#(lurking) But yes--I love writing but finding time and energy is another. The guilt is real...

[toosicktoocare]

Okay, I’m very much obsessed with the web comic “Batman: Wayne Family Adventures,” and I want to write little one-shots for it. 

If you’d like to see something written, drop a prompt in my inbox! 

Also found on AO3!

1: Better Than Dick Grayson

Jason’s beat by the time he guides his bike through an underground entrance to the Bat Cave. Patrol wasn’t hard – more annoying than anything else. There’s been an increase in copy-cat villains lurking the shadows of Crime Alley, all who can’t even follow through with a napkin-scribbled plan properly.

“Nice work tonight, Hood.”

Jason slips off his bike, boots heavy against the steel floor below him. He taps the comm nestled in his ear. “Thanks, O. Time to sign off? I’m sure you have an absolutely riveting day at the library tomorrow.” A cheeky smile plays at his lips as he slips his helmet off, huffing around a laugh at Barbara’s drawn-out sigh in his ear.

“I honestly don’t know why I help you every night.”

“Come on, O. You know you look forward to our quick-witted banter every day. That’s our thing – our trademark, if you will.” His smile widens when Barbara chuckles in his ear.

“You’re ridiculous, Hood.”

Jason slips into a changing room, grimacing as he cards his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. “Please, O. You know you love me.” His suit is damp against him, an uncomfortable testament to just how much he’s done on patrol in the few hours he was out.

“Maybe a little.”  

Smirking, he shrugs his jacket off and reaches to the back of his neck, working his damp suit off until it’s hanging low at his waist. “You flirting with me, Babs? I’ll tattle to Dick.” He barks out a laugh at the low, impressive string of curse words that echo from his comm.

“I retract my previous statement. My tolerable feelings toward you stem from obligation alone.”

“Babs,” Jason whines, slamming a hand to his chest, “you wound me! Now I’m really going to tell Dick!”

“Well, you’re out of luck. He left for Bludhaven an hour ago.”

Jason pushes down on his suit until he’s stepping out of it, kicking it to the corner of the changing room with the notion that he’ll deal with it later. Tomorrow. He sighs – eventually.

“Detective Grayson summoned for an assignment?” He turns on his heel, snagging a towel that he drapes over his shoulders, using one corner to mop the sweat dripping from his hair.

“Something like that.”

Barbara’s voice goes soft on the other line, and Jason stops, frowning smally. “What’s up, Babs?”

“Damian and Bruce are still out, so I need to get back to them. Can you check in on Tim for me? Steph said he’s been quieter than usual all day.”

“Pump the kid up with coffee, then? I can do that.”

“Jason.”

Jason holds his hand’s up in mock defense out of habit, sighing between his teeth. “Fine, yes. I’ll follow in golden child Dick’s footsteps and take my role as the dutiful big brother.”

“Good. Also, I have that on recording now for the next time you try to sarcastically remove yourself from a family affair.”

“Barbara!”

“Later, Jason!”

There’s a crackle in Jason’s ear, and then the line goes dead. Rolling his eyes, he pulls the comm free, dropping it beside a large monitor in the cave before padding upstairs, eager to shower Crime Alley’s discount villains away.

He swings by Tim’s room first, finding him at his desk, eyes soft and cast toward the window. His expression is somber albeit a tad thoughtful, and Jason promptly pulls him out of whatever muted stupor he’s currently lost in.

“Well,” he starts, nudging the door open wider, eyes flicking to the textbook open at the desk. “You’re doing better than I did. Studying wasn’t really my forte.”

Tim twists around and cocks his head to the side. “You were a straight-A student.”

Scoffing, Jason drops against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Hey. I didn’t say I wasn’t smart.” He nods to the book. “And you’re essentially a boy genius, so do you really need to do that?”

“It’s a good distraction,” Tim sighs, turning back to the window and dropping his cheek against his fist.

“A distraction from what?” Jason’s eyes narrow into sharp slits, watching a small line of tension take to Tim’s shoulders.

“Dick left.”

Jason’s taken aback. Dick comes and goes all the time – they all do. He can’t imagine Tim will be here long, and he, himself, is only staying the night before he heads back to the safe house he’s been frequenting by himself in the morning. Now that he thinks of it, he’s sure he overheard Steph mentioning packing for a trip with Barbara in a few days.

“He’ll come back,” Jason responds, and Tim spins around in his desk chair with a sigh that’s far too long and heavy for a kid his age.

“I know that. It’s just,” Tim pauses, waving one hand around, “too quiet without him here.”

“That’s a bad thing?” Jason cocks a brow, and Tim huffs.

“You know what I mean – Dick’s all energy and smiles, and everything just feels better when he’s here. When we’re all here together.”

This, Jason thinks, is edging a delicate territory he’s not adept to handle. His vocabulary rivals Alfred’s, and yet, piecing together words into a sentence that’s both optimistic and comforting is not something he feels he’s capable of. Instead, he steps into the room, dropping his palm to Tim’s head, and the silence that follows is sharper than Bruce’s best batarang.

“Jason,” Tim finally mutters, voice flat.

“Is this comforting?”

“No, it’s weird.”

Jason rips his hand away, a sigh of relief slipping past his lips. “Well, that’s one thing we can agree on.” He turns toward the door, muscles faintly aching, his reminder that he really wants to shower and sleep. “Night, Timmy. Dick will come back soon.”

He opts not to look behind him lest he wants to feel a big-brother spark of guilt he’s just too exhausted to handle. Instead, he slips out of the room without so much of an over-the-shoulder glance.

---

Jason’s alarm starts softly from his phone, and he slams his hand against it with a low groan, trained to wake at the quietest of sounds. Outside, the sun’s not quite made it up and over the horizon, still casting the manor in a soft glow – a view that Dick swears by. Jason shuffles over to his window and takes in the view for roughly four seconds before he decides he’d rather see it through the visor of his bike’s helmet.

Still, before he can leave, he’s got one more thing he needs to do at the manor – a rather brilliant idea, if you ask him, he came up with in a sleep-ridden mind right before he conked out for the night.

He’s not Dick. He’s better than Dick.

He changes and perks an ear to the sounds down the hall, hearing the others waking. Once he hears Tim’s bedroom Keurig stop running, he acts, plastering a triple-watt smile to his face and storming out of his room.

“Ugh, Jason,” Cass mutters, rubbing her eyes. “What are you doing?”

