough weird things in the galaxy that he wasn't willing to deny the possibility of ghosts, especially not where Jedi were concerned.

"Chewie—" Han said.

Chewie reminded Han that it was rude to call someone crazy, especially a friend, and unless Han could prove ghosts didn't exist, he shouldn't give Luke a hard time about it.

Han waved a hand, but gave up on arguing with Chewie. "So. You're hearing voices."

"Just the one voice," Luke said. "And the more I practice meditating and other things he taught me, the more clearly I hear him."

Han made a face.

"Once I knew who my father really was, Obi-Wan talked about him, a bit," Luke said. "He killed my mother. He led the attack on the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. Obi-Wan fought him, and won—but couldn't bring himself to kill him. Just left him for dead."

"Was this … ghost … the one who told you your father was Darth Vader?"

Luke shook his head. "No. But please don't ask me who did, or tell anyone about it."

"Was it your contact?" Han asked. "Was that why they wanted you, specifically? How do you know they were telling the truth?"

"I could feel it in the Force," Luke said. "I didn't want to believe it, but as soon as they said it I knew it was true." He hunched over.

He could tell Han was skeptical, but didn't argue about it. "I'm sorry kid. "That must have been rough."

Luke nodded.

They sat there in silence for a bit. Luke couldn't think of a thing to say.

***

Draven's office felt strange.

It took Luke a moment to realize it wasn't because the office had changed, but because he had changed. Or, no, he hadn't; but the things he knew about himself, his family, and his past had changed. But Draven's office—the whole Alliance—was still the same.

"Here's the data, sir," Luke said, handing the chip over.

"Anything I need to know that's not on it?" Draven asked. "That won't compromise the identity of the agent?"

"Yeah," Luke said. "You know that my father was the Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker?"

"I believe it's been mentioned a few times," Draven said dryly.

"It turns out he didn't die with the rest of the Jedi," Luke said. He closed his eyes. "He turned to the Dark Side, and hunted them instead." He didn't want to tell anybody, but if his father could have a vision of him and see what planet he was on, Draven needed to know. It was a security breach.

"He became an Inquisitor?" Draven's voice was carefully neutral.

"No." Luke took a breath, and let it out. "He became Darth Vader."

Draven was quiet for a while. Luke looked down at his hands. He didn't want to see the look on Draven's face, and he was glad he hadn't learned yet how to sense other peoples' emotions in the Force.

"Is that absolutely confirmed?"

"Yes."

"Shame we didn't know earlier," Draven said. "But it's too late to change your name at this point. Still, I can think of ways to use it."

"I'd rather it not become common knowledge," Luke said.

"Of course," Draven said. "Do you know whether he will be interested in a relationship with you, or capturing you, once he learns?"

"I have no idea." Luke sighed. "He killed my mother."

"So we can't count on any family feeling protecting you," Draven said. "Well, I wouldn't have imagined that was possible in any case."

"It's possible that he might be able to have a vision in the Force, that might give him enough identifying information to figure out where I am."

"That will be harder to deal with," Draven said. "Though—is there any way to send him a vision on purpose?"

Luke frowned. "I have no idea. Why?"

"So we can mislead him, or lure him into a trap," Draven said.

"I … don't know, I'll let you know if I find out," Luke said.

"Good." Draven nodded decisively. "Anything else?"

"I'm going to have to take some leave to—" Luke remembered he wasn't supposed to mention living Jedi just in time "—deal with … things." He finished lamely.

"We'll be sorry to miss you," Draven said. "You're a good pilot, and we need every fighter we can get. But it will make security easier, if Vader can indeed get details—any details at all—of wherever you are."

"Yeah," Luke said. "What's—how do I—I don't know who I need to talk to, about arranging for it?"

"Your squad leader," Draven said. "But don't tell them why, if you don't want rumors about your parentage floating around."

Luke nodded.

"How long will you be gone?"

"I have no idea," Luke said, helplessly. How long did it take to become a Jedi? Could he do it part time—a few months with Masters Yoda and Windu, then a few months of missions with the Alliance, then back to training? Surely Master Windu couldn't take too much time off from his travels with his company, if that was how he found Jedi and information.

"Then the question is, how will you find us again when you are ready to come back? We don't make ourselves easy to find, and you know how little communication we allow with outsiders."

Luke nodded again. "I know how to get ahold of Princess Leia, if I have to. And Han, as long as he sticks around." He was always threatening to leave, and Luke wasn't sure if he'd stay without Luke. Also, Master Windu regularly passed information to the Alliance. Even if Leia was out of contact for some reason, and Han had left, Master Windu could get him back in contact.

"Very well," Draven said. "Then may the Force be with you, Skywalker."

***

"If Vader can sense your presence and may be able to track you down, then surely the best place for you is to stay with the Alliance," Leia said, matter-of-factly. She'd taken the news of his parentage with a flinch, but had collected herself with the sort of iron control he'd admired her since the first barb she'd thrown at him when they met.

"I don't want to put you all in danger," Luke protested.

"Whoever you're around will be in danger, if Vader decides to come after you," Leia said. "Nobody else has a prayer of stopping him. The Alliance has a better shot at it than anyone else in the galaxy—and if we could kill Vader, that would be a huge boon for us."

"She's got a point, kid," Han said.

"I know," Luke said. "But I have things I have to do."

"I hope you're not planning to rush off and confront him," Leia said grimly. "At best he'll kill you. At worst … you don't want to know what he does to prisoners. Or what the Emperor does."

"I'm not," Luke said. "This is … something else."

Leia narrowed her eyes. "You've found a Jedi to train you, haven't you."

"How did you—" Luke broke off with a blush as he realized he'd just confirmed it to her. "You can't tell anyone," he said, eyeing them both.

"No, I fully understand," Leia said. "Any Jedi who has survived this long hasn't done it by being careless with their security. I won't betray you—or them. Neither will Captain Solo." She shot him a glare.

"Cross my heart, I won't even tell Chewie," Han said. "Want me to give you a lift?" Han asked. "If you're so determined to go."

Luke shook his head. "I'm supposed to go alone. I need a ship, I won't be able to book passage."

"I'll arrange for a shuttle," Leia said. "We have more of them, proportionally, than any other ship. But it may take a while for one to be free."

***

The moisture in the air rushed in to beat Mace in the face as soon as he opened the hatch, but he ignored it. The Dark vergence clouded his perceptions, but it was only a little worse than the state of the general galaxy.

It took a few seconds of scanning the swamp before he saw Yoda, sitting on a rock to the side of the ship.

Mace drew in a breath. Yoda had aged more than Mace would have expected. A great deal more. "My old friend, it is good to see you." His throat was choked with emotion.

"Yes," Yoda said.

Mace went to him, knelt before him, and embraced him. They clung together, and Mace reveled in the tangible feel of a dear friend he had believed dead. One tiny piece of the weight of his grief fell away.

They meditated together, there on the rock. Words could come later; intwining into the Force with a dear friend was a pleasure Yoda had been denied for eighteen years.

