#Agent of the Chancellor

[sirloozelite]

Agent of the Chancellor: Chapter 91 - Epilogue

4 years, 7 months, 20 days. That’s how long it’s taken to get this story written. Was it worth it? I’m really not sure... but if even one person enjoyed it, then that’s enough for me. 

Links are below. 

Fanfic link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12942438/91/Agent-of-the-Chancellor

Archive link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14715671/chapters/111777505

Let me know what you think... and thank you to anyone who has ever given me any support, no matter how large or small. 

[neurotonic]

and 🧵 for mina!

🧵 hobbies - mina

Aside for drawing and watching cartoons, Mina's a studious one and she loves to read books! literally any book she can read through real quickly. She probably has a wide array of trivia swimming in her head rn. She likes the detective stories most :]

she's also very much a writer and storyteller at heart, inspired by the stories she has read and watched and such. Is learning how people think a hobby.

[tossawary]

You know, given all of the cloning and other evil experiments that Palpatine apparently had going on, it's a little remarkable in hindsight that he never targeted Shmi Skywalker personally.

Like, this woman apparently reproduced asexually and gave birth to one of the most powerful Force-sensitives of all time; I don't generally characterize Sith Lords as having great scientific curiosity or a sense of wonder for the universe (or bothering to remember "little" people exist most of the time), because their whole deal kind of precludes that, but it seems reasonable that one might conclude that there's potential power in investigating this.

If Anakin was friendly with Palpatine for the latter half of his childhood, it seems like it could have been relatively easy for Palpatine to learn things like 1) Anakin's midichlorian count (which he can use to tell Anakin that everyone else is just jealous of his power) and 2) Shmi's situation on Tatooine (which he can use to foster resentment between Anakin and the Jedi Order for not helping Shmi too). Just get Anakin a little frustrated and he'll probably start talking! Palpatine could make some concerned offer to send someone to check on Anakin's mother - it is the least that Naboo can do for the family that helped to save them, the Chancellor might say, but he would prefer that such favoritism remain a secret between them - and then Sidious would have Watto's exact address no problem.

And it's not like it would be hard to kidnap Shmi. Palpatine (as Sidious?) could pick some random bounty hunter and order them to go buy her, because this amount of money is presumably pocket change to him, and if Watto resists selling her off to a stranger, the bounty hunter can claim that they've come on behalf of her son. And if that doesn't work or if Shmi is already with the Lars family, there's always violence. Palpatine can just lie to Anakin and say that his agent discovered Shmi was targeted by enemies of the Jedi Order. Oh, what a shame they didn't protect her!

I don't know what would happen from here. Sidious could potentially contract the Kaminoans as a private, anonymous citizen to research Shmi and see if she'll be useful to him at all; the Kaminoans seem to be in the business of designer babies for specific clients (Jango + my vague memories of some "Clone Wars" comic). Which means that Shmi could be unhappily, awkwardly hanging around Kamino, probably still enslaved, when Jango Fett and the clones business is going on. For years, potentially.

Ideally for the Sith, the Kaminoans would be keeping Shmi in an entirely separate facility most of the time, away from the army intended for the Jedi and the Republic. But Jango might be sent around the planet on errands or something and the Kaminoans might need to use very specific equipment at some points, and I am a fan of grand plans being ruined by chance encounters or workplace logistics, so I think it would be fun if Shmi met Jango or Boba. Maybe Palpatine assumed that the Kaminoans had already disposed of Shmi or were keeping her on ice, due to a badly worded email or something else mundane, because the Kaminoan forgot the right Basic word (it's not their first language!!! or a translator malfunctioned or something) during their space phone call.

There's lots of Canon Divergence directions for this, like more serious angst or drama or thriller horror being imprisoned by a Sith Lord (somewhere besides Kamino) or discovering what's being done to the clones. Shmi could end up being rescued by Jedi and helping uncover Sidious. Or she could have a different tragic ending.

(This whole post regarding Shmi and cloning is partially inspired by that one post pointing out that Rey looks a lot like Shmi, and given the strange circumstances of Anakin's birth, any attempt to clone Anakin might have created a clone of Shmi instead. I still think a "Rey as Anakin's clone" is a fun sequel trilogy AU.)

I'm leaning towards fix-it and comedies of errors ideas because the prequels are tragic enough for me. Currently, I'm thinking about Shmi eventually ending up as part of young Boba Fett's gang somehow, because it's amusing to me that he was somehow a recurring antagonistic figure on that TCW show despite being a child. The other bounty hunters are like, "Kid, did you... bring your mom on this mission...?" And Boba Fett is like, "No!!! She's my ship mechanic!!! But if you touch her, just so you know, I will fucking kill you."

I think that both Anakin and Boba would fucking hate being adoptive brothers in any way, shape, or form. And the idea of Luke and Leia someday having an "Uncle Boba Fett" is also very funny to me.

(EDIT: I'm currently dubious regarding a Jango/Shmi ship because Jango does participate in the creation and enslavement of the clone army. Like, it's the Kaminoans who do it, they hold most of the blame and they would have gotten someone else if Jango hadn't done it, but Jango is very much there and at the very least complicit in a horrifying series of crimes against millions of people. Depending on how you characterize Shmi Skywalker, an enslaved woman, I don't really think she'd be cool with that. She let her child go off to become a Jedi because she thought it would be a much better life for him, while Jango sold his own "children" off into war for money. So, I'm currently thinking that Shmi might like the innocent child Boba, but she might honestly dislike Jango quite a lot.)

[hier--soir]

raising cain | 001

din djarin x ofc

pairing: spy!din djarin x spy!ofc rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: at a private gala in berlin, two agents slip inside, uninvited. unbeknownst to one another, and working for seperate agencies, they prepare to bring the same target to justice. the only problem is - one of them wants him dead, and the other wants him alive. who will succeed? will the strange connection they feel stop them from completing their mission? warnings/tags: modern au, spy!din can bring them in warm or he can bring them in cold, ofc is named + has short hair + is french, alcohol consumption, brief + unemotional mention of being an orphan, violence [including impersonal violence between din and ofc], descriptions of blood and injury and [briefly] brain matter, murder, very brief mention of sex trafficking, sexual tension like hello, choking [sexual and non sexual], ofc has an interesting relationship with pleasure and pain, fingering [not technically in public, but certainly not in private], kinda dom!din, explicit rough unprotected piv sex... on the floor... carpet burns... okay bye. word count: 9.7k series masterlist | main masterlist to raise cain means to cause a commotion, to create a disturbance, to make trouble. a/n: my only defence is that i've been watching too many james bond movies lately. also, for the record, i love berlin. also also, the smut in this made me blush. okay hope you guys like this one x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part one of raising cain.

BERLIN, FEBRUARY

It is bitterly cold, and she hates Berlin.

Not because of the weather, although it never helps to visit a city one loathes while the windows are covered in a thick layer of ice and the ground a slippery sheen of sleet.

No, Cain hates Berlin because it has always been a city of business for her. Never pleasure, nor entertainment.