Jason doesn’t respond, waiting, instead, for Tim to open his bedroom door, and the moment he does, Jason sucks in a long, swelling breath.

“Good morning!” He shouts, dragging out each word, making his voice as loud as possible, a bright bellow that sinks into every crevice of the manor.

Beside him, Cass cups both hands over her ears, and Damian merely turns back into his room, slamming the door behind him. Duke can’t get to his phone fast enough, and Tim promptly jumps out of his skin, his coffee splashing from his mug to burn against his hand and stain the floor. There are footsteps pounding up the stairs, and Jason smiles even wider, his cheeks stretched and tight, and he sucks in another large breath.

“Jason, what the hell—”

Jason cartwheels down the hall, narrowly avoiding a puddle of coffee to stop upright before Tim. He ruffles Tim’s hair, his forced smile fading to something softer, more genuine. “Morning, Timmers!”

“What in the world is going on?”

Bruce is breathless at the end of the hall, and Alfred’s trying, and horribly failing, to hide a laugh behind a cough.

“I’m telling my family good morning,” Jason shouts, arms outstretched. He offers Tim a wink and leans in close. “Grayson’s got nothing on me,” he whispers, tone devious, before he presses a kiss to Tim’s cheek and claps a hand to Tim’s shoulder.

When he pulls away, he slips past Bruce and Alfred, maneuvering around them with a practiced grace that could rival Dick Grayson. “Something smells incredible down here!” He adds from the stairs.

“Oh, Dick’s going to love this,” Duke mutters, ending the video recording on his phone.

“Should I call Leslie?” Bruce asks, worried, his attention torn between the startled and amused faces before him, and the echoing sound of Jason singing Broadway showtunes from the kitchen downstairs.

Tim looks down to his coffee mug, his hand faintly burning and sticky, and he smiles warmly. “Nah, Jason’s fine.”

[lixuagi]

The Cure for Death - chapter 1

(Since some of you said that they would really like to read my Valdemar/MC FF -I’m so happy!!!- here’s the first chapter. This takes place before the actual Arcana storyline, when the Plague is looming over Vesuvia. MC’s abilities and character are based off of one of my ocs that I will introduce in another post. However I didn’t write about her appearence so everyone can imagine their own character, she’s a girl though and she uses feminine pronouns. I hope this doesn’t ruin the reading for anyone. Enjoy! Here’s some context): MC is Asra’s young and kind apprentice. She has a talent that even her master couldn’t teach: a natural talent for healing. But with great powers come great responsabilities, and she’ll learn that ending up working as a nurse for the infamous Quaestor Valdemar. However, a greater danger lurks in the shadow. Will her light still shine if faced with the dark?

Somewhere, in a world suspended between reality and intangible, someone was watching me. -I must have that power. It’s indispensable. – A voice too deep and greedy to not be evil. -I need it for everything to go as planned. I need it to succeed. I have to have it. I must… have her.- But I couldn’t know. . -Here we go. It’s all right now. Try to move your arm- I smile kindly at the little girl sitting in front of me in my shop. She does what she’s asked, smiling back with an even bigger grin that’s missing a canine. -Wow! You’re such a witch! – she giggles, waving her slender limb a few minutes earlier fractured by a bad fall. -I prefer mage, but thank you.- I sneer, watching the faint emerald light leave my palms. -Yes, as you wish! Mother told me she’ll come by in the morning to pay you properly.- I help her get back on her feet, and off the stool. -Tell her it’s not necessary. It was just a small thing.- I take her hand and walk her out the door. - Really?- Her big eyes open wide, glowing with amazement. I nod softly. -Thank you! You’re the nicest witch in the world!- just the time to give me a hug, and the little girl hurries out of the store. I follow her with my eyes, shouting: -Don’t tire that arm too much! And watch your steps next tim– I stop, realizing that, far away as she is, she probably can’t hear me anymore. I cross my arms, shaking my head and muttering to myself: -These kids…- I sigh, turning to go back in, but I find myself in front of Asra, my master and colleague. -A very good job as usual, MC.- he puts his hand on my shoulder with his usual politeness. I sense that’s not all he wants to tell me, so I wait for him to continue. -But you don’t eat with selflessness…you know times are hard. -I look down, feeling naive. -She was just a child…How could I ask her for compensation?- I know he doesn’t like to scold me, but his eyebrows, white as his thick hair, show that he’s already decided to do it. -You know that her mother is the wife of one of Vesuvia’s richest merchants. He would have paid us handsomely. Yours is a rare if not unique gift. No one has such mastery of healing magic as you. This must be rewarded.- I remain silent, my eyes fixed on the floor. Really, I’m a fool. How could I miss such an opportunity when people are starving outside or worse, consumed by the plague? Noticing that I’m silent, Asra sighs, just tightening his grip to reassure me. -It’s okay, MC. -I don’t want you to be hard on yourself about this. I didn’t mean to hurt you.- I put my hand on his, raising my eyes to meet his gaze of a soft violet, strong contrast to his amber skin. -I know. Maybe it’s just… - I swallow, looking for the best words. -I don’t want to be somebody who makes money off other people’s suffering.- he seems to get indignant and gets ready to argue about it, but I interrupt him before that happens. -I just want to help the cause. I just…want to save all those lives.- these words seem to calm him,and his expression comes back relaxed and apprehensive. -You’re not an Arcana. You’re a human being and you can’t save everyone. You have to accept that. You can’t keep accusing yourself forever after– I barely raise a hand to put a stop to his words. I don’t want to remember, but it’s inevitable. -If I had tried harder, if I had resisted…that man’s children would still have a father. He would have loved and protected them… - I cover my face with my hands, while the images of that day manifest before me like apparitions. The man had entered leaving a copious trail of blood behind him. He could hardly speak, given the numerous stabs he had received, from what I could understand, thanks to a robber. Every wound, extremely deep, that I could barely heal, deprived me of so much energy. When I got to what would later be his fatal cut, on the carotid artery, Asra had to tear me from the patient or I would end up going beyond my abilities and dying with him. He took it upon himself to tell the family of the deceased. I didn’t eat for a week after it happened. I felt like a murderer. The guilt gripped me, and was a painful grip. One day the doorbell rang, and I went to open the door. Even though Asra kept me from receiving any more customers while I was so exhausted, now he couldn’t do it because he went shoppingshopping for necessities. On the threshold were two children, brother and sister, the eldest being no older than eleven. -Daddy’s dead, and it’s your fault! -The hate with which the infant stared at me was unspeakable, while just behind him his little sister sobbed incessantly. I stammered something, pale in the face. Days later I saw them again in a wagon. He took the victims of the Red Plague to the Lazaret.