"Tell me about what I have missed, these two decades," Mace said when they raised themselves back to their bodies.

"Caught many frogs, have I," Yoda said. He shot Mace a sly look. "Thrilled, would I have been, eight hundred and fifty years ago, to see that my retirement would produce such bounty."

Mace laughed.

***

"Told me, Obi-Wan has, of your opinion of my teaching abilities," Yoda said later, over dinner.

"I mean no disrespect, or unkindness," Mace said. "You taught countless Jedi, and did it well."

Yoda waved this away. "Afraid of the truth, a Jedi should never be. Telling, or hearing, either. Failed, we did, all of us. Failed our students, failed the Republic, failed the Force. Old I am, and frail. Teach another … I do not know if I can."

Mace nodded. "You and Obi-Wan know more of him than I do," he said. "What is he like? What are his strengths and weaknesses? What strategies had you considered?"

They spent hours discussing Luke and the challenges of training an adult (barely) with no prior Jedi training. It was a relief; Mace was by far the most senior Jedi in the enclave, and conversations like this one, based on an equality of experience and mastery of the Force, were rare.

***

Mace sat outside the hut, and listened in on Yoda's act. It had been Yoda's idea, and not something Mace would have thought of, but it was interesting to hear Luke interact with someone he wasn't expecting to be important. It was very revealing.

Mace had been skeptical that the sort of games Yoda played with younglings in the creche would be effective with an adult, but he'd been wrong.

When Yoda stopped playing with the young man, Mace got up and went in. Luke did a double-take, breaking off his protests.

"Master Windu, you're already here?" he said. "Why didn't you say anything? Were you sitting out there laughing at me?"

"I wasn't mocking you," Mace said. "I was evaluating how you treated someone who is different and odd, and also, how long it took you to look past your own preconceptions."

"But it's not fair," Luke said. "I didn't know I was being tested!"

"In the real world, we rarely know when our words and actions will be important and when they will not," Mace said. "And we weren't trying to evaluate how you treat people you think are important. We were trying to evaluate how you treat people when they're not important."

Luke sagged. "Oh."

"Being a Jedi is not—or shouldn't be—about power," Mace said. "It's about following the will of the Force, and about having compassion for all. It's about being able to see past the surface of things to their true depth."

"Not trusting your eyes, because they can deceive you," Luke said.

Mace nodded. "Yes."

"That was … the Order's greatest failure, during the Clone Wars," Obi-Wan's ghost said. "We became too caught up in reacting to each catastrophe as it came, we did not have the time or attention to step back and see what the deeper problems were. We were too busy with the most obvious problems to see their roots, until it was far too late."

Mace and Yoda nodded soberly.

"And here I just did the same thing," Luke said, a wave of shame flowing through him. "Did you do that sort of thing often, in training Jedi?"

"Lie to them about my identity, I did not," Yoda said. "Could not. Every Jedi knew me from the moment they were first brought to the Temple for training. But play similar games with the younglings, I did, so that practice their manners they could, even when frustrating, the person they talked to was."

"And I just failed a game you played with children," Luke said bitterly.

"You are still very young, Luke," Mace said. "Still learning who you are as a person, still growing. And you are only just beginning your journey as a Jedi. Young people are often impatient, and prone to quick judgments they do not have the experience to realize are flawed. Even back in the Order's height, when all Jedi began their training as children, it was not uncommon for Padawans and new knights to have similar issues. Obi-Wan, for example, was not shy about showing his impatience with the bedraggled and unfortunate people his master regularly associated with."

Obi-Wan's ghost nodded ruefully, although Luke couldn't see him.

"The purpose of being a student is to learn," Mace said. "The purpose of being a Jedi apprentice is to learn about the Force, and about yourself, so that you can more clearly see how to use the Force—and when to let it use you. Don't be discouraged. It's hard work, but I think you will do well, as long as you acknowledge your mistakes and learn from them."

Luke sighed, but nodded.

"Let us begin," Mace said.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Why can't other newspapers do this?

* * * *

Don't give permission to others to demotivate or mislead you!

September 18, 2024

Robert B. Hubbell

Remain steadfast, dear readers! I received a dozen(-ish) emails today expressing worry about a report from a respected polling organization claiming that “the presidential race is tightening.” I also received a similar number of emails touting reports from a respected polling firm showing VP Harris expanding her post-debate lead to a number that is “larger than the margin of error.”

Here’s the deal: It doesn’t matter which of the above polling narratives is true. Indeed, both could be correct or both could be wrong. Regardless of what the polls show—good or bad—you should not change anything that you plan to do in the next 50 days. We are stuck in a noisy, volatile information environment that is being actively manipulated by the MAGA disinformation machine and Russia. See Axios, Russia amplifies disinformation campaigns against Harris-Walz campaign, Microsoft warns.

Per Axios,

Russia is now throwing all of its disinformation resources behind operations designed to undermine the Harris-Walz campaign, according to a Microsoft report released Tuesday.

[And] the Justice Department exposed a $10 million scheme earlier this month in which employees of a Russian state media network infiltrated a U.S. company to spread Russian propaganda.

Let’s be clear: You are the target of the disinformation being peddled by the GOP and Russia. Their goal is to demotivate you. Do not give them permission to do so!

So, if you have mistakenly over-invested in the polls, knock it off! (And I mean that in the nicest way possible!) It is completely understandable and perfectly human to seek reassurance from polls. No one wants a repeat of the nasty surprise in 2016. But the bad guys have figured out our need for positive feedback and weaponized it against us. They are con men, and we are the mark.

Instead of looking to the media for reassurance, believe your own eyes and ears. You can see the surge in enthusiasm, you know that the number of volunteers at your grassroots organization has increased, and you have been surprised by people in your life who are planning to vote for the first time or will vote for Kamala Harris after voting for Trump in 2016 or 2020. That information is anecdotal, but it is not filtered or manipulated to mislead you.

Of course, we shouldn’t delude ourselves. We must recognize that remaining in touch with real news is important. The question is, how do we stay current without subjecting ourselves to manipulation?

I attended a Swing Left San Gabriel Valley meeting over the weekend where Jessica Craven and I spoke to the grassroots volunteers. One audience member asked which news sources we trust. Our combined answers included the following:

Heather Cox Richardson | Substack

Jessica Craven | Substack

Simon Rosenberg | Substack

Jay Kuo | Substack

Lucian K. Truscott IV | Substack

Joyce Vance | Substack

Judd Legum | Substack

Lawrence O’Donnell | MSNBC

Josh Marshall | Talking Points Memo

The Guardian (for general news but especially commentary by Rebecca Solnit)

Of course, I read dozens of other sources to prepare this newsletter, but the above are my “go to” sources for fair reporting on the news. On legal matters, I rely on Laurence Tribe, Mark Joseph Stern, Ian Millhiser, and Dahlia Lithwick. I also rely on Aaron Rupar on Twitter (@atrupar) and his Substack, Public Notice, to provide real-time, unvarnished tracking of statements by Trump, which are often sane-washed by major media.