In the car, en route to the gala, a driver escorts her by the Staatsoper Unter den Linden, the Berliner Dom, the Altes Museum, and each one passes her by in a blur of beige architecture and pretty lights. Endeavours for another trip, another year, another life.

She pays her driver in cash and thanks him for taking the scenic route. In broken English he slips his number into her palm and asks if she will use his services the next time she visits Berlin. She smiles and nods and doesn’t tell him that she hopes to never return.

Her dress is a flimsy thing. One of satin and silk that clings to the skin of her arms, her torso. It curls around her ankles, just shy of brushing the ground as she exits the car. The air outside bites against her skin. Her feet ache and cry out for reprieve, strapped into a skimpy pair of shoes that pinch at her toes as she glides across the cobblestone path.

A clean-shaven man stands at the door, adorned in a modest suit and a winding earpiece. He requests her name, notes her face, and grants her entry with a strict nod and an all too brief once over. Handsomely oblivious to the comforting weight of a weapon at the inside of her thigh.

The venue is small, but the crowd is thick, pulsing with life; dense enough for her to mingle, to go unnoticed as she glides through the ground floor, blending into a mix of countless other women dressed in long slinky dresses. She wears black because they all do; her makeup is simple because she did not come to be remembered.

She accepts a flute of champagne from a man with a tray. Offers him a graceful smile and a softly spoken danke schön, and waits until his back is turned before tipping the golden liquid into a plant at the base of the staircase.

Chancellor Karl Weber skirts past her, one of the most powerful men in the German government, and she does not meet his eye.

She is patient; thoughtful as she surveys the room. She knows better than to move too quickly. She counts the exits and entries, the number of security guards and wait staff. Assesses the balcony that overlooks the room, curving around the entirety of the upper level, and slips up a winding staircase when she is sure no one is watching.

With every upward step, the lengthy slit down the side of her dress parts, revealing the soft skin of her legs.

There’s something intimate about the balcony space. Red velvet drapery covers the walls, hanging from the roof and spooling against the floors in soft crimson swirls. She takes in her surroundings, fingers twinkling across the gorgeous fabric as she walks. A slim door around the bend, at the other side of the upper level, reads NUR FÜR MITARBEITER; staff only.

Another, a few paces behind where she settles, leads to a small bathroom. Six private stalls, one with a thin window above the toilet, just wide enough for her to squeeze through. Beyond it; open air, a thick pipe that leads down to the street. Perfect for scaling.

Assuming a position near the bathroom, she tucks herself amongst the drapes. Lets shadows and velvet caress her skin and hide her from prying eyes as she juts out a knee and slips a slender hand between her thighs.

The pistol is dense. Thick and black, it rests heavily in her palm as she slips a titanium cylinder from her purse. Deft fingers lead the butt of the suppressor to the mouth of the pistol. Pin meets groove and she lets it spin, stroking cool metal as she twists and twists until it clicks into place.

Ulrich Meier stands four metres from the stage, eight from the bar, and two from the closest security guard.

Another man—taller, leaner—talks down to him. Speaking in hushed tones, the two of them glance over their shoulders every few moments. Careful, cunning as they talk.

And as she watches them, her face remains neutral. But somewhere inside of her chest, somewhere forbidden and secret and soft, she feels a threatening rage begin to unfurl.

Because the longer she stares, the easier it gets to picture other faces. Men and women with sallow cheeks and fear in their eyes. Countless bodies strewn apart by weaponry they had no business being close to; rigor mortis setting their horror-stricken faces in stone.

Yes, that anger unspools inside of her. Burns through her veins like ice, chilling her blood until she feels nothing but relief as she bends her elbow and lines up her shot.

Cain does not think about collateral. Cain does not think about those standing close to him, ones who will no doubt remember this night for the rest of their lives. She does not think about his wife or his children. These things do not concern her. All that matters is the mission.   

Her hands are steady around the weapon, finger poised beside the thick trigger. She takes slow breaths. Deep inhales that fill her lungs, followed by warm exhales. Once, twice, three times until she is steeled. An eye pinches shut. Her finger slips over the trigger. Meier laughs at something.

And then a heavy palm lands on her waist.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The man’s voice is a low, rasping thing.

She stiffens, grip freezing around the pistol. His breath hits the back of her neck, and a hundred little hairs there stand on end. She smells cologne, light and airy. Feels fingertips dig into the flesh around her hipbone. Ulrich Meier turns and walks towards a doorway, disappearing from sight.

“Take your hand off of me.”

“Lower your gun.”

Cain’s elbow whips backward, cracking hard against the centre of his chest. His fingers tighten then fall from her waist and she spins on her heel, the butt of her pistol colliding with his jaw.

He stumbles backwards and she advances on him, returning the gun to the holster on her thigh before striking him across the cheek with an open palm. His head hardly even turns before he’s batting her arm down with a stern shove.  

She throws a mean fist forward, but her knuckles barely graze his jaw before the heel of his palm snaps against her chin. The blow sends her staggering to the side, head bouncing off the wall with a low thwack. She tastes blood, the tip of her tongue stings, and when he steps closer she juts her knee into his groin. Feels the harsh rush of the breath leaving his lungs, exhaled roughly across her face, and snarls.

Cain wraps her fingers around the nape of his neck and digs her nails in, pulling him down to meet the knee that she drives into into his stomach. The man grunts against her chest, his hand grasping upward to wrap around her neck. He squeezes tight, dragging her toward him before rocking her skull into the wall again, holding her there. Stars burst in her vision, her nose tingles, and she spits a low curse. Music swells downstairs, a live band starting up on the stage.  

Neat curls and dark eyes dance before her. She blinks to stop the world from spinning. Firm jaw… strong nose. Moustache.  

“Din Djarin,” she rasps, voice strained from the pressure of his palm on her neck. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Recognition sparks in those dark eyes.

“Cain,” he grunts, pupils like pinpricks as he assesses her face, and then his free hand is sneaking past the slit in her dress, tapping the gun at her thigh.

“A Walther?” Din’s fingers squeeze ever so slightly tighter at the sides of her throat, callouses rough on her skin. "A little old fashioned, isn't it?"

“A German gun to kill a German cunt,” she whispers. The artery in her neck pulses and pounds, blood roaring in her ears. “It felt fitting.”

“No one dies tonight,” he grits out, and it takes everything she has not to laugh right in his face. He cannot see the way her arm is twisted between them, fingers working to loosen the tiny dagger resting just inside the sleeve of her dress free.  

“I should have known,” she smirks faintly, fingers grasping the hilt of the blade now. “The Guild do love to play around in international affairs these days.”

“Quiet,” he hisses, fingers sliding up to grip around her jaw now. His palm is hot against her lips, covering that sly smirk, the way she sucks in warm, grateful breaths. “Keep your mouth shut. Meier doesn’t die tonight. Not here.”

Smooth, careful, she presses the tip of her blade against his abdomen. Only 4 inches in length, but long enough—sharp enough—to penetrate through two layers of clothing and pierce the thick skin of his side. Thumb and forefinger tighten, begging for an excuse to press forward, to eliminate this new complication.

But then two things happen in quick succession.