-Sometimes, when the door opens and the bells jingle, I think it’s their ghosts.-I whisper, looking down and staring into nothingness. A tear runs down my cheek, but I don’t realize it until Asra dries it with his thumb, bringing me back to reality. He doesn’t know what to say. Seeing me like that always breaks his heart. He

clutches me tightly, resting his chin on my head. I can feel his jaw tighten. He holds me like this for a few minutes, like he’s afraid I might disappear at any moment. After a long deliberation, he finds the strength to do what’s right. -What would make you happy? -My heart melts to feel he’s putting aside his fears for my well-being. -I want to go out there. I don’t care what happens next. I need to redeem myself, or I won’t be able to go on. -A doubt grips him though, forcing him to give it voice: -Let’s consider the possibility of a repeat of…that unfortunate event. How would you handle it? - I think carefully about the answer. -I’ll have to make it up to it again. For every victim there’ll be three times as many healed.- I clench my fists and I get out of the hug. Even the young man notes that my eyes are full of determination. -if not more. Every night I’ll go to bed exhausted and if not I’ll have to continue even when the moon is shining. It’s my nature, Asra. I was born for this.- I run to the back room, where we both live. His lips open in an expression of utter amazement. Ever since I was a child he has taken me under his wing, finding me in the middle of the road healing pets for pennies. By now he knows me like the back of his hand, or so he thought. He had never seen such passion in a girl who was usually shy and caring. I’ve grown up. At this moment, Asra Alnazar ceases to think he educated me personally. He took care of me, like a gardener watering his flower, just waiting for me to bloom on my own. And at this point there’s nothing he can do. He realizes that if I wanted to, he would have to let me go.

When I return, I have the bag over my shoulder, loaded with everything that could be useful to me during my journey, including, of course, my deck of tarot cards. Although my specialty is healing magic, over the years I have been taught to master the white one discreetly as well. Black magic is still an unexplored

territory, and frankly I hope I never have to experience it. It was always Asra who left me alone in the shop

during his expeditions in who knows which corner of the real world or magical realms. Now it’s my turn.

Let’s call it a declaration of independence.

-Where will you go?- he asks me, eyes veiled with sadness as he suppresses a “will you come back?” -Where’s the need for me to be.- I smile at him, but it’s not enough to calm him down. I look at his worried

face. -This isn’t a good-bye, Asra.- - Promise me.- He’s holding out a hand while also holding something

back. I hand him mine, and he drops a necklace in my palm with an emerald pendant amulet. -What is it?- I

don’t swear. Anything could happen out there. I may never get back to him. -When you need me, if you’ll

ever do, you can contact me with this. I’ll always be with you, MC.- He’s coming up to me, putting his arms

around my neck. I blush at the proximity of our faces. As soon as I hear the click of the necklace closing, I

pull away. Many times I have wondered if in all these years of living together Asra had ever wanted me to

be something more than an apprentice or a friend. But even more I wondered if I wished that too. These

moments with him seem to give me the illusion that it wouldn’t hurt to be with him for the rest of my life.

After all, he has never been anything but kind to me, and a thousand other good things. However, although

these reflections confuse me quite a bit, a part of me wants our relationship to remain pure, genuine. It’s

too precious, it goes beyond physical attraction. It’s so deep that it’;s platonic. If I ever had to make a choice,

I’d die for him. And I’m sure he’d do the same for me. -I have to go- I whisper to him with my head down

without having the courage to look at him again. I put my hand on the door knob and turn it, opening the

door wide. -MC.-I turn to him, and it hurts. For a moment I have the impression that he wants to reveal

his deepest confessions and his innermost thoughts to me. Then he bites his lip like he’s taking it all back. -

You haven’t promised yet.- I smile at him. -I’ll come back,I promise you that.- I didn’t think the first time I

left Asra would be the first time I could lie to him. But with those words,I disappear from his sight,not

knowing for how long.

.

I look around. The streets of Vesuvia have never been so deserted. A boiling wind lifts the sand from the clay soil, creating a vermilion mist. I decide to pass through the market, usually the place that is swarming with people, especially in the late afternoon. Few stalls have the courage to continue selling, the merchants constantly exposed to the incurable and deadly disease. In the distance I can see the stall of Selasi, the baker from whom Asra and I used to go every morning to have breakfast, in more pleasant times. The closer I get, the more I notice the scarcity of the goods: even for him the raw materials are now unobtainable. When he notices me, the man makes his gaze lighten towards my figure, then looks away, as if terrified. To say the least, a peculiar behavior given his joyful character. I remember how his face lit up at the sight of every customer, who he treated daily with all the warmth that a friend would give. Now I stand a few meters away from him when I feel that something is wrong. A familiar aura surrounds him: that of someone who is suffering. My slow pace becomes fast as I approach him: -Selasi!- he jumps. His face looks very emaciated. It’s not just the famine. -Ah, Miss MC… -What can I offer you today?- His voice is a tired, almost inaudible rale. Even stranger, since he is used to shouting to be heard by crowds. His gaze is firmly planted on the ground. -Selasi… you are…- -Don’t come any closer!- I back away, surprised by that shout. Then he continues, mortified: -Please…I don’t want you to…- The question is enough to convince him to look me in the eye. His are injected with blood, his sclera is totally vermilion, his skin is pale and cracked. I have never seen a plague patient so closely, but I can recognize them thanks to Asra’s stories and the medical documents he had given me. He had never allowed me to treat one in the shop, he was afraid that I would be drained of any strength or worse, infected. I wonder if I’d be able to do anything. -Why didn’t you come to me? You’re a friend.- I’m trying to get closer, but he’s reluctant. -I can’t risk causing anyone’s death, I just can’t. I try to keep my distance, but… - one cough interrupts him. He tries to turn around, but when he does, blood splashes on a loaf of bread. The disease takes its course in three days. The first you have a harmless fever, the third you’re at the Lazaret, waiting for your body to be burned among hundreds more. -Please, let me help you. I’ve treated sick people before, certainly not this kind of pathology, but I’ve never been infected. Please, Selasi.- the choice is not difficult for him, after all what does he have to lose? If he doesn’t try, he’ll die soon anyway. -I don’t have much on me, but…- -No, I don’t want anything. I just don’t want you to suffer anymore. Your offer almost hurts me. I’m not that kind of person, not anymore.- Somehow I’ll find other ways to make a living. I extend my hands to his face, and this time he won’t retract. My palms glow bright green. The brighter it is, the greater the effort. Now it looks so bright that I feel like I’ll be blinded at any moment. However, I’ve been practicing a lot since the accident. I am able to endure this, and even more so as I close my eyes to concentrate. My energy penetrates under his skin, looking for the focus of the discomfort. I can feel it flowing, it is liquid and it expands throughout his body, everywhere. It’s… the blood. The problem is now all over the circulatory system, and it’s invading the other organs with disarming speed. I have to stop it. I channel my magic into every single artery, vein and capillary. Nothing must be left uncovered. My being, meanwhile, is now in a total trance. I am no longer aware of the outside world. All I see is my light branching out into thousands of wires and tunnels. When I have invaded every zone, I try to keep my breathing regular, ignoring the dizziness that begins to manifest itself, and I begin purification. I hope that Selasi is feeling instant relief, it would mean that it is working. My stomach is writhing on itself, nauseated, and my legs are made of butter. I can do this. The darkness is about to disintegrate, I can feel it. My temples are throbbing. The heavy air comes in and out of my lungs quickly. I slowly close my fists, calling the light back to me. -Purify and return.- I whisper the formula needed to end the spell. I feel the energies come back to my hands, even if they have now decimated, they have finished their task. I hope it has been successful as I squint my eyelids. My feet touch the ground again. Apparently I was really floating. -Selasi…? -I hardly whisper. I can’t find any answers. For a moment I’m afraid I lost him. My vision is blurred and distorted, I can’t distinguish shapes and sounds come to me muffled. Maybe he’s talking to me, but I can’t hear him anymore. The darkness overwhelms me as I abandon myself to its warmth.