I use the above sources to give me an objective view of the news—which I then employ as a lens when I read other sources. If your favorite source is not listed above, please do not take offense! If you have identified a source you trust, reward them with your support.

It is going to be seven long weeks until Election Day. Don’t allow yourself to be manipulated by the news. Instead, make the news by motivating new and existing voters to show up on Election Day. The antidote to anxiety is action. And there is plenty to do!

Kamala Harris’s measured interview with National Association of Black Journalists

Both Kamala Harris and Donald Trump sat for interviews on Tuesday. The interviews were, as expected, windows into competing versions of America under the respective candidates. Kamala Harris’s responses were measured, thoughtful, and linear. The media is still trying to decipher what Trump said or meant on several topics.

But . . . Kamala Harris received relatively little notice in the media for her interview, despite the drumbeat of demands that she sit for more interviews. The New York Times complained that her answers “often echoed her stump speech”—as if consistency and discipline in messaging is a bad thing. The Times instead gave top billing (in two articles) to Trump’s unpredictable and baseless promises in his appearance in Flint Michigan. Michael Gold of the NYTimes wrote,

[Trump] made grand promises to restore auto-making jobs to the state, the heart of the American auto industry, as he gave long-winded, often meandering responses to only a few questions.

“Meandering” is an understatement. “Incomprehensible” and “bonkers” are more descriptive.

The complete video of Kamala Harris’s interview is here: PBS Newshour, Harris participates in National Association of Black Journalists event in Philadelphia. If you don’t have time to watch the entire 45-minute interview, I recommend watching two answers to get a flavor of how well the VP conducted hereself.

In this segment, she responds to the efforts to incite racial hatred toward Haitian immigrants in Springfield, Ohio. See Springfield: It's a crying shame . . . This answer is notable for many reasons, including the fact that Kamala Harris interrupted the interviewer, stopped herself, apologized, and invited the interviewer to finish her question.

In a second segment worth watching, she answers a more challenging question (in tone and substance) about the war in Gaza and the path to peace: Question on Gaza War.

Trump, on the other hand, gave a series of non-sensical answers in his town hall in Flint, Michigan, any one of which would have resulted in howls from the major media if delivered by Kamala Harris. For example,

When asked about the biggest threat to auto manufacturing jobs in Michigan, Trump responded that the biggest threat to auto jobs was “nuclear weapons.” On the one hand, Trump isn’t wrong; on the other hand, “nuclear weapons” are the biggest threat to everything on earth, so the answer was not specific to the question about auto manufacturing jobs.

When asked how he would decrease the cost of groceries, Trump descended into a rant about windmills. He got there by promising that he would reduce the price of groceries by cutting energy costs by 50% in the first year of his term as president. Of course, presidents have virtually no power to regulate energy prices, which are set by global market conditions. That is the type of answer that the NYTimes described as “meandering” when the correct description was “bonkers.”

Trump said that global warming would be good for Michigan because people in that state would have “more beachfront property.” Trump meant his comment to be a joke, showing that he has no conception of how global warming threatens the United States.

Trump said that the US could become energy self-sufficient because the US has “Bagram” in Alaska, which he claimed “is bigger than Saudi Arabia.” Bagram was a US military airbase in Afghanistan and has no connection to Alaska or oil production.

Most of Trump's other remarks were impossible to follow and often ended by discussing a subject far afield from the question. It was a performance indicative ongoing mental decline. No wonder he is afraid to debate Kamala Harris a second time!

[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]

[faededaway]

Hero's fan meets hero by chance!!

K, one silly idea.

I'm not sure where it ends BUT here it goes:

You are a civilian in today's quirky world. You haven't got a quirk of your own though. It's okay! You've never felt bad about it. Things have worked out for you and you've worked with the things you've got!

So, you're going about your day. You're at the local grocery store at the same time as always. The canned food aisle has your attention for the longest as usual (because you're looking for that one canned item they don't seem to bring in anymore).

Suddenly, you hear a man yell out to you, “your bag! Give it to me or else!”

You turn your back to the shelves to look at what “or else” may be. To your displeasure it looks like a barbed tail like appendage that may or may not be in your appendage if you didn't let go of..... The bag you don't have..

“I would give it to you. Really! I'm so scared right now! I'd really love to give it to you, but I didn't bring one. I only have about $20 on me at the moment”. You bring your hands up to your head to show him the lack of any kind of bag he could have snagged from you.

An angry growl leaves him and you see that he's about to charge at you. So you simply, move out the way to let him crash into the variety of canned goods on the shelves.

Upon headbutting the shelf, about a dozen or so cans fall on his head from the higher shelves and knock him out cold. So you continue your shopping, head to the counter, and let the store clerk know about the incident.

Upon leaving the store, you find yourself in front of a reporter from a well-known news channel. “Are you the person who saved the town's only grocery store from being shutdown by this unhinged barbaric villain?”, the reporter exclaims while pushing their mic onto your face.

“Well, barbarian is a strong word. You see, I only acted in self defense. If it saves my favorite grocery store in the process, I hope I get a discount next time I go.” something about how this whole thing felt like a skit makes you want to go along with whatever the reporter says. No one will actually watch the news about a small town grocery store. So who cares about what you say. Besides, they could just cut the unnecessary stuff out.

“Oh, so do I! They should give you lifetime discount! How did you feel when confronted by this villain? What made you decide to act on your own rather than waiting for our heros to arrive?”, the reporter inches in closer and spits out these words at you.

Now, you're thinking. Right. It's that channel. The anti hero one!

“Erm, well, I didn't act! I just, I didn't do much, really. And, how could a hero know what's going on in every corner of the world? Ya know?? Anyway! The cops took him away!! Problem solved!”, you smile at the camera and wave your hands dismissively.

The reporter nods their head fervently. “Yes, the heroes cannot be relied on”.

Ah-oh no. Did you make things worse? Are you feeding the anti hero propaganda? You don't want that. You have to fix it! You have to say something good!

“Wait, you know. Actually, my- my favorite hero! My favorite hero inspired me to do this! Yes, yes! My favorite hero, always arrives at the scene so confidently. With their radiant smile, and, and calm voice. Telling everyone things will be okay. Yeah! I totally had their voice in my head at that moment. I heard them! Telling me 'breathe easy, 1,2, and 3. It will all be over soon'. Ya know? Ya know, that hero?”. You ramble out as quickly as you can. You're not sure if they'll give you any more of their time but you still take your chances.

“Your favorite hero? Which hero do you speak of?”, the reporter grimaces. Even the camera man gruffs in disgust.

Now, you had a few choices to make. You could mention a few local heroes. Make them a bit more popular. You could mention the top hero. Or you could mention your top hero. Your hero, who actually saves the world with a smile. Hero Fatgum.

“Well, his name is um, he's not a local hero but I'm a big fan. Hero, Hero Fatgum”, you're want to run away now. This is it. This conversation is not real. Your groceries are on the curb. Your soul isn't in your body.

“A fan? What does that mean? Do you make fanart or something?”, the reporter asks. The look like they can't believe you used that word.