Cain hears a peal of laughter raise from the staircase and glances past Din to spot blonde hair, a red dress, and slides the dagger back inside her sleeve. Moving fast, his hand falls from her face, body curling protectively around hers in a faux embrace. He tucks his face against her neck and the short hairs in his moustache raise goosebumps on her skin.

“Qu’est-ce-que tu fais?” she hisses. What are you doing?

“Shut up,” he bites back, jostling her against the wall once more.

Laughter dies down into awkward chuckles and murmured words. Cain peers over Din’s shoulder, understanding him then. Her fingers tangle in the loose curls at the nape of his neck and she watches them, ignoring how soft it is against her skin. Two women, eyes assessing them from the top of the stairs. The blonde frowns, wary; concerned.

“They’re looking,” Cain warns, hooking an ankle around the back of his.

Something soft skates down the side of her neck. Such a stark contrast to the rough grip of his hand before; a pair of lips tracing gentle kisses along her pulse point. For a moment, she holds her breath, focusing on the dull ache in the back of her skull, the feeling of his arms around her. 

“Make them look away,” he says plainly, the words a hot wash against her skin.

His palm tightens around her hip, and Cain tilts her chin upward, letting the women see her smile as he lays kisses against her throat, lips parting to form a loosely whispered oh. Through heavy lidded eyes she sees the women flush and look away, one of them giggling. But they do not leave.

Meier, where is Meier? The thought jolts through her like an electric shock, and her smile fades a little.

Frustrated, she skates a hand around his body; lets it fall to the hem of his suit jacket, rucking it up until her fingers are digging into the flesh of his ass. Round and thick with muscle, he tenses beneath her grip, letting slip a harsh grunt of surprise into her ear. The women balk at that, turning to begin their descent down the stairs at last.

Biting back a smirk, Cain’s fingers trail up up up inside his jacket, around the front of his body. Down the buttons on the front of his white dress shirt, the solid muscle beneath it, to where it meets his trousers. The tips of her nails flirt across the front of his pants, and she is certain he’s stopped breathing; entire body still beneath her touch, lips frozen against her skin. Searching, searching, she finally hums triumphantly, fingers sliding over the holster on his hip at last. Hidden beneath his jacket, she fondles the butt of his gun. Slim; inconspicuous.

“Hmm,” she purrs, lips brushing the soft skin of his earlobe. “I thought it would be bigger.”

“I thought I told you to shut u—”

Din flinches as her other hand touches the side of his face, a finger pressing swiftly into his ear canal. His head tilts to the side, trying to evade her touch, but she’s already pulling away, using his surprise to slip around his body and move towards the stairs.

She smooths fingers over her hair, neatening the mussed strands and tucking them behind her ears. Straightens the neckline of her dress, ensures her holster is hidden. From where she stands, Meier is nowhere to be seen.

Din calls after her, a low warning. She doesn’t look back, gripping the railing of the staircase as she begins her descent. The gala is in full swing, guests dancing and talking in every direction. A six-piece band performs a playful jazz song from the stage.

“There is no need to shout,” Cain murmurs, smiling when she hears a sharp intake of breath through the earpiece.

She doesn’t know if he follows her down. Keeps her gaze trained forward as she accepts another glass of champagne from another man with another tray. Drinks it this time, thick hurried gulps that wet the skin beside her lips and soften the rough scratch in her throat. She wanders, looking for the man she came here for, and in time she ends up at the bar.

“A vodka martini,” she tells the barman, slipping onto one of the plush highchairs at the counter. “Dirty.”

The blonde man grips a clear glass bottle from his station and asks, “Shaken or stirred?”

She waves a hand, unbothered. “Dealer’s choice.”

He’s short with thick hair and a reddish hue to his beard. Handsome enough. She watches him with a light curiosity as he finishes making someone else’s drink.

It doesn’t take long before Din Djarin slips onto the seat beside her, suit jacket straightened out, not a single curl out of place, and orders a cosmopolitan.

The barman pulls two frosted coup glasses from beneath the bar and Cain arches an eyebrow at her companion.

“You’ve a sweet tooth, Monsieur Djarin?”

“It seems that way,” he murmurs, turning on his stool to face her.

Brown eyes assess her face in this new lighting, pupils flicking across everything he can see. His hand reaches across the bar and peels a small square napkin from a pile. Slides it across the wooden countertop.

“Wipe your nose.”

She swipes the material beneath her nostrils and spies a small blot of blood on the fabric, crumpling it in her fist with a saccharine smile.   

“In Germany long?” he asks casually, nodding at the bartender when he places their cocktails on the counter.

“As long as it takes.” She wraps her fingers around the stem of a chilled glass, dragging it closer. “And it shouldn’t take long.”

He takes a lengthy sip, draining half the glass in seconds, and his eyes slip closed as the alcohol hits his tongue. Cain watches his throat move as he swallows and crosses her legs tighter on the stool. Feels her gun holster dig into the soft flesh there and welcomes the distraction.

“Alone?”

He eyes her for a second, gaze momentarily dropping to the low cut of her neckline, the swooping curve of her shoulder. “I was.”

“Well,” she holds out her glass to him. “It’s an honour.”

A beat passes as he contemplates her—her words, her steadfast gaze—and then he knocks the rim of his glass gently against hers.

“I’d apologise for upstairs,” he smiles faintly, posture loosening. “But I’m sure you understand.”

“There is no need,” she agrees easily, taking her first sip. Cool vodka slips down her throat and she allows a pleased purr to fall from her lips. “Tempers are frayed. Patience is short. What’s a little scuffle between friends, hmm?”

He smirks at that, a miniscule upward twitch of his lip. Friends.

“You know, I’ve heard the stories about you,” he tells her.

His suit jacket is well tailored, she notices. Tight around those broad shoulders of his, hemmed perfectly around his wrists to reveal crisp white sleeves and silver cufflinks. 

“Is that so?”

He nods. “Cain, the femme fatale.”

“Mm,” she smirks, tracing a finger around the rim of her glass. He watches the sharp point of her red nail ping against the coup. Glances down to her toenails peeking past the tip of her heels; the same colour. She wiggles them for him, and he looks up.

“Then it appears there are equally silly tales about the both of us, non?”

“Do tell.”

Her grin broadens, something like excitement splicing through her veins. “Well, I had wondered if it were true. That you have your own little… catchphrase.”  

A low scoff rumbles from his chest, and his stare cuts to where the bartender stands, mixing a drink only a few feet away. Across the room, one of the musicians onstage starts up a winding piano solo. Sparse and melodic to start, he sprinkles his fingers against highest keys on the piano, and Cain focuses on keeping her gaze on Din. She never did care for jazz.

“Do you say it every time?” she teases in a whisper, eyes lit up with mocking glee. “I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in co—”

“Stop.”

Din’s voice is harsh, a little too loud for the quiet space by the bar. The word cuts through the soft music and has a few guests glancing in their direction. Cain laughs, unperturbed by the sudden attention, and plucks an olive out of her drink. A saxophonist joins in with the pianist, and he relaxes once more. Leans into this little game of hers.