Immersed in the darkness, I can only hear the echo of my thoughts. It’s ridiculous. It would be pathetic if the first time I left Asra, I died. Maybe that’s exactly what happened to me, though. Maybe there was a reason I was never allowed to treat Red Plague patients. Maybe it would have been fatal. At least I saved a life. At least I redeemed myself. I remain immersed in that dense shadow for what appears to be an infinite amount of time. Then I see a pristine light, the famous light at the end of the tunnel. Where is it taking me? When I try to walk towards it I find myself unable to move. But it’s getting bigger, it is the one who is getting closer. My ears ring, it’s deafening. Where am I? When I come out of the luminous aura, I begin to struggle to distinguish a figure. They’re dressed in white, they have a gown, a strange headgear of the same colour in the shape of horns, the skin… green. My imagination is playing tricks on me. They wear a ruby coloured brooch on their chest, it’s shaped like a beetle, and their eyes are bloodshot, with a feline pupil. I’ve never seen this individual. The ringing in my ears fades to make room for sound. The figure is talking. -Oh, you’re waking up, I see.- -Mm…am I dead? Are you an angel?- A giggle answers me. -Oh, no, to be precise, I’m quite the opposite.-

.

Notes: thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it please leave a like/reblog/comment with your opinion and/or how would you like the story to go on! Ik that we meet dr vivisexy just at the end but this is just the beginning, things will change :3 Please keep in mind that english is not my native language so padron me if I made any mistakes!

[anghraine]

“the sea that divides us” - fic

I meant to write this one through RO (well, to the point where they escape, obviously) and not post until I got there, but... *shrug*

fandom: Star Wars

characters: Baze Malbus; Jyn Erso, Cassian Andor (as Cassia), Kaytoo, Chirrut Îmwe; Jyn/Cassian (pining), Baze/Chirrut (grumpy marrieds)

verse: the queer Rogue One AU, of course, featuring f!Cassian :D

length: 2860 words

stuff that happens: Baze and Chirrut both love Jyn from the start. It’s Baze, though, who likes Cassia. After Eadu, that’s a problem.

This was driven about equally by a) the anon who first asked me about f!Cassian, ty, b) everyone who has enabled me along the way, c) the great fics I’ve gobbled up in the last couple of weeks, particularly @brynnmclean​’s and @incognitajones​’s, d) my interest in the different ways that Baze and Chirrut relate to Cassian and being generally charmed by You Are My People Now murderdad Baze, e) my firm opinion that some transition must have taken place between Jyn and Cassian’s fight and their arrival on Yavin as partners, and f) asthma trouble, because this AU is my happiest of happy places :D

THANK YOU ALL. Except the asthma.

“Does he look like a killer?”

“No. He has the face of a friend.”

If asked, Baze could not have explained what he saw in Cassia Andor’s face. It was sharp, hard, unsmiling, her gaze alternately suspicious or vacant. Not friendly by any stretch of the imagination. Nor was she friendly; at best, she snapped out commands without pausing to question whether they would be followed.

The face was attractive, but that had never been something to sway him. Certainly not in a woman. Her half-shy, wholly charmed looks at Jyn went further, snuck throughout the long week to Eadu.

Within those few days, he cared about Jyn as much as he had anyone but Chirrut. Baze made quick judgments and lived by them, and his snap judgment of Jyn was of a quiet firebrand fighting to survive without losing herself. He couldn’t have seen more of himself in her had she been his sister by blood; in Jyn’s circumstances, he would have been—Jyn. But in his own, he had Chirrut, and she had no one. Without thinking too much about it, he found himself sticking near her in silent solidarity.

Not quite as much as the captain did, however. The two girls constantly hovered together, amorphously concerned and not appearing to much notice.

(“Women,” Chirrut corrected, and Baze scoffed in the face of his evident amusement.

“Children, the lot of them.”)

From his supportive lurk, he couldn’t have missed Cassia’s stolen glances had he tried. He wasn’t sure how Jyn managed it, in fact. But in fairness, Cassia—who rarely missed anything—seemed no less oblivious to Jyn’s stares.

(“We’re watching a farce,” he grumbled.

“I’m not watching anything,” said Chirrut.)