Fanart? You do. But, should you say that to them? You wouldn't lose anything because no one watches TV anymore. Or the news. Right? And they can and WILL cut this out!!

“Umm, yeah. I do make fanart sometimes,” you open up your phone to show a fanart of Fatgum bending over to grab hold of a fallen civilian.

The cameraman zooms into your phone. You immediately move to put your phone back in your pocket but the reporter grabs it from you.

“Hm. You're not that bad. Are you famous?”, the reporter now scrolls through your phone as if it's their own. The embarrassment from this makes you fumble out incoherent words. “What was that?”

“I do put them ...on.. this site. Ah, Uh! That's all. I don't have any more fanart” you snatch your phone back and stuff it in your pocket before they could see a ... Truly embarrassing fanart that would make you want to leave the country.

“This site, what's it called?”, you want to question why this anti hero reporter is suddenly this invested in your fanart of a hero but you don't know what that would make them do. So you spell out the name of the site for them and your username.

The reporter finally turns to the camera and away from you, “folks, that was all from the incident of today morning's attempted robbery of the town's only grocery store. A brave fan born from the heroic acts of the braver ones who save the civilians of our land everyday has saved the day. May it inspire us all to be more positive and look at our heros in a new light. Maybe they alone can't save the world, but we together can save ourselves. This has been -”

You tune out the rest of the words. So, the antihero channel is now... Turning over a new leaf? Today? Now? What's going on?

After the reporter and the cameraman wrap you ask them what was going on.

“Oh, yeah. You don't get much government favor by being anti hero. So we decided to find a story that'd help us segue into this new thing. Luckily, we found a good enough story in the morning! Your tangent about being inspired and all, even showing us your fanart?? Great stuff!” the reporter and their partner laugh in relief.

Hot flash runs through your body. On one hand, your purpose is fulfilled. But on the other hand, they will NOT cut out the embarrassing footage of your fanart. Okay. Whatever. You start heading home to sleep this off.

~

You avoid watching the news offline and online for fear that you may see your own face on tv. A week has passed. No one has pointed fingers at you and laughed at you. Someone is yet to bring up your embarrassing tangent. So, you assume you are safe. Thinking so, you go back to your local grocery store for the first time that week.

As usual, you stand in the canned food aisle for a little too long. And today, they actually have the one you're looking for! Canned tropical fruit mix!

When you turn to put the can in your cart, a large shadow towers over you. You tense up. Last week you were lucky to have gotten away unscathed. This time luck may not be on your side. So you brace yourself to run with the cart when you hear, “is it okay if I ask for an autograph?”.

You look up to the source of the voice and freeze. It's Taishiro holding a printed version of your fanart of him asking you to sign it for him. Taishiro, Fat Gum, watched you on the news, visited your blog, printed(and bought) your risque beach fanart of himself carrying you, and is now asking you to sign it for him.

Your hands tighten around the handlebar of the cart. He speaks up again, “I quite like how you drew me here. It's the only one with you in it. I'd like it signed if you wouldn't mind.”

Your favorite hero is in front of you doing something you'd never dream of. Your heart is beating so loudly, you ears are ringing. But you'd be a fool to let this moment go to waste.“Sure. Can I have a picture with you in return?”

“Oh, of course! We could even go grab a bite somewhere if you'd like”. He says as he cocks his head to the side and beams at you.

And that is when you decide to make your fanart turn to reality someday soon.

[houseofbrat]

From Reddit...

I'm waiting for Sarah McLachlan to start singing In the Arms of the Angel.

They used the millennial rustic wedding video filter.

Reads a little Marie Antoinette frolicking at the Petit Trianon to me.

Times are really hard- the uk has had serious unrest and you and William have been Mia at best shady at worst and now this hyper produced video? Call me when you have a sit down interview.

If she was truly walking side by side and hand in hand with other Cancer patients why hasn't she made ONE SINGLE visit to a Cancer treatment center? Support in words only, zero action. This video is such a farce, a joke. A slap in the face of all those who truly do have Cancer. Also, you are not Cancer free or considered in remission after completing chemo. EVERYONE KNOWS THIS. Takes years to be in remission.

Ugh, this woman.

Ok, her video announcing she had cancer made sense, since everyone was speculating on her whereabouts.

But this was so unnecessary. And kind of cringy? Her walking in the field alone, for what?

Whose idea was this?

literally, the narration + aesthetic shots made it look like a weird ad.

William and Kate have such terrible PR that it must be on purpose. They could have turned this situation into such great sympathy for her and instead they do an irrelevant and out of touch glamorous photo shoot. They must be trolling the public whom clearly they feel are beneath them. She could be out there empathizing with how cancer impacts families because she’s a mom of three young kids. Or drawing attention to the financial burden of cancer or anything but this slap in the face to the common man!

Looks like a propaganda video from the cult I used to belong to, lol.. 😂

That video was some of the most self-indulgent nonsense I've seen in ages. That was awkward to watch.

the W&K laughing/cuddling shots r so forced

Where was all this love and snuggling/hand holding when she announced to the world she had cancer 🧐

This is the strangest and most awkward video. Why so cheesy? 9 months for preventive chemo? She looks like she walked miles through fields, woods and beach for this video so surely she’s well enough to work.

Interesting.

Notice she says “As the summer comes to an end, I cannot tell you what a relief it is to have finally completed my chemotherapy treatment.” A casual reading suggests she’s completed it circa end of summer but actually those two clauses are not linked, she’s just commenting on the time of year she’s making the announcement and saying it’s a relief to have completed chemo. Without specifying when she completed chemo.

A direct wording of “as of this August, I have completed…” would have made more sense but

I’m in the camp of she had cancer several years ago which is why all of her statements use weird tense like “the doctors said cancer had been present” and she’s basically using a disease she’s in remission for as a cover for general health issues bc it’s a sympathetic cover and after all the consequences still do effect her health.

They must have a new PR team and trying to do damage control. This video is way too over produced and cringe. They are trying to get people to believe the cancer is over with and they are more in love than ever. However I don’t believe anything they say anymore. I still think they are covering something up.

Can this possibly get any more... Saccharine? I'm not sure that's the right word. The violin at the end? How can we tug at the heartstrings even more? The video feels like an inspirational video made by someone who has never really had a hardship, and only a vague idea of what real problems are. It just feels WRONG somehow.

When the children were climbing in the stacked wood, only thing I could think was "there might be snakes in there!" (I'm in Eastern US, a mid-Atlantic state, we have lots of snakes around in the woods.)

I don't believe she ever had cancer or chemo.

Neither do I. This is to shut up the divorce rumors. Charles and her at the same time? Nope, I don’t believe it either, it was just a convenient excuse they think nobody would question.

Ok. On having given this some thought. If Kate can do EVERYTHING in that video, surely she could have done more than just attended TOTC and Wimbledon. Plus. She added that she will NOT be working (maybe just from home?) I’m very confused

Such schmaltz I would have felt totally different if she had made a short statement about her chemo finishing, and then footage of her visiting cancer patients or a cancer support group. Sitting and talking with them. Actually doing some good. But being filmed in a beautiful part of the country in a video that must've taken hours and hours of filming does not mean to me, she is standing 'side by side with cancer victims'.