“Don’t be a fool,” he softens, reaching over to tuck a short strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb brushes the curve of her jaw as he pulls away and she fights the shiver that trips its way down her spine. “Not every time.”

She laughs again, quietly eyeing the length of his fingers as his picks up his glass. His knuckles are thick. Warm blue veins spiderweb across the back of his hand, disappearing beneath his shirt. If she tries hard enough, she can still remember how it felt to have that hand pressed against her throat, squeezing.

“And what else do they tell you about me?” she licks her lips, elbow on the bar, leaning forward to rest her chin in the palm of her hand. Eager – hungry.

“I know you’re an orphan.” He is stoic as he says it; as if unphased, uninterested. But Cain’s eyebrows lift, delighted.

“Then it must be true of you too,” she posits slyly, left eyelid dropping in a wink. “No one is more eager to accuse another of being an orphan… unless they themselves are one also.”

He ignores that, though she can see the way his weight shifts in the seat and the muscle in his jaw twitches.

“A Valkyrie.”

“Common knowledge in our line of work.”

“You’re from Paris.”

“An easy guess,” she leans back, bored. 

“Your first name is Nikita,” Din says then, a teasing lilt to his voice. She considers that he may enjoy this game just as much as she does.

And that makes her pause. She lifts her glass and laughs against the rim, a soft tinkling sound that rings in his ears and has every man in earshot turning to look at her.

“You watch too many films,” she swallows with a smirk. “Think French, Monsieur Djarin.”

He ponders it for a moment, lips pursed softly, gaze darting somewhere over her shoulder and then back to her face. Takes a sip of his laughably pink cocktail and licks the residue from his lips, savouring every drop.

“Camille.”

“Oh,” she rolls her eyes, fighting back a genuine smile now. “I know you can do better than that.”

It’s his turn to wink now, and for one fleeting moment she feels oddly at peace with the idea of spending the rest of her evening at the bar with Din Djarin. A stranger, yes, but a little less so than the others that crowd the room.

In a career so harsh, characterised by its solitude, its violence, Cain is unaccustomed to the feeling of being seen like this. She knows unfamiliarity and discomfort and pain like the back of her hand. Is no stranger to a man’s grip around her throat, her life in his hands. But not this… this twinkle of implicit understanding that she can see in his eyes. Those endless brown eyes that say we are not so different, you and I.

Despite the bloodied napkin in her lap and the ache in her jaw, it’s enough to loosen her shoulders; to set her at ease.

But then he turns to stare pointedly over her shoulder, and she snaps out of it. Twisting around on the stool, Cain follows his gaze until she spots Meier across the room. He stands with a few others, shoulders back, eyes bright. Perfectly oblivious.

The barman slips to the other end of the counter, serving a tall gentleman, and Cain lowers her voice.

“What does the Guild want with Ulrich Meier?”

Din takes a sip of his drink. Keeps his eyes to the right, glossing casually over guests, the band, and then back to the asset.

“Information,” he says finally—carefully. “He’s of no use to us dead.”

She hums quietly, plucking an olive from her drink. Eats it slowly, allowing the briny taste to wash over her tongue as she watches him. When he doesn’t speak again, she squints, unimpressed.

“Are you not going to ask me the same question?”

An amused sound escapes his mouth, and he meets her eye again.

“You want Meier dead,” he muses simply. “But why so abruptly? When there is so much to be gained from taking him in.”

“That is not an option for us.”

“Why?” His voice takes on a harsher quality now, eyes narrowing. Mistrust.

“Did you know that name Ulrich,” Cain murmurs, leaning forward to avoid any listening ears. “Comes from the Old High German name Uodalrich? Uodal meaning heritage. Rich meaning king; ruler.”

Din Djarin says nothing.

“Did you do your research before coming to Berlin?”

“Yes.”

“Then you understand that Monsieur Meier is not simply an arms dealer.”

A beat of silence. His fingers tighten around the stem of his glass. “Yes.”

“He took his name personally, you see.” Her eyes float back to Meier. “Held it in his slimy little hands as a baby and said Oui Maman, I will rule. I will rule the desires of weaker men, and bring nightmares unto any woman that I can get these two hands on.”

“This is about revenge.”

“This is about justice,” Cain snaps, that calm façade slipping for a second. No more games. Din’s spine straightens. “Have you ever spoken to a human trafficking victim?”

He takes another sip of his drink and does not respond. She does her best not to remember the photos from her briefing. Not to remember the countless interviews, witness statements, and obituaries she’d had to paw through before her flight.

“Your silence is very telling,” she smiles, that easy composure returning. “But I trust that you understand my position now. Ulrich Meier will be of no help to your organisation after this evening.”

“Cain—”

“Because,” she continues easily. “When I leave this building, he will no longer be able to speak. And if you wish to get in my way… then I am afraid the same fate will befall you, Monsieur Djarin.”

A soft announcement sounds through the speakers, and they turn their heads to listen. The Chancellor will be giving his speech in a few moments. That’s her cue.

“And Weber?” he asks, the words coming out stilted, rushed. “What do you think of him? He’s known for turning a blind eye to Meier’s dealings.”

She tilts her glass, swallowing the last of the icy liquid.

“I do my best,” she places it down on the counter with a soft clink. “Not to think of men at all. Unless it is imperative to my mission.”

“And yet you’ve thought of me,” Din asserts, gaze heavy. His eyes slip down, just long enough for her to notice the way he stares at her mouth, before his eyes return to hers. “You know me. Enough to recognise my face in a second.”

“As I said,” Cain smiles, stepping down from her chair. “Imperative to my mission.”

He is still as she leans in and presses a soft kiss to his left cheek, and then to his right.

“Take care, Monsieur Djarin. I would like to see you live another day,” she says, slender hand coming up to the side of his face. Her finger taps the piece in his ear once, and she is not smiling anymore. “I’ll be in here if you need me.”

Cain coasts around the edge of the room, keeping her eyes to ground whenever an unfamiliar sets of eyes strays in her direction. Swipes a finger beneath her nose once or twice, checking to see if any blood has returned. And as Chancellor Weber makes his way towards the stage, she makes her way back upstairs, quietly hoping that Din does not follow her again.  

Halfway up, a single word crackles through her ear piece.

“Amélie?”

Surprised, she grips the banister and almost turns around. But she can hear a woman speaking into a microphone in German, performing a plain and winding introduction for the Chancellor, and continues her ascent.

“Wrong.”

Reassuming her position on the balcony, shrouded in waves of those soft red velvet drapes, she watches Weber take his place on the stage. A hush falls over the crowd and her eyes move fast, landing easily on the thinning grey hair atop her target’s head. Every eye in the room is facing the stage. The Walther is thick and heavy in her palm as she ensures the silencer is correctly in place. Old fashioned indeed.

Cain’s breathing is calm, heart rate slow and measured as she raises the weapon and aims it at his head. And then, like a little ant crawling across her skin, she feels something shift. The air gets thicker, and a suddenly familiar shiver tickles its way down her spine.

Her eyes tick up and she pauses at the sight of Din on the opposite balcony railing. Almost hidden entirely by the shadows, pistol raised. And it is not pointed at Ulrich Meier, no… no it is pointed at her. And he is so handsome, even when he’s bluffing.