Then, they reached the Imperial facility on Eadu, and … well. That happened. Baze sided with Jyn as far as he did anyone; she wasn’t right, exactly, but he remembered the bodies of the Temple’s dead too well to blame her. Cassia could spare some modicum of forgiveness for a woman she had exploited, a woman whose father had just died in her arms. Still, it didn’t alter his opinion of Cassia, either. He also remembered those last years as a Guardian, clinging to unbending faith under the grip of the Empire. That kind of conviction was not a forgiving thing, and it burned at both ends.

Captain Andor had not burned up yet, but she was well on her way. Baze knew the signs; he’d been there, and found only Chirrut on the other side. Cassia would find what? The droid? More than Jyn had, to be sure—except Jyn had herself, stubbornly whole. Cassia, cool and clear-headed, seemed to exist entirely in fragments.

“The face of a friend, eh?” Chirrut asked that night, because he always had to have the last word.

Baze thought of just agreeing—he was tired, long day, they only had three to the Rebellion, which he did not recall volunteering for—but his soul revolted.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “You’re the one who said she carts a prison with her.”

Chirrut sobered. “She does. I’m sorry for her. But this woman is more dangerous for that, not less. It doesn’t make her a friend.”

“She’s a nice girl,” insisted Baze, halfheartedly pretending that most of his attention lay with unwrapping his repeater cannon. He had space for it. On both ships, Cassia had consigned them to the one set of full quarters available—unnecessarily, but he wasn’t about to give it up to any of these twenty-something children. “They both are, underneath.”

“Far underneath,” Chirrut said. True enough. “The captain, anyway. That nice girl just about put a blaster bolt through an innocent man’s head.”

“So have I,” said Baze.

To his immense satisfaction, his husband had no answer to that. Baze, who could not care less about Galen Erso in himself, undressed and crawled into bed in an excellent mood. He closed his eyes, vaguely soothed by the clatter of Chirrut’s staff and the rustle of his robes as he tossed them aside. He’d always been incurably careless.

Baze was just drifting off when Chirrut spoke again.

“I hope you’re right.”

Longing for sleep, he grunted. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“They have choices waiting for them at the Rebel base, both of them.”

“Probably,” said Baze.

“Choices that could change the galaxy.”

He opened his eyes just so he could roll them. “Uh-huh. Go to sleep.”

All right, he didn’t believe Chirrut’s nonsense. Awake, though, he knew only too well that this Death Star business was galaxy-changing. They had to bring that thing down. For Jyn, that meant playing nice with the Alliance, and for Cassia, backing her up. He certainly didn’t pretend that his or Chirrut’s word would go far, much less an Imperial pilot’s. And the droid would tear out its own wiring if Cassia told it to.

Choices, after a fashion. It didn’t require any Force delusion to see that. And both seemed somewhat uncertain prospects at the moment. Jyn and Cassia spent the two days after their fight sulking on opposite ends of the shuttle.

Not that they said so. Jyn sat in the quiet, meditating with her crystal. Cassia talked over hyperspace lanes with Bodhi and K-2SO, and calculated coordinates.

Sulking.

Chirrut mumbled some absurdity about them finding their own paths in their own ways. But nobody had time for that. Baze stalked around the shuttle, never eager for conversation, less eager for whichever one somebody needed to have with their fearless leaders. When he ran into Cassia’s droid, it was almost a relief.

“Baze Malbus,” K-2SO intoned. “You have walked the same route seven times in the last hour.”

Baze didn’t bother responding.

With a distinct note of irritation, it added, “Is this merely a pointless waste of time and energy, or do you expect to achieve something by it? I can tell you that the odds—”

Ignoring this, he said abruptly, “Can you tell me the odds of the captain apologizing?”

Its eyes flashed, recalibrating. “That depends on more factors than you could contemplate.”

“And?”

“Without additional input, nineteen percent in generic circumstances. That number does not incorporate data relating to espionage activities. I assumed you only referred to her present role.”

“That’s right,” Baze allowed.

“Of course.”

“And how likely is an apology to Jyn?”

The droid managed to infuse deep indignation into the slight shift of its head. “What for?”

Baze and K-2SO stared at each other for long seconds. Finally acknowledging that he was unlikely to outwait a droid, Baze said,

“Galen Erso’s death.”

“Cassia did not end his life,” said K-2SO. “In violation of a directive from the acting head of Rebel Intelligence, I might add. If Jyn Erso cannot grasp that fact, it is her failure, not Cassia’s. I rate the chance of the captain apologizing at four percent.”

“That’s your analysis? Or a hunch?”

“I am a strategic analysis droid,” K-2SO snapped, its usual slouch straightening up. “I do not have hunches. Not that you deserve the details, but three percent is the margin of error I allowed for unknown variables. The raw probability is one percent. Rounded up.”

Baze eyed it skeptically.

The droid said, “Apologies indicate regret.”

“The captain likes what she does?” From what he’d seen of her, he found that extremely unlikely. Even Chirrut knew better—well, particularly Chirrut.

“It seems that your ears are decaying with your brain cells,” said K-2SO. “I did not say that. She intensely dislikes our work. But she does not regret doing anything that furthers the aims of the Rebellion. She certainly does not think she should waste our valuable time and power sources on useless guilt.” Unnecessarily, it added, “And neither do I.”

“Surprise,” Baze muttered. “So how, exactly, was Erso’s death going to further the aims of the Rebellion?”

K-2SO paused. “It wasn’t. That’s why she didn’t do it.”

And Jyn had nothing to do with it. Sure. But he didn’t feel the need to hear Jyn or himself insulted by a hunk of metal and grease, so he only replied,

“You’re telling me that she’s got nothing in that prison of hers that wasn’t for the Rebellion?”

“I don’t know what you mean by prison,” said the droid, primly. “The Empire has never caught us. But she does not do anything that isn’t for the Rebellion.”

“Never?” asked Baze, out of purely disinterested motives that had nothing to do with another young woman on the shuttle. He cleared his throat. “She doesn’t watch out for anyone unless they’re useful?”

The droid tilted its head. “Why would she?”

“Then nobody’s going to be watching out for her when she isn’t,” he said.

It managed to draw itself up into further heights of indignation. “Cassia is always useful. And she has me. I am superior to any collection of organic matter.” Muttering to itself, K-2SO swivelled and stalked off.

A jealous droid. Wonderful.

Unfortunately, Baze suspected that its judgment of their captain could be trusted. Jyn, the injured party, had a much better chance of hearing good sense.