I wonder how long it took to get that white butterfly onto her hand and then to fly away....

Exactly this. If she had visited people on a cancer or chemo ward she genuinely could have helped people - maybe brought some good news jnto their day or helped raise funds and awareness. She could have made a film about many cancer survivors. But this video? It’s all me me me

Lots of red flags. Last 9 months would be early December and include the alleged incident on 28 December. I am not sure why they are announcing the end of treatment when she has no intention of going back to work.

“Doing what I can to stay cancer free is my priority” as if people do something to deserve cancer? Disgusting

My husband works producing music videos and he says with all the outfit changes, scene set ups and changes it would have taken at least 30 hours of filming. Why do all that instead of sending out a press release if you are recovering from cancer? 

I wonder when this video was filmed. William was just in public a few days ago sporting a faux beard and he had even more facial hair in their Olympics video but he’s clean shaven here. So this shoot can’t be that recent which makes me question the statement, just like their behavior since January makes me question the diagnosis.

And since she’s been off sick, Catherine has been able to film 2 videos and do a separate photo shoot but she’s not been able to do so much as a video call with a cancer charity?

Reading between the lines on her statement it sounds like she’s going to cherry pick the fun events like she did with Trooping and Wimbledon and shirk any serious work engagements for “health reasons”. It’s crazy that the media and general public aren’t questioning this because it just doesn’t add up. And if her only focus is going to be preventing her “cancer” reoccurring (what a luxury the little people could only dream of), can the media at least stop parroting that she’s devoted to serving her country because she really isn’t…hasn’t ever been.

Now they can no longer use the cancer excuse I wonder what the next steps are?

she emphasised that nothing is confirmed, “a few public engagements, if i can”. Still dragging on the story for some sympathy🙄 I think she’ll only show up for remembrance day + christmas service. D.I.V.O.R.C.E. They are both so useless, just quit the charade. If they can't quit the charade, for the love of god quit making these cheesy fucking videos.

Like so many here, I used to be very pro-Catherine but the past 10 months changed that. I didn't hear she wasn't going to work because I couldn't watch more than about half of this. It seemed so arty and self-conscious. Someone mentioned like a pharmaceutical ad which was spot on - dappled sunshine, flowing dress, waving grass! The whole situation was and is bizarre - I wonder if we will ever know the truth?

[jacensolodjo]

rules: choose 4-7 of your favorite characters from 4-7 pieces of media as options and let your tumblr pals decide which one most suits your vibe.

Propaganda for them under the cut.

Jacen Solo: Pun master, friend to all animals and also ants. True eldest son of Han Solo and Leia Organa Solo. K*lo R*n is not him in the movies.

B'Elanna Torres: Angry biracial engineer extraordinaire. Her struggles with accepting herself including her anger and depression was so important for tiny me.

Logan "The Wolverine" Howlett: I quantify the comics because as much as I love Hugh Jackman as Logan, movie Logan doesn't have much of a personality the way comics Logan does. Anger issues, memory issues, big transman energy.

Arya Stark: Stick 'em with the pointy end. Wolf girl. Big GQ/agender energy. My princeling of the north. (I struggled to choose between her and Brienne who has big butch lesbian energy but also transmasc energy depending on who you're talking to. I'm fine with either!)

Vegeta: Another smol angry man. My love for him is over 9000. And that's also how many figures I have of him in my room.

Jack(ie)/Subject Zero: Smol angry woman. You've heard of disaster bisexual now get ready for chaotic bisexual. I don't care, Bioware, how you somehow retconned that within like 2 convos in the same game. And neither does her voice actor (Courtenay has told me personally she is more pro-Femshack than Mshack).

Vi: Don't call her Violet. Giant transmasc/genderqueer they/she energy and chaotic queer.

[canichangemyblogname]

I believe @/zionistcunt blocked me after I pointed out their reliance on propaganda and misinformation. I originally replied to K’s (@/jedi-valjean) thread with these tags:

#some 10% of the Gazan civilian population has become a casualty statistic #K— don’t argue with this person #they are not engaging in good faith #They prove precisely why you should never argue with fools #because despite what all the intl human rights organizations say and all the warnings from intl govt organizations #this person is attempting to bring you down to their level (ignoring the facts on the ground and the testimony and word of… #experts on genocide and ethnic cleansing) and then beat you with experience (knowledge of basic geography) #to turn this back on you and paint you the fool instead #so they can continue to ignore the facts on the ground and the reports from human rights groups and the testimony of genocide experts #and avoid the fact that the burden of responsibility for the disproportionate use of force is on those who support #the Zionist colonial project #much like how it is on the Catholic Church. the Manifest Destiny ideology and the Colonial US occupier for the decimation of the land #and it’s population on turtle island #it’s why all they’ve got are right-wing ‘edgy’ memes as a comeback/answer for your question(s) #because you passed the arbitrary tests of ‘experience’ and now they have nothing of substance to argue in return #besides memes divorced from historical context and a political understanding of what is happening on the ground #like— their PFP is literally a Rosie the Riveter meme; a symbol of US colonial expansionism. war. profiteering. arms manu. & capitalism #they ain’t gonna listen when you tell them peace has been and will be the most effective way to get the hostages #they supposedly care so much about home. because they support war and the death and destruction being seen #they literally follow people who describe themselves as ‘formerly leftist; now right-wing’ #who’ve compared the Israeli bombing of Gaza to civil-rights sit-ins #and unironically believe that the only reason Black peoples do not have their own ethnostate and colonial project #is because they were too weak to create it— so these are not serious people #they are right-wing troll accounts #doing the same work as the conservative op-ed writers of the NYTimes: writing think pieces about how Jews love the republican position on #Israel & prefer right-wing news outlets for their coverage on Palestine. Tuning in to Antisemitism. us: Fox News & ‘legit’ considering DJT #they’ve been more effective at getting historically progressive people to consider voting for DJT #than pro-peace land-back Free Palestine rhetoric has been at getting people to NOT vote for Harris

After identifying them as a right-wing troll account, I then called them out for posting falsified news and misinformation with right-wing bias on their blog.

Here’s a run-down:

Their response to my tags—

My response to their misinformation and blatant use of a propaganda machine for information—

^^^ Further proof you are a conservative troll posing as someone who cares about this issue as a way to feed people the narrative that the right-wing is and should be the authority on I/P and would better handle it.

Here are some accredited and trustworthy sources:

^^^ Or are you another one of those Tumblrinas who is going to argue that these reports are all a result of the “Hamasnik world order” that controls the international courts, institutions of higher learning, world governments, banks, international aid agencies, doctors, marxists, students, I/P peace groups and the likes?