Grinning now, she lets the tip of her finger lightly caress the trigger. So gently, with no intention of doing any damage just yet. Some feeling akin to glee sparks up in her chest. Such excitement. The Chancellor’s voice fills the room, swelling from the speakers as he welcomes his guests.  

Din’s face is placid, unimpressed, and then that honeyed voice drifts through her ear once more.

“Celine?”

Cain allows herself a brief laugh, eyes drifting back down to rest on the man she came here for. The target drapes an arm around his wife’s waist. She inhales deep, filling her lungs before letting the air spill from her nose. Calm, collected. All of it so easy for her.

“Wrong again.”

The Walther jerks in her hand, bullet flying silently through the air, and for a moment there is silence. Nobody moves.

And then Ulrich Meier’s wife releases a blood curdling scream, dropping to her knees and cradling what’s left of her husband’s head in her lap. Popping the silencer off her gun, Cain catches a glimpse of thick, dark matter across the woman’s chest, spilling down the bare skin of her arms, and then she is slipping away into the bathroom in search of that thin little window.

Back on the cobblestone street, sirens wail through the air, police cars and ambulances roaring past as she traipses away from the scene. A little flushed, a little exhilarated, she blends into a crowd of pedestrians, hidden in the shadows. She cuts across the road, avoiding traffic, and heads toward Unter den Linden, knowing it is safer to walk. Don’t be seen by a taxi driver, don’t be recognised, don’t—

“That was a clean shot.”

The words ring in her ear, clear as day.

Cain’s feet drag to a halt against the ground, shoulders stiffening. She turns, eyes assessing the busy pathway behind her, a parked car idling by the side of the road a few metres back. But she can’t see him anywhere. Countless unfamiliar faces wander by, jostling her shoulders as they pass, but he isn’t amongst them. He’s hiding somewhere, watching her from afar – playing his own little game now. Shivering against the cold, she turns and continues walking.

And then: “I thought I might follow you home.”

The words are so confident, so self-assured, and they send a rush of jagged heat blossoming between her thighs. Her heels clip against the ground, knees feeling a little weaker all of a sudden.  

“Would you like that?” he asks, and she wishes she could see his face. Wants to see the desire burning in his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw as those words drift from his pink lips.

“Only if you can keep up.” A little breathless, the words form a soft cloud in the air in front of her face.

Din laughs, low and dark in her ear, but he doesn’t speak again.

She walks for a long time, ambling her way down dark streets, icy wind whipping at her hair for all of half an hour before she finally reaches the street of her hotel. And all the while, she spares quick little glances over her shoulders, trying to spot him in the shadows. Her clothes begin to feel too tight, too warm, despite the low temperature, and with every step her panties cling closer to her warm, wet skin.

The hotel doorman smiles tiredly at Cain as she approaches, holding the door open wide to welcome her inside. As her feet hit the entryway steps, his eyes flit over her shoulder.

“Ein freund von dir?” A friend of yours?

When she turns, she is quietly amazed to find Din there. Gait unhurried, only a few steps behind her. There’s an easy smile spread across his face. Hands tucked deep in his pockets; the top button of his shirt undone.

“Ja,” Cain murmurs, slipping inside.

Din nods to the doorman, following her in. “Guten Abend.” Good evening.

They do not speak as she leads him toward the elevator. Her numb fingers slide against the button with an upward pointing arrow, and together they wait. Heat radiates from his body, warming the skin of her back where he stands behind her, so close yet not touching her yet. Together they slip inside when the doors open.

She presses a button, the number twelve lighting up on the switchboard, and the doors glide closed.

Soft, tinny music plays in the elevator, and they stare at each other from either side of the small space. Din’s chest rises and falls with steady, measured breaths. He watches her and she watches the buttons on the wall, lighting up in turn as the two of them travel up, up, up.

Two floors below Cain’s, he speaks for the first time.

“Vivienne,” he says. “Final guess.”

Her eyes flash to him and she smiles, the skin beside her eyes pinching.

“It’s Remy,” she reveals at last, voice so soft, so forgiving now that her mission is complete.

“Remy,” he repeats. Rolls the r like she does, hums around the y. Sees how it tastes in his mouth and steps forward, saying it again, again. Remy, Remy, Remy, Remy Cain.

“Don’t wear it ou—”

His lips crush against hers, chest warm as he pushes her back back back into the wall. His hand flies up, cradling the back of her skull to protect it from the wall. Not a third time. Despite the softness of his hand, the way his fingers card gently through the short locks of her hair, his kiss is biting. A wet mess of clashing teeth and tongues as he works her jaw open, coaxing his way inside of her mouth. A rough exhale streams from his nostrils, warming the skin of her face. His breath tastes like Cointreau and lime, and she moans. 

His hand slips up her thigh, trailing past that slit in her dress for the second time this evening, until his fingers are brushing against the front of her panties. Feeling the thick damp strip in the lace, the way the thin material clings to her centre.

“Fuck,” he exhales, and when he meets her eyes again his pupils are blown fat and black with desire. Moving fast, he tugs the gun from her holster. She pauses, eyes narrowing, but then he tucks it into the waistband at the back of his trousers, simply allowing space for his forearm to rest between her thighs.

The elevator thrums around them, stomachs dropping as the metal box takes them higher and higher through the building. A finger curls around the edge of her panties, dragging them to the side, and when he finally slides through her wet cunt she sighs into his mouth, every muscle in her body pulling taut and warm. 

His touch is lax, almost taunting as he sucks her tongue into his mouth and traces a digit over the drooling mouth of her entrance, smearing it up to make a mess of her clit. When she moans he presses down; careful little circles there, messy figure eights, a sharp back and forth back and forth back and forth, trying to see what she likes best. And the second her eyes pinch shut, a low curse falling from her lips, the elevator dings.

His hand whips out, slamming against the red emergency stop button. The elevator jerks to an abrupt halt and then he’s on her again. Teeth at her collarbone, her neck, her jaw, fingers moving in a slick blur against her pussy. Her thighs splay apart, and she leans heavy against the wall, knees shaky, trusting him to keep her from falling to the ground. 

“So fucking wet for me,” he murmurs, the words brimming with pride, and she trembles beneath his touch, needing more and needing it now.

“Inside,” she pants, lips parted and searching for his again. “Want your fingers inside me.”

Din swallows those words down, pressing two fingers inside of her with a groan. Remy gasps, bearing down on the weight of his fingers and shivering as he curls them inside of her. Stretching her out and grinding his knuckles against her entrance with every deep thrust.

“Yeah?” he goads, watchful eyes drinking in the way she moans for him, turning her face into her shoulder as if to hide how good it feels. “You like that, hm?”

Warm wetness pools out of her, dripping past his knuckles and onto the inside of her thighs. Obscene sounds fill the tiny space as he pumps in and out of her, and she catches herself glancing upward, searching for a security camera. She spots it in the corner just as he fits a third finger inside and grinds the heel of his palm against her clit, her mouth falling open with a rough groan. Her shoulders tilt forward, forehead knocking against his shoulder, and Din grunts, fucking her harder. His fingers never leave her wet clutch now, the tips of them persistently working against that soft spot at the top of her walls.