Hearing was perhaps an overstatement. He wandered to her end of the shuttle, and stationed himself in her general vicinity. Neither said anything for a good ten minutes, though the stiff line of Jyn’s shoulders relaxed. A little.

“He must have had all sorts of information,” she said at last.

Baze eyed her from his corner. “Eh?”

“My father,” said Jyn, quite conversationally. “Imagine all the things he could have passed onto the Rebellion. Do you suppose she ever thought of that?”

“Perhaps,” he replied. The Force couldn’t be real. If it were, surely he would not be having this conversation. “Maybe it’s why she didn’t take the shot.”

Jyn’s eyes settled on him, hard and focused. “Did she send you?”

“No,” said Baze. Then he scowled. “No one sends me anywhere.”

Though she remained impenetrably grave, the wariness in her face faded. “Someone should let Chirrut know.”

Baze snorted.

They fell silent again, more comfortable with quiet companionship than speech. Beyond that, no sure approach came to Baze’s mind. Another few minutes passed before either roused themselves to speech.

“So you believe her?” Jyn asked.

“Yes,” said Baze. He would have left it at that, would very much have liked to leave it at that, but at Jyn’s ambivalent scowl, forced himself on. “I’ve seen the captain upset before, in Gerrera’s cell. But she kept a cool head.” Until she realized Jyn might get crushed to death, anyway. “She didn’t at Eadu. She was angry, unreasonable. Something shook her.”

Jyn exhaled. Tucking the crystal away, she said, “I suppose so. It could have been what happened, though. It was chaos down there.”

“She’s an assassin, Jyn,” said Baze, as kindly as he knew how. “For a cause, but—a Rebel spy. For decades, if we can trust her that far.”

Her mouth twisted. “So what’s one more dead Imperial to her?”

“I didn’t say that,” he replied, though … yes. Pretty much. “Back in our cell, she told us that she’d never been in one before. If that’s true, she’s good at what she does. Very good. A raid on an Imperial facility wouldn’t rattle her. But she was rattled.”

“Orders,” muttered Jyn. “That’s what she said.” She sounded unimpressed, but not as uncompromising as before.

Maybe.

“She’s a good soldier girl,” Baze agreed dryly. It was true enough, though; Cassia seemed to receive and deliver orders with equal intention of seeing them obeyed. “I don’t imagine they’d keep her in the field if she weren’t.”

Jyn flinched. But she said in her usual firm tone, “No place for rebels in the Rebellion?”

“They keep their secrets close, everyone knows that.” He folded his arms, knowing he stood on shaky ground and disliking it. “Their spies know enough to carry out orders, and I’d bet not a drop more, unless they run over it themselves. Rogue pilots, maybe. Rogue spies, no.”

“Cassia knew more,” she insisted. “She was the one with the intel this time.”

Baze, following his instincts, kept his mouth shut.

“If that’s why she didn’t shoot—” Jyn paused, hands and lips compressed.

He didn’t risk a direct answer. “For what it’s worth, the droid’s opinion is that she decided your father’s death wouldn’t help the Rebellion.”

Jyn, given the opportunity to deflect onto K-2SO’s many failings, ignored it. She stared up at him with pale cheeks and wide green eyes, looking impossibly young.

“That would mean that Cassia believed me. Believed that Father didn’t deserve to die. She didn’t … she … ”

“Captain Andor is the only one who can answer that,” said Baze.

Jyn didn’t seem to hear. “If she trusts me, then—they’ll listen if she backs me up. Her commanding officer’s a general and the leader of the Rebellion introduced her to me. We have to get those plans.”

With some skepticism, Baze listened to the exact conclusion he’d hoped she would reach. “True.”

“And …”

Jyn seemed content to let the sentence trail into the infinity of space. He cleared his throat.

“And?”

Colour flooded her cheeks. She tilted her chin up, hope and determination hardening over her face.

“Trust goes both ways.”

Baze had the good sense to leave Jyn to her epiphany. Considerably more doubtful about Cassia’s end of the business, he arrived in the cockpit to find Bodhi gone and Chirrut perched in the co-pilot’s seat, amidst various switches and signals and technological paraphernalia. He looked both ridiculous and smug, and Cassia more haunted than usual.

“What did you do to the pilot?”

“Nothing,” said Chirrut virtuously. “The poor man fell asleep.”

Cassia lifted her gaze to Baze. “Bodhi just about collapsed once he had nothing more to do. He’s had a long few weeks.”

“One way of putting it,” muttered Baze.

“I know these routes, anyway,” she went on, “so I can manage well enough from here.”

Remembering their escape from the Death Star’s destruction, he said, “Right. Where’d you stash him?”

“The captain carried him to a bunk,” said Chirrut. He tapped his staff against the floor, the familiar rhythm both irritating and soothing. “I didn’t see it.”

Baze rolled his eyes. Chirrut aside, he couldn’t envision it. Bodhi Rook might not be a large man, but neither was Cassia Andor a large woman. At most, she stood at the tallish end of average, a good few inches shorter than Baze. He suspected she’d lost muscle mass lately—all her regulation clothes hung on her—but her frame would never have been anything but narrow.

“Carried?”

“He was still conscious,” Cassia said. “More or less. I helped him.”

Unperturbed, Chirrut smiled. “The captain is stronger than she seems.”

Cassia slanted him a wary glance. Since Baze would have felt exactly the same in her position, and often did in his own, he let it pass.

Behind him, the door to the cockpit slid open. He half-expected the pilot had already woken, but no: it was Jyn. Good, he thought.

Maybe good.

Jyn slouched into the chamber. She didn’t seem to have thought beyond that; for one long and intensely uncomfortable moment, she and Cassia just stared at each other.

“Any news?” she said.

“No,” said Cassia, her gaze not so much as twitching from Jyn. She wet her lip. “There won’t be, barring a disaster.”

“Good, then.” Utterly stoic, Jyn folded her arms. “Nothing from the Force either, Chirrut?”

The Force doesn’t work that way, Baze almost said, but closed his mouth on it. It wouldn’t work that way if it were real, which it wasn’t.

“No,” Chirrut said. With a tap of his staff, he rose to his feet, while choices that could change the galaxy ran through Baze’s head. Chirrut had his own concept of truth. “Thank you for your time, captain. I enjoyed our conversation.”

“I’m delighted,” said Cassia. If Baze had ever heard a drier tone, nothing came to mind.