— — — — — — — —

Also— what are you trying to argue/accomplish here? What is your point in linking that article? To argue that the death toll is justified? I say that 10% of the Gazan population has become a casualty statistic and that this is caused by a disproportionate, illegitimate, and unjustifiable use of imprecise force and your answer is to… tell me that the people killed in the carpet bombing of Gaza are related, at least tangentially, to Hamas members? What is the implication here if not that you think the over 15,000 CHILDREN dead is justified, legitimate, and proportionate *because* they share blood with a member of the Gazan ministry or military?

If that’s your argument, then you are admitting that Palestinian non-combatants are expressly being targeted for their blood; their ancestry, their relation, their ethnicity. Because the VAST majority individuals who have been killed ARE NOT militants; they are non-combatants, children and elderly, specifically. But, then again, I suppose it is a leftist position to argue that civilians *should not* be explicitly and directly and purposefully targeted. I thought it was simply a rational, humane thing to believe killing people for who they’re related to, because if their membership to a group, is wrong.

Imagine trying to argue that the casualty toll is justifiable because some 6 year-old’s third-cousin twice removed worked in the Gaza ministry/government or picked up a gun. “They have a second cousin who met with a Hamas” apparently means that Israel has a right to exterminate the members of that family, including the children who have no ability to control who the adults in their extended family associate with, plus any and all non-combatants in the family. You understand how this is a war crime, yes? Collective punishment is a war crime. Targeting non-combatants because of their blood relations is a war crime.

Now I *KNOW* you wouldn’t make such an argument that *I* should be exterminated because the uncle I haven’t seen in 15 years served in the US marines, would you? Yet Palestinian non-combatants deserve to die because of their membership to a group; because of their blood and their relations? We have a word for that, and you’re not gonna like it: genocide.

Why am I afforded grace that Palestinian non-combatants are not? What makes me different? The fact I’m not Palestinian? We have a word for that, too: racism.

— — — — — — — —

Also. Do you know where this statistic comes from? This statistic—which has exclusively and only been published by JNS (🚩)— reportedly comes from a Palestinian associated with Hamas (I could not independently verify if this is true as none of the sites actually link the original source). You will trust Hamas on this figure but turn around and say things or reblog things or source things that say something like “unverified Hamas casualty figures” and “unverified Gaza Health Ministry data.” This claim that 80% of casualties are members of Hamas’ ministry or military or people tangentially related to them, primarily family, is quite literally one of those “unverified Hamas casualty figures” (although, I’m dubious that the Gazan Health Ministry actually reported on this internally like JNS claimed). You can’t use their data when it serves your point and then write it off when it doesn’t.

Also, the Gazan Health Ministry’s most recent reports still state that the majority of those who are dead are not of combatant-age (link provided by OCHA). Children and those 59+ still make up the majority of the casualty figures. Human rights organizations dedicated to investigating the deaths of civilians and armed violence against civilians (also HERE and HERE) and trustworthy news agencies say the Ministry's data SEVERELY undercounts the number of dead, mostly due to the vast damage to healthcare infrastructure in the Strip. Accredited news agencies cite the Gaza ministry and put the number around 42,000. Human rights organizations put the number higher. They also put the number of those injured at over twice the number killed and the number of those starving in the hundreds of thousands. <<< But I don’t expect you to read any of what I linked because 1.) you aren’t engaging in good faith, and 2.) It seems you don’t have the bandwidth to process/read anything longer than 500 words.

But, simply put, the majority of dead are non-combatants; civilians. There is no justifiable excuse to kill civilians, no matter who you are or who the civilian is, and that includes their potential blood relation to a possible member of the Hamas-run Gazan ministry or military. (Yes, they are a ministry and military, even Israel admits that Hamas is the defacto and dejure authority of the enclave.)

— — — — — — — —

I also looked up the statistic you provided to see if I could find the original broadcast, and the only site to publish this (supposedly) “internal Hamas statistic” is JNS. Every other site that has released something on this has exclusively used JNS’ article (🚩). JNS cites Israel’s Channel 12 news, but I have been unable to independently verify if Channel 12 made this claim (I even watched their broadcasts from Oct. 6/7– they focused on stories of recovery and of remembering the dead a year later). It is additionally hard to verify because 1.] no site links to the original broadcast or agency this statistic comes from (🚩 accredited and trustworthy news agencies link back to who originally reported on this), 2.] every site that has republished/reuploaded the JNS article uses the same vague statements like “statistics expert” (🚩 accredited and trustworthy reports and agencies always cite and name their experts), 3.] every site that has republished/reuploaded the JNS article claims this came from a private Hamas source (which is mostly a point of irony given they spend the entire article casting doubt on the legitimacy of Hamas’ data).

^^^ Before you go blindly posting things that supposedly support your world-view (it doesn’t; killing non-combatants because they’re related to militants is still a war crime), you should be doing this with EVERY article you come across that makes bold and sweeping statements or dubiously vague ones. The JNS article does both.

— — — — — — — —

I post this in the hopes it helps others identify blatant propaganda and break down the implications of certain rhetoric. Always check how your sources cite their sources and gather their data.

[motorclit]

A particular r*ght-w*nger (l*bs of t*k t*k) is going after the furry community now.

I'm legit waiting for the suggested criminalization of having a favorite color or favorite dinosaur. I'm legit waiting for imagination and fun to be brought to the chopping block with plain, clear intention that nobody should be happy unless you're obscenely wealthy.

You like laughing and the laugh isn't socially acceptable? Ban it.

Do you enjoy cartoons and other forms of fun art? Ban it.

Do you dance anything but a stupid square dance? Ban.

Caring for houseplants or cats? Straight to ban.

Don't let them catch you playing a musical instrument.

Don't let them catch you wearing alternative clothing (especially DIY).

You're not allowed to have sex but you better be popping out babies so figure that out but don't expect a nod of approval from your fashy overlords.

Ooh, whole words could be banned like "rizz" or maybe even classics like "dude" cuz slang is suddenly seen as some sort of indicator of a criminal or some stupid bullshit.

Wait! You can't pick your outfits anymore! You must wear the uniform of your socio-economic caste, now!

Seriously, they go after stuff that doesn't need to be gone after because they crave power and control. And when certain key mouthpieces bring up the concept in no more than one post, their whole cult eats it up.

My parents have been thoroughly brainwashed BEYOND HELP since 9/11, and no amount of talking to them or even showing them irrefutable proof that they've been lied to will do anything because they DO NOT CARE. They WANT the mythologized and romanticized "good ol' days" to be "brought back" because... 'Murica or something. (It's the brainwashing propaganda boomers we're brought up with)

My parents are also EXTREMELY GULLIBLE. My mom believed the old westerns on TV were how the west truly used to be like, and my dad swears to this day that people back in the day spoke with the trans-atlantic accent instead of just celebrities and other certain prominent people who were heard by the public on TV and radio. My dad falls for photoshop every goddamn time. My mom falls for click bait headlines and doesn't read articles (same with dad) and she believes literally anything that comes across her FB timeline. NEITHER ever knew how to use Google (back when Google was usable!)