“Such a tight little cunt,” he’s saying, nipping at her earlobe, but the words blur and warble around the rushing in her ears. “Squeezing my fingers so good, you’re so good.”  

She grips the back of his neck, squeezing desperately. Her jaw aches with the strain of hanging slack.

“Tell me,” he says roughly, growing impatient. Everything feels hot, too hot; the skin of her face against his shoulder, her chest, the sizzling tension coiling in her core.

“Close,” she chokes out. Din snakes his free arm around the back of her waist, steadying her loose-limbed frame between his body and the wall. “Just a little longe—ohhh, merde.”

He shifts then, the thick heft of his cock crushing against her thigh through their clothes. He presses a finger against her clit now. And that low rub, his calloused thumb paired with three thick fingers massaging into her, is enough to send her spilling over the edge.

A hoarse cry pries its way out of her throat, body shaking against his and he works her through it, still pressing down against the aching bundle of nerves at the top of her sex. She pulses around his fingers, everything pulling tight and wet around them as she comes. Teeth sink into the lapel of his jacket in an attempt to muffle her cries but his arm is dropping from her waist, hand coming up to grip her jaw and push her back.

“Let me hear it,” he purrs, voice like silk as it washes over the skin of her neck.  

“Ohh,” she moans, uncaring now about the camera, about who will hear. Focusing wholly on his fingers on her face, her cunt, the way her entire world seems to shake within his grasp.

He holds her there, lets her shake and shiver beneath his touch until the ebbs of pleasure finally fade and she’s strong enough to stand on her own. Remy watches as he takes a small step backward, pressing one hand over the front of his trousers and three slick fingers past his lips to taste her come. Din’s eyes slip shut at the taste, lips pursing as he sucks the remnants of her from his skin. Flushed and awed by the intimacy of it, the depravity of it, she looks away.

Her fingers tremble against the button as she presses it, and the elevator shudders back to life around them. Another sharp ding rings out again, the doors sliding open within seconds.

A few paces down the hall, the key card slips easily against her door, and she presses it open, flushed as she steps inside and kicks off her heels. She discards them somewhere to the side, turning to watch him follow her in, toes sinking gratefully into the rough carpet beneath her feet.

The door slams shut behind him and he tears his jacket off, letting it drop to the floor as he makes his way further inside. And he looks so much more intimidating like this, she thinks. Domineering as he advances on her, the thick length of his cock evident against the front of his pants. Despite him aiming a gun at her less than an hour ago, despite the way he slunk through the shadows to follow her back here, this is the first time all evening that she’s felt eager to bend to his will, his desire. Her heart races, thudding heavily against her ribcage, and he grins wickedly at her, as if he can fucking hear it.

They collide in the middle of the room, slick swollen lips sliding against each other in a mess of harsh exhales and lewd smacking sounds. Her hands roam across the vast expanse of his chest, trailing down to cup him through his pants. He groans at the feeling, hips jerking forward, seeking more more more. He rips the gun from his holster and tosses it onto the bed, her Walther following shortly from the back of his waistband, and then his hands are on her too. Fat palms pawing at her body, gripping the meat of her ass and squeezing, trapping her against his chest so he can rut his cock against her stomach. Din grips the back of her head then, thumbs rough against the apples of her cheeks as his mouth devours hers.

Thick fingers drift from the ends of her hair down the nape of her neck, the curve of her spine, until they slip beneath the back of her dress. Distracting her with his kiss, greedy and lustful and dominating – she doesn’t notice his curious fingers until they’re curling around the fabric and ripping. Remy staggers backwards with the force of it, gripping his neck. He snarls into her mouth, following her to the ground as she falls. The breath rushes from her lungs and her tailbone aches from how she lands but she doesn’t care. Doesn’t even care when Din straddles her waist, chest heaving, and continues to tear satin and silk from her body. The black material practically shreds in his hands. So thin and delicate, the threads fall apart with every twist, every yank, until he’s prying the ruined dress away and throwing it towards the bed.  

Remy’s fingers work hastily to undo the buttons on his shirt, but just as she reaches the fourth one, he’s gripping her hands, pinning them above her head. Din’s free hand works open his belt, the button and zip on his trousers, and then he’s dragging them down his legs, freeing the thick weight of his cock. She gasps, eyeing the angry red tip hungrily. He’s thick and long and leaking against the white material of his shirt. Her hands push against his and she grunts when he simply tightens his grasp on her, the friction of the coarse carpet harsh against her skin.

“I let you have your way back there,” Din says, eyes blazing. “Are you gonna let me have mine now?”

Her body stills, wholly captivated beneath the heat of his gaze, the weight of his thighs over her hips.

“Yes,” she exhales, mind a blur, limbs still loose and heavy from her orgasm. “Yes, Din, just fuck me.”

“The Guild are gonna have my fucking head for this,” he mutters, fingers falling from her hands to rest heavily at the waistband of her panties.

Remy isn’t sure if he’s talking about Meier or her, but she doesn’t fucking care. What happens to Din after tonight is not her problem.

He toys with her for a moment, tickling the skin around her navel, above the band of her panties, before his fingers hook around it and—snap. She flinches as the material is torn away, her skin pinching beneath the lace.

She stares up at him, clad in nothing but the pale material of her bra now. He watches the way her chest heaves beneath it, nipples painfully stiff against the thin lace.

“It was the right thing to do.”

“I know,” he snaps angrily. He shifts back, moving down her body until he can pry her legs from between his, spreading them open on the carpet to display her glistening cunt to him. The sight seems to stem his anger a little, jaw going loose as he gazes down at the shiny swollen mess of her.

A thick thumb swipes through her folds, pinching one of them back to hold her open for him to ogle at.

“Such a pretty little cunt,” he tuts under his breath, thumbing at the flesh between her clit and her hole.

Her face heats, heart stuttering in her chest a little at this feeling of exposure. Can feel the intensity of his stare practically inside of her the longer he looks, waiting for something.

“So take it,” she says finally, patience thinning.

She fists his shirt in her hands and tugs him forward, breath hitching when he grips his cock and jerks it slowly, smearing her wetness down the length of it before notching his tip at her entrance.

He pushes inside of her in one fell swoop, hardly giving her a moment to adjust to the fat girth of his tip before he’s pressing deeper. Lips on lips, sucking the breath from her lungs, their kiss vibrates with the strength of his groan. It tastes like relief, like understanding. And for a moment it’s just that. The thick weight of him seated inside of her, his chest against hers as they kiss lazily, sloppily, smearing spit across each other faces, tasting beneath tongues, behind teeth.

“So fucking tight,” Din bites out, forehead heavy against hers.

“Mm,” she whines, face screwed up.

A dull burn ricochets through her abdomen, the stretch more than she’s taken in a while. Remy wills herself to relax, but desire has her core tightening around him, sucking him in further and further until the coarse hairs at his base are flush against her clit and there’s nothing more to take. She loops a leg around his waist and ruts up against him, and anything soft about him vanishes.