Chirrut beamed in her direction nevertheless, nodded in Jyn’s, and headed to the door. Without a word, Baze trailed after him, only pausing once to glance back.

Jyn had flung herself into the co-pilot’s seat, the rigid set of her shoulders just visible from the angle of the chair. Cassia remained in her own seat, her body stiffly upright, and the entirety of it tilted towards Jyn.

The girls might be all right, after all.

“You enjoyed your conversation with the captain,” Baze said, once they accumulated a good distance from the cockpit. They’d never lost money underestimating Imperial craftsmanship.

Chirrut, graceful as ever, seated himself on the nearest bench.

“We had a nice talk.”

“I thought you didn’t like her,” said Baze.

“I never said that.” Chirrut leaned his head against the wall of the shuttle and smiled. Of course he did.

With nothing better to do, Baze sunk onto the bench beside him. It occurred to him that Bodhi was asleep somewhere, Jyn and Cassia busy brooding at each other in the cockpit, the droid off doing whatever it was it did. There was nobody here to draw conclusions or scent vulnerability. Not that Jyn and Cassia … well, they’d see about Jyn and Cassia. If they lived long enough.

Very casually, he slung his arm about Chirrut’s shoulders.

“You’re an old fool,” he said gruffly.

Chirrut, not bothering with subtlety, leaned against him. “You should know.”

[sorayahigashikata]

Chapter 28: "MacGuffin's Bizarre Delivery Service"

[trentteti]

The Logical Rose-ning Section: Your Recap of The Bachelorette's Season Finale

Rachel Lindsay is a practicing attorney who once took the LSAT. And you, dear reader, are an aspiring attorney who will soon take the LSAT, Rachel Lindsay is also an aspiring married person, serving as the bachelorette on this season of The Bachelorette, the love story these depraved times deserve. And you, dear reader, may also be an aspiring married person? Either way, you definitely have at least a few things in common with Rachel. So every Tuesday, we’re going to be tracking Rachel’s romantic journey on The Bachelorette, and see what we can learn about love, loss, and the LSAT. Bienvenidos a la Sección de Logical Rose-ning.

Last time: The Men Told All. As long as your idea of “All” mostly entails people confronting a guy for, let’s call them, racist tendencies, then eventually kind of letting him off the hook for saying some horrible stuff and doing some dumb stuff. It was uncomfortable. It was boring. So much so that we decided to use the special as a springboard to talk about the LSAT’s writing sample. But now we’re back to the real deal. The uncut stuff. The Bachelorette finale. We’ll be picking up right where we left off with Eric’s late season surge and fantasy suite victory lap, with Peter’s awkward one-on-one date in Spain, and with Bryan, lurking in the shadows like the Spanish-flaunting, open-mouth kissing quasi-villain he is. Finally, let’s get back to La Rioja, Spain …

… Except we’re actually starting in a studio in Los Angeles, filled to the brim with Bachelorette fans who want the contact high of romance that only a contractually-mandated proposal can bring. We’re going to be watching the finale along with these fans, and with Chris Harrison, and apparently Rachel, who will be offering live commentary along with Harrison. Rachel, let us bloggers cook. You get the love. We offer the commentary. That’s the natural order. You can’t take that away from us. It’s really all we have.

Except it doesn’t even really seem like Rachel wants to be there. “Can I leave?” she implores. “You can’t leave,” Chris Harrison replies. “If I’m here, you’re here.” And our finale is immediately starting to feel like a hostage situation. Will Chris Harrison start yelling “Attica!” outside the studio? Do we need to call Denzel to negotiate?

Oh also, there’s a Juan Pablo marriage announcement made, which receives a recepción muy frio from the audience.

Anyway, after some chit chat between Chris Harrison and Rachel, we finally get back to Spain, where we meet back up with Peter and Rachel on their overnight date.

Peter, stuck in the inevitable middle position on these overnight dates, is not exactly enthused about the whole proposal thing he’s inching towards. He asks her what would happen if he didn’t propose to her at the end of this. Like, what if he just asked her to go steady instead?

Rachel, understandably, is not stoked on this. I mean, does Peter not understand the premise of this show? It’s not The Bae-chelorette, my mans. You’re here to propose (and to get a People magazine cover and go on Kimmel and, if you’re lucky, star in a failed reality spin-off on a lesser ABC network affiliate, and then, at some point, between six and eighteen months from the finale, break up).

Anyway, Rachel compares this to a long-term relationship she was in before the show that did not end in a proposal. Solid comparison, except she has only known Peter for a couple months and they’ve been on like four or five dates at this point. She must be better at spotting false equivalences on the LSAT and in the courtroom.

Now, if there’s a common thread to how Rachel deals with Peter in this finale, it’s that she really gives him every opportunity to win. I’d hate to evoke white privilege after last week, but the one remaining white boy is given a lot of opportunities here. Even after Peter hems and haws his way to an explanation of why he doesn’t want to propose to her, she still invites him to “talk” this through in the overnight fantasy suite.

Their talks must have been productive, because they wake up without a care in the world.

Peter feels good enough after the fantasy suite time to do this goofy bit with the windows, to fry an egg shirtless, and to say that some of his doubts have gone away.

But these dissipating doubts have nothing on the all-in, ready-to-propose-in-Spanish-right-now-and-follow-it-up-with-a-sloppy-kiss Bryan, who’s batting clean up on the overnight dates. Bryan and Rachel ride horses to yet another picturesque vineyard. They recap family matters, an apropos topic given that Rachel’s family immediately sensed Bryan’s insincerity. Bryan says it was weird, but “I think I handled myself pretty good.” Whether it’s his bad grammar or tenuous grip on reality, Rachel doesn’t look too enthused by this.

She’s a little chilly to Bryan during this date, a topic that is very much broached by Chris Harrison back in the LA studio, who is fashioning himself a bit of a Ted Koppel in this sit-down interview with Rachel (or, given that we’re dealing with the fantasy suites, a Ted Koppel-ate). Rachel admits that Peter messed with her head and that she let that affect her time with Bryan. Serious Chris Harrison presses. She talks about what she “had” with Peter being important. Uh oh, this past perfect tense is not promising for Peter.