I don't know how long it'll be before things like any and all unpunished violence against anyone not a fascist becomes a guarantee, so I beg everybody to please learn how to protect yourselves in SOME way!

Don't let 2024 be the start of the acceleration of 1984.

[listenupyallcausethisisit]

collected quotes as a vignette on thinking and the liberatory act

doubt as the foundation of thinking:

“A minimum of unconsciousness is necessary if one wants to stay inside history. To act is one thing; to know one is acting is another. When lucidity invests the action, insinuates itself into it, action is undone and, with it, prejudice, whose function consists, precisely, in subordinating, in enslaving consciousness to action. The man* who unmasks his fictions renounces his own resources and, in a sense, himself. Consequently, he will accept other fictions which will deny him, since they will not have cropped up from his own depths. No man concerned with his equilibrium may exceed a certain degree of lucidity and analysis. How much more this applies to a civilization, which vacillates as soon as it exposes the errors which permitted its growth and its luster, as soon as it calls into question its own truths!”

- EM Cioran

importance of curiosity as a framework of doubt:

“William James used to preach the “will to believe.” For my part, I should wish to preach the “will to doubt.” None of our beliefs are quite true; all have at least a penumbra of vagueness and error. The methods of increasing the degree of truth in our beliefs are well known; they consist in hearing all sides, trying to ascertain all the relevant facts, controlling our own bias by discussion with people who have the opposite bias, and cultivating a readiness to discard any hypothesis which has proved inadequate”

“Every man of science whose outlook is truly scientific is ready to admit that what passes for scientific knowledge at the moment is sure to require correction with the progress of discovery; nevertheless, it is near enough to the truth to serve for most practical purposes, though not for all. In science, where alone something approximating to genuine knowledge is to be found, men’s attitude is tentative and full of doubt.”

“A great deal of this [will to believe rather than the will to find out] is due to the inherent irrationality and credulity of average human nature. But this seed of intellectual original sin is nourished and fostered by other agencies, among which three play the chief part — namely, education, propaganda, and economic pressure.”

- Bertrand Russell

doubt and curiosity as exercise in liberation:

“Most people, in most places, in most times, are of inferior status.”

“And most people, even now, even in “the free world,” even in “the home of the free,” consider this state of affairs, or certain elements of it, as natural, necessary, and unchangeable. They hold it to be the way it has always been and therefore the way it must be. This may be conviction or it may be ignorance; often it is both. Over the centuries, most people of inferior status have had no way of knowing that any other way of ordering society has existed or could exist — that change is possible. Only those of superior status have ever known enough to know that; and it is their power and privilege that would be at stake if the order of things were changed.”

“The exercise of imagination is dangerous to those who profit from the way things are because it has the power to show that the way things are is not permanent, not universal, not necessary. Having that real though limited power to put established institutions into question, imaginative literature has also the responsibility of power. The storyteller is the truthteller.”

“We will not know our own injustice if we cannot imagine justice. We will not be free if we do not imagine freedom. We cannot demand that anyone try to attain justice and freedom who has not had a chance to imagine them as attainable.”

- Ursula K. Le Guin

the role of knowing ourselves:

“Anyone who has ever been compelled to think about it — anyone, for example, who has ever been in love — knows that the one face that one can never see is one’s own face. One’s lover — or one’s brother, or one’s enemy — sees the face you wear, and this face can elicit the most extraordinary reactions. We do the things we do and feel what we feel essentially because we must — we are responsible for our actions, but we rarely understand them. It goes without saying, I believe, that if we understood ourselves better, we would damage ourselves less. But the barrier between oneself and one’s knowledge of oneself is high indeed. There are so many things one would rather not know! We become social creatures because we cannot live any other way.

“But in order to become social, there are a great many other things that we must not become, and we are frightened, all of us, of these forces within us that perpetually menace our precarious security. Yet the forces are there: we cannot will them away. All we can do is learn to live with them. And we cannot learn this unless we are willing to tell the truth about ourselves, and the truth about us is always at variance with what we wish to be. The human effort is to bring these two realities into a relationship resembling reconciliation.”

In the same way that to become a social human being one modifies and suppresses and, ultimately, without great courage, lies to oneself about all one’s interior, uncharted chaos, so have we, as a nation, modified or suppressed and lied about all the darker forces in our history.”

“Societies never know it, but the war of an artist with his society is a lover’s war, and he does, at his best, what lovers do, which is to reveal the beloved to himself and, with that revelation, to make freedom real.”

- James Baldwin

[pesterloglog]

Roxy Lalonde, Jake English

Act 6, page 4225-4226

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering golgothasTerror [GT] at 6:53

TG: holy shit jaaaje

TG: lol *k

GT: Heh heh.

GT: Howdy!

GT: What is all this commotion about?

TG: nothin

TG: just your basic run o the mill holy shit

TG: and also

TG: hi

GT: Ah ok then. Hello it is!

TG: also

TG: want 2 know

TG: what do you want for ur wigglin day

GT: Im not really abreast of the raddest jargon that the cool kids toss about these days.

GT: Maybe because i live alone on an island? I dont know but in any case are you referring to my upcoming birthday?

TG: ys

GT: I see. Very thoughtful of you to consider so early!

GT: I dont wager i could advise with much specificity but i can all but assure you i will find any gesture of yours to be totally capital!

TG: eeaauuuuurghh you are so fuckin adorable

GT: Um... *wrings at kerchief with perspiring mitts*

TG: YOINK nabs kerfief an stops RPing for rest of chat

TG: i was only bringing it up so much in advance because

TG: of the end of the world about to happen and all

TG: and then

TG: i wouldnt get the chance

TG: unless we play this game like a bunch ofsuckers obviously

TG: and all meet up in there and everything

TG: which would toytes kick ass

TG: *totes

TG: but

TG: if you want 2 know what i think..........

GT: Yes?

TG: do ya?

GT: I do want to know what you think!

GT: I always want to know. Because you are always smart and sassy.

TG: best dude ^^^

TG: neway

TG: i really dont think we should

GT: Should what now?

TG: play the game

GT: Why not?

TG: the barnoness wants us to

TG: * baroness

TG: i dont know why

TG: everything i know about it says it should be a good game and real important and itll let us all get togehter and do somethin great and be besf friends for maybe eternity?

TG: but she took all that and twisted it somehow

TG: all i know is shes banking on us doing this and if she needs us to do this than its got to be to make somethin fucking hoorible happen

TG: * horbible

TG: * whore bible

TG: ^ bullseye

GT: Well...

GT: Whore bibles notwithstanding i have it on terrific authority that playing this game will be incredibly important!

GT: So perhaps youre right maybe we are part of her evil plan? But does that also necessarily rule out that good will come of it?

TG: i guess not

TG: i just have a bad feelin

TG: maybay im just like this nutty ass bitsh twirling yarn from a shitwizards nappy brown beard but i cant bring myself to trust a cake sellin genocidal alien overlard sea queen

TG: * overl...

TG: n/m that santence chx out

GT: Agreed. :D

TG: so what is the itinerary again

GT: Intinerwhosit?