Din’s thrusts are punishing. Hard and fast, the weight of his hips rocking her into the ground over and over, until she can feel carpet burns forming at the base of her spine, the soft skin of her ass. Every slick pass of the heft of his cock punches the air from her lungs and has her eyelids fluttering.

It’s greedy, the way he fucks her. Like he’s had it before, perhaps in a past life, and been deprived of her touch for years. He fucks her like he misses her. Like he loves her or hates her or something dark and grotesque in between the two emotions. Like if this were the last thing he ever got to do in this lifetime, then he was going to do it right.

So she says, “Harder,” and he grits his teeth, fucking her into the carpet until she’s sure there’ll be littles scrapes and bruises on her back in the morning.

The tip of his cock brushes near to the end of her, and every little nudge there has her gasping in an intoxicating medley of pain and pleasure.

“There?”

“Yes,” she begs. “Fucking—yes.”

Din works her open like it’s his fucking job. Settles on his knees and drags her ass up onto his thighs, splitting her open with every brutal thrust, hands fitted over her waist in a vice.

Up close like this she can see past the collar of his shirt. Can see thick raised lines on his skin, pink and purple scars beneath his collarbones. She reaches up and lays a hand there, feels his heart jack hammering against the marred skin, and moans his name. Din, Din, Din.

And he likes that. Releases an almost pained moan at the sound of his name on her lips, leaning down to attach his mouth to her neck. He bites and sucks and kisses, leaving a trail of deep dark marks from the hollow of her throat to the hinge of her jaw.

“That’s it,” he snarls into her skin, hand lowering to press down above her mound, and that mixed with the sound of his voice makes a fresh load of slick gush out of her. Pushes her deeper into this depraved, endless pit of pleasure he’s raining down upon her.

He tells her again, say it again, and she cries out Din, head lolling back against the floor.

Something fierce begins to brew inside of her. A bright white twisting feeling that frays and sparks like a live wire, stoked by the speed of his movement, the firm press of his hand against her lower stomach. And just as she thinks she’s there, almost there, so close, a shrill ringing comes from the sofa to their left.

Din’s hips stutter against hers, head snapping to the side to pinpoint where the interruption emanates from. A little pink phone rings and rings, the sound piercing through her ears and setting her teeth on edge. She taps his chest quickly, urging him back. He frowns, opens his mouth to tell her no, tell her ignore it, but she pushes him harder, again and again until he slips out of her with a haggard moan.

He grips her waist and turns their bodies, landing on his back with a thud. Eyes trained on his face, the dark red blush on his cheeks, his swollen mouth, she reaches out blindly, snatching the phone from the receiver and putting it to her ear.

“Allo?” Remy breathes, eyebrows pinching together as she sinks down onto his cock, free hand splayed on his stomach. “Bonjour.” 

He props himself up in a seated position, resting back on one hand while the other comes up to grope at her chest. Cocky asshole. But her eyes glaze over as she takes in the tanned skin that peeks out of his shirt again, the soft smattering of hair between his pecks. Legs spread out wide on the carpet, he watches her bounce slowly on his cock, nodding in encouragement but careful not to speak, lest he be heard down the line by her handler.

At this angle his tip presses into her g-spot with every movement. It only takes a moment for that low burn to start up again in the base of her stomach. Her mouth is open wide, ragged breaths spilling from her lips as she listens to the words being spoken down the line.  

She says, “Ouais, c’est fait.” Yeah, it’s done.

Din’s fingers flex around the cup of her bra, tugging down the fabric to let one of her tits spill out. He sighs heavily, leaning forward to latch his mouth onto the skin there. Lathing hot, messy kisses against her sternum, her nipple, and then grazing his teeth over the sensitive bud. She trembles against him, hand coming up to grip the back of his head and hold his face there. He sucks it into his mouth, pulls it taut between his lips before letting it slip out with a wet pop.

“À bientôt.” See you soon.

She hangs up the phone with a rough clang, and then her mouth is seeking his out again. Teeth clash and she moans at the sharp pain, uncaring. Din’s grip on her waist tightens and he plants his feet on the carpet, fucking up into her at a break-neck pace. She cries into his mouth, a harsh animalistic sound, and her stomach is pulling tight, cramping up. Her cunt locks down around him, and when she comes it’s a low throb of a feeling. A deep swooping ache that spills from her core and spreads out through her thighs, her stomach, until her body is jerking and twitching above him.

“Fuck yes,” he grits out, white teeth flashing in her hazy vision. He doesn’t give out, spitting a mess of that’s it, fucking give it to me as her pussy flutters and drools around his cock. Her hips roll and stutter over his, the muscles in her stomach twitching beneath the skin, and Din swears under his breath. Her vision whites out, throat hoarse and head pounding as she succumbs to the pleasure. And he feeds off it.

“God, look at you,” he grunts, prolonging that low burn in her gut the longer he fucks into that softest warmest little spot. “Made to take this cock.”

“Say it,” he rasps urgently, eyes rolling back when her hand grips his throat for purchase, nails digging sharply into the skin over his thrumming carotid. “Say you fucking want it.”

“I want it,” she moans, back arching, knees on fire where they slide against the carpet at his sides. “Want your come, Din, fuck—fuck, give it to me, give it to me.”

His body practically vibrates as he comes. A thousand tiny little twitches and spasms rocking through this frame, the muscles in his thick thighs turning to tense stone beneath her. A gravelly shout falls from his lips, cock kicking hot and hard against her walls until she feels his spend begin to seep out of her around his length and pool around his base.  

It’s almost frantic, the way his hands clutch at her body, clinging to any part of her that he can. And when she thinks he might pull her closer, press himself deeper to keep painting the inside of her walls, he pushes her away, dragging himself from her clutch just to grip his length in a tight fist.

He strokes himself in tight wet movements, a few final weak spurts of his come shooting up to land over her mound and the swollen lips of her pussy. And only when he’s done, spent cock beginning to soften in his palm, does he pull her down a little. Resting wet hands over the base of her spine to feel the way she shivers, body shuddering its way through the aftershocks of her orgasm.

Remy’s chest expands with stilted, ragged gasps for air, trying desperately to fill her lungs as she folds against his hot thick frame, exhausted.

And after a few moments the foggy, erotic blur that held her mind in a vice for the past few hours slowly begins to lift. Din’s hand is on the back of her thigh, fingers splayed, tickling the skin there, and the weight of it suddenly itches. Reality drifts back in and it feels heavy on her shoulders. The clock beside the hotel bed reads 9:12 – her flight out of Berlin leaves in two hours.

His hand drifts up her back, nudging her down to rest her head against his chest. Her body aches suddenly; dull pains popping up in her neck, her jaw, her hips. She remembers the way it felt to have his palm strike her chin and almost smiles.

A metre away, her suitcase lies spread open on the floor. Clothes and lingerie and a gun peek out of the red trunk. She can see two passports beside it, stacked neatly atop one another. And she knows that his hotel room can’t look that dissimilar from his own, but it feels too much now. As their breathing starts to even out, vision swinging back into focus, this level of intimacy – having another person, even a colleague of sorts – seeing behind the scenes of what after looks like for her… it feels like a splinter in the tip of her finger. A sharp sting that won’t go away. Wrong.