Back in Spain, Bryan picks up on Rachel’s “different energy” and notes that he doesn’t feel as “pumped up” as he could be–which, well, let’s say that’s a poor choice of words on the precipice of the fantasy suite. Nonetheless, Rachel is assuaged by Bryan’s positivity and promises (disingenuous as they may be), and invites him back to the fantasy suite.

And given their vibes the next morning–Bryan shirtless, feeding strawberries to Rachel–it appears that Bryan didn’t have any trouble pumping himself back up for Rachel. He feels like he did good work, bragging that their chemistry is “hotter than ever” and that he’s a shoe-in for the final rose.

And now that she test rode the three guys, Rachel is onto the Rose Ceremony. She’s dressed like Cersei Lannister, and is ready to set fire to the Sept of Bachelor. In the voice over, she goes on and on about how she wants to be assured that at the end of this she will get a proposal and a marriage and a life-long commitment. She says this as she looks right into the eyes of Peter, the one guy who hasn’t given her such reassurance.

So naturally she cuts Eric, who seemed like the coolest, most normal dude here. Eric could not have been more generous or forgiving to Rachel when they bid their adieus. He says, to quoth Dolly Parton c/o Whitney Houston, “I will always love you,” but he nonetheless hopes that she’ll find what she’s looking for. Back at the studio, we learn that Eric has coped with a fantastic break-up beard.

Anyway, we’re down to two contestants now. And these people couldn’t look any more madly in love and ready to commit their entire lives together.

So Rachel has one last date with each of these two happy guys to see which one she’ll give permission to propose to her on natural television. First up is Bryan, who takes her on a hot air balloon, which will be powered solely on the sweet nothings, hokum, and palaver he’ll be feeding her on this date.

So what does she see in Bryan? She thought he was a douche bag at first, her entire family thought he was a douche bag at first, and every person I’ve spoken to about this show has also come to the conclusion that he’s a shifty douche bag. But he sometimes talks to her in Spanish? It’s cool that he’s proud of his Colombian heritage, but he really leans on the Spanish. And look, I have at best an Intro to Spanish understanding of the language, but as a guy who has tried to authentically pronounce “carne asada,” “chile de árbol,” and “huitlacoche” to unimpressed Mexican restaurant proprietors for years, I can sort of sense when people try a little too hard to flex with their Spanish skills. And let’s just say that Bryan doesn’t exactly make the strongest case for himself when he gifts Rachel a homemade Spanish dictionary. Take it away, Twitter user @osnapitscri …

And then we have the date with Peter. Rachel takes him to a monastery. Yes, nothing like a little Catholic guilt to put the pressure on Peter, especially now that they are officially living in sin.

So what does she see in Peter? He’s devilishly handsome and, as a former model, takes a mean picture. His reaction to getting married to someone after only knowing them for a few weeks kind of proves he’s normal and level-headed?

Except when she again confronts him on his reluctance to propose, he makes some pretty crazy claims. He starts by saying that he can picture a life with her. But it’s a boring-ass life filled with “football games” and “baseball games” (she’s a basketball fan, dude), and “the farmers market” (again?), and “wine night with painting” (?).

He then claims that, “I have no fear for marriage”–just marriage with you, Rachel, being the implication.

She accuses him of contradicting himself. He says, “I am not contradicting myself. I am going against what I believe.” Which means he’s pretty much contradicting himself.

And then things get really nasty. He tells her to “go have a mediocre life with someone else.” She responds, “Why does that mean I will have a mediocre life?” To which he says, “Because I will give you an amazing life.” That’s the inverse fallacy, guy.

He then says “I don’t know what I want to do tomorrow. Because that’s one day that means the rest of my life.” That’s a temporal fallacy, my dude.

In their heated confrontation, he makes enough fallacious claims to for the next ten LSATs.

Eventually, Rachel has enough. They break up over tears. Rachel cries “her eyelashes off.” Peter is positively shook. So much so that he just has to rip off his shirt off one last time.

And that’s it, basically. Bryan has won this show, not by being someone Rachel affirmatively wanted to pick, but by being the one guy that Rachel didn’t break up with. In argumentation, we call that “rejecting alternatives.” It’s not the best way to make an argument. Or find a husband.

And I think Peter realizes how much he really blew this back in the LA studio. He could have been a little less harsh and demeaning to Rachel in their break-up, and been all-but-guaranteed the role of the next bachelor. He could have been just a tad more emotive throughout the entire season, and maybe could have made that difficult transition from model to actor. Or he could have accepted the premise of the show and wound up with an engagement to a really cool, smart, funny, and successful person.

But instead, he looks dejected, tired, and confused on the couch in the LA studio. All that’s missing is “Jesse’s Girl,” firecrackers, a cracked-out Alfred Molina, and a minute-long close-up on this face:

So we’re left to go through the motions. Bryan picks out a ring from Neil Lane and walks up to a Spanish church (where apparently there was an ongoing wind storm) where he will propose, inaudibly, to Rachel. The full-fledged cyclone going on makes everything tough to decipher, but apparently Bryan says the same Spanish phrase that he said to Rachel when they met, so many moons ago, just to reinforce how empty and bereft of ideas he is at this point. He proposes. She accepts enthusiastically. They at least seem happy.

Forgive me if I’m not giving this holy union the sentiment it deserves, but it all feels like kind of a let down. I hope the best for these two! But Rachel was one of the smartest, most personable, and confident bachelorettes this show has ever had. Plus, as the first African-American bachelorette (which, let’s be clear, is a first only because of this show’s extremely limited POV, and not because America wasn’t ready for this or anything. Between Girl’s Trip, Insecure, and Shonda Rhimes single-handedly keeping ABC’s drama department afloat, and countless other works, black women have and will continue to kill it in pop culture), the show had the opportunity to have an interesting, fresh season.

But this feels like she’s settling. And the season as a whole feels a bit off. It was boring for long-stretches, except for the parts when it was extremely uncomfortable. And Bryan? I mean, he seems nice enough. He looks great for a 37 year old. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what seemed so off about him, until I saw him shamelessly mugging to the camera, backstage at the LA studio.

This guy doesn’t belong on The Bachelorette. This is the behavior of a contestant on some third-rate MTV dating show. This isn’t the veneer of class and prestige we want in our happy couples on The Bachelorette, this is the cheap knock off.

In other words, we thought we were getting the LSAT, but we wound up with the SAT.

The Logical Rose-ning Section: Your Recap of The Bachelorette’s Season Finale was originally published on LSAT Blog