TG: regarding the game

TG: whosplaying in what order etc

GT: Oh. Is there such an itinerary?

TG: yeah i think so i think its going like

TG: i start with jane and bring her in the session

TG: then ds brings me in and you bring him in and them jane does you and closes the loop

GT: Where are you getting this intel? Did you guys make a plan or something?

TG: nah dont wory about it

TG: do you want me to set u up w the files now

GT: Ooh, these illicit hacked warez which i heartell were recently jimmied piping hot off the interclouds?

TG: ahahah i love that you were barely even joking with that statement bup yeah basically

GT: The silicon pickpocket strikes again!!! Whom is the wiser? Nobody.

TG: ffffffffff <3

TG: k ill send it but

GT: Yeah?

TG: jake

GT: What?

TG: jjjjjaaake

GT: !!!!!?

TG: youre wearin one of ur dumb computers now arent you

GT: Uh...

TG: you are all thinktyping at me right now while wearing something rudiculous

TG: * RUDEdiculous (hi five 2 self)

GT: Hogswallop! Why would you even think that?

GT: Thats so stupid.

TG: im not letting either of you run this file on your shitty brainwashy propaganda helmets or anything else u got to wear to run

TG: tis my one condition

GT: Fair enough. When i get back from my errand ill situate myself at the trusty old husktop. Acceptable?

TG: ys

GT: Then you have decided to play in spite of your reservations?

TG: i dunno i guess

GT: Bravo!

TG: dont all bravo @ me man youre just bravoing a big ass shrug

TG: i mean maybe

TG: i have every reason to want to play it

TG: im actually dying to play it ok

TG: i mean

TG: you believe me right

TG: about the bad shit that could hapen

GT: Of course i do.

GT: What sort of friend would i be if not?

TG: ok well

TG: dont say that to jabe

TG: *n

GT: She has her ways. I believe they are not incongruous with those of an intelligent and discerning young woman.

TG: ahh CHRIST waht a geneltman

TG: *fixfix

TG: i mean god daaaaaaaaamn

GT: Heh. I guess.

TG: but thats the thing with you

TG: you belvieve in people and also the things they tell you

TG: jane never believed my crap

TG: never any of my warnings about the baroness

TG: didnt believe any of the stuff about my mom

TG: and so on and so on and soon

TG: til after awhile i just stopped even trying to convince her hard or bring up any crazy shit

TG: because u know doing a lot of songs and dances to convince somebody who thinks youre jush shitting them all the time kind of wears on a friendship

TG: and who even needs that

TG: but you believe in stuff

TG: probbly because the more crazy fake shit you believe in the more open the world gets and the more chance there is for adventures being real right

GT: Right o! If a man believes hard enough in imaginary things then i dare say that makes them slightly less fake!

TG: yeah

TG: exaxly what im talkin about

TG: *exsexily *wonk

TG: *wink

TG: its one of those things jane likes about u so much

GT: It is?

TG: which

TG: errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr im not supposed to talk about 2 u evr so nm

GT: Talk about what?

TG: nope

GT: You mean how um...

GT: Well a way in which i suppose...

TG: no nope

GT: Jane is prone to looking upon me with what i fathom to be more than just friendly affection?

TG: nope nope nope nope nope nope

TG: hey look who didnt say nothin about that why it is this silly fuckin drunk girl over here

GT: Its a tricky issue. And you know i adore jane and please dont think i havent given some thought to...

GT: Well that angle on our relationship i guess.

TG: ooof jake jake no please

TG: this is a conversation that cant happen cause i started it and i blew it by saying stuff so u have to foroget it

TG: * 4get it

GT: Oh. Yeah i can see the dilemma this causes for your friendship with her.

GT: Ill drop it.

TG: whew

TG: ok ont this topic

TG: i am now an forever

TG: miss zupperlips

TG: * zupperlups

TG: * ziperlups

TG: sjkhfskjf

TG: * MISS ZUIPPERPIPS

TG: fuck

TG: k this is me 4 futref

TG: ZIIIIIIIP

TG: ^+++++++^

GT: Haha oh my.

GT: Nothing is escaping that lovely ladys whistlemaker! Its shut tight as a drum!!

TG: mmmmrrmmmnnmmm

GT: Whoa wait i hope that didnt sound dirty...

TG: mrrmmrmmnnnmnmnmnmrnrmrnmmmm!!!!!!

GT: Ok but may i say this?

TG: mrm?

GT: If in the future i would like to bring up certain topics completely unsolicited by one who may be sworn to secrecy on those very matters...

GT: And im in need of i guess neutral and totally non compromising advice from a friend do you think that miss zuipperpips might unseal those scandalous metal choppers for a bit?

GT: Fuck that also sounded kinda dirty!!! God dammit.

TG: rm

TG: unzip yeah of course

TG: im totals your bee eff effsy jake

TG: i am like

TG: AT PEACE with that reality fromerly known as a raw fuckin deal for what avenues it closes betewen u and i that bein your bffsy has got to mean but yeah

GT: Wait what?

TG: i am just chill as fuck about being a pale friend to all varieties of cute and eligible as hell peeps

TG: do you see my shoulder and how it says hey friend plz deposit tears here?

TG: that is a LEGIT invite and is like sincere as fuckin BANANAS

GT: Oh. Im sure it is but i dunno how much crying im going to be doing...

GT: Probably none i think.

TG: no i know im just saying

TG: that

TG: ok im now spinning my wheels like a motherfucker but yeah the answer is yes

GT: Great!

TG: and not that im back pebbling but what about your best bro

TG: dont you get 2 talkin to him about girl troubles ever

GT: Yeaaaah...

GT: Well.

GT: Like i said the whole thing is complicated. Best not to get into it all until im ready to you know...

GT: Really start manhandling these bushel loads of prickly pears.

TG: prinkly pears

GT: The pears being the tricky subjects in question.

GT: Metaphorically.

TG: riiiight

TG: snickrz

TG: poor jake

TG: up to his neck in

TG: all the wopes

TG: * woes

GT: Nah its cool.

TG: speaking of which

TG: i heard hes making u track down his roboself

TG: to kill it or something for uranimum

GT: Sigh...

TG: and

TG: the AR disabled the novice setting???

GT: Yes.

TG: hahahahahahhahahahshshshjsjsj

TG: *hahaha

TG: u r so fucked

GT: Oh most certainly.

GT: I was actually just getting all of my final affairs in order when you messaged me.

GT: I was to bequeath to you all my WAB posters.

TG: wab wut

GT: Weekend at bernies dammit!!!!!!

TG: oh fuck yeay

TG: im always in need of something to put under my cats shit box

GT: :(

TG: ok tell you what

TG: as an early wigglin day thing u know what ill do

GT: I still dont really get the wiggling thing but no what?

TG: ill enable the brobots novice setting again for you

GT: Wow...

GT: Thanks i think???

TG: but that dont count as the whole thing ill think of something better too

TG: 4 now peace o jake & gl on your robroquest heheheh

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] ceased pestering golgothasTerror [GT]