Remy rests her chin against his collarbone and glances up at him. Din’s eyes are closed, lips parted as soft breaths puff out from between them. He looks tired – almost as tired as she feels.

“I’m going to shower,” she tells him, fingers brushing curls back off his forehead. His eyes are soft, warm as they open to watches her stand. Too much, that look in his eyes. Too close. “Be gone when I come out, okay?”

Remy turns, back to him as she grips the handle of the ensuite door, and for a moment she pauses. Feels the weight of the silence between them, the heady scent of sweat and come in the air, on her skin, and glances over her shoulder. Looks between him spread out on the floor and her things dotted across the room. An empty martini glass lying on its side. The blush-coloured rotary phone on the hotel sofa. Passports with different names, birth dates, home countries, addresses, and her face. She knows that has to be firm now.  

“Don’t give me a reason to kill you, mon chére.” My darling.

Din’s lips curl up into a smile and his eyes drift up to stare at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She slips inside the bathroom and pulls the door almost closed behind her. Twists a nozzle until water is beating down against the floor of the shower and steam begins to fill the room. Silently, she pries open a cabinet and slips her hand beneath the sink, feeling around until her fingers grasp the pistol strapped there.

Bare skin of her back flush to the wall, thighs still wet with come and sweat, she peers out through the crack in the door. Still ajar, she can see him past the wooden frame. Sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, looping his belt through the waist of his trousers. With her eyes trained on the soft skin of his neck, on messy curls, on shoulder blades and biceps that bulge out against the thin material of his dress shirt – she leads a silencer into place over the mouth of her gun. A rhythmic repetition, the exact same as earlier. She doesn’t even need to look down. Pin meet groove, twist, twist, twist.

Din slips his arms inside the suit jacket, elbows bending as he smooths his palms along the front of it. She holds her breath as he turns, as he takes three steps toward the hotel room door, and then—pauses. Hand on the doorhandle, he does not move.

Remy’s finger rests featherlight on the trigger.

She is calm. What happens next is his choice.  

And he must know this because he does not turn around. Does not try to catch one last look at her. His fingers curl around the handle and he slips out the door, closing it was a soft click behind him. The air in the room rushes to fill his sudden absence.

Only when there is silence does she exhale, dropping the pistol onto the marble countertop beside the sink. And she smiles as she slinks beneath the hot spray of the shower head, letting it rush over the crown of her skull and drench her hair.

Her scalp stings and pink water swirls in the drain, blood slipping from a little cut on the back of her head. She pays it little mind, tilting her chin up so the scalding water hits her face too, stripping away a thick layer of sweat and blood and secrets from her skin. The silence stretches, and her smile grows. He does not come back.

Smart choice, Din Djarin.

thank you so much for reading! x

[agent-calivide]

Okay. I've been thinking about this for a while but it could still be incoherent.

So in IEYTD 3, there are some agency announcement transmissions after you beat a level. If I remember correctly, there was one after Hot Water which mentions Southern Philippines (along with other countries). (I, unfortunately, do not have access to the game but have watched gameplays.)

I have a few theories into why that (the agency doesn't have EOD agents in the Northern part of the Philippines) is (I can go on about that but it's likely it won't be historically accurate but let's just say the 50s were pretty wild and I have several agency headcanons if my suspicions are true.) and I was wondering if you have any more insights on possible points the games diverge from our timeline.

oh the can of worms this opens- /lh

So, this is all in the wonderful world of messing around with speculation, but for possible points of timeline divergence we first have to take into account the actual year IEYTD takes place, that being 1967. In addition, we need to look at the political systems in place, which is where this gets... funky.

See, in IEYTD 2 it is established that there are 4 world leaders:

Chancellor Magpantay, head of the Pacific League (Asia and Australia).

PM Markopoulos, head of the Mediterranean Commonwealth (Asia, Europe, and Africa)

President Okafor, head of the South Atlantic Union (Africa and South America)

Premier Sucre, head of the Hudson Federation (North America)

All of these positions are either elected or appointed by either the general public, or the country's parliament/whatever political system they have in place. So it's not like a monarchy where any of these people were born into these positions.

But, all that being said, these are not countries, but they're not continents either, they're some unique additional territory. We know this due to a detail where Juniper's jet took off from the JFK airport.

Why does this matter? Because the JFK airport was named after John F Kennedy after his assassination as the president of the United States. This means that all of the countries as we know them still exist, and this is also confirmed by the map in Juniper's jet and that radio broadcast that you reference. The long list of differing countries make it evident that the systems in place are one more level of authority on top of the heads of countries.

The reason I go into all of this is because a lot of "timeline divergence" things are tied deeply to politics, spies are innately political after all. Borders, international boundaries, treaties, all of this is what leads to the divvying up of the world like this.

So the question is no longer "why is the world laid out like this" it is now "why would all of these countries agree to this system/get pushed into this system when they were already established as individual powers?"

If I had to guess, the split would be around WWI/WWII, specifically either the foundation of NATO or something similar happening right after WWI, the results are the same either way.

Either after The Great War, which was the first war to take over the entire planet, or after WWII which took place so close after the first one, there was an international agreement that something needed to change to keep this sort of incident from occurring ever again.

So, rather than having dozens of people arguing over treaties, the political powers at be decided to simplify it to four people, four territories.

Now, meta wise, this is because kidnapping 4 people is a lot easier to depict than 40+, but there still are ramifications on the rest of the world building due to it. This may even impact how countries interact with each other normally.

Handler affectionately jokes about "the alien we met with the Russians!" Regardless if he is supposed to be English or US American like the devs, there is no undertone of space race, international conflict, or anything similar despite this occurring in the late 60's right when the space race would be happening between the US and Russia. Just delight over this thing that happened with those chums from Russia!

And it makes sense for individual countries to not be at each other's throats. Everyone is a bit too worried about what Zoraxis is doing at that point, the Mediterranean Commonwealth's representative saying he doesn't trust Zoraxis and the South Atlantic Union having a strong isolationist stance at the moment. There is no word of the territories fighting, just that they don't trust anyone at this moment.

And this why a system like this would be in place, it would make discussions of conflict easier, as it would be discussion between four people and their teams rather than dozens or even hundreds of conflicting sides. There likely would still be internal conflicts within the territories, but picking a fight with another territory wouldn't be possible.

The US can't pick a fight with Russia, they're part of the Mediterranean Commonwealth and the US is in the Hudson Federation. That would be like Texas bombing California or attacking Canada, they just don't have the jurisdiction for that.

This would explain why the politics in place are so different, as well as why real world politics are never brought up and don't have a tangible impact on these games. The EOD is dealing with Zoraxis rather than representing a specific country because the way the countries have conflicts is fundamentally different.

TL;DR

The way there are only 4 political leaders makes everything super funky in terms of international conflict that is fundamentally different from how we experience it irl

[sea-creature-tournaments]

Every single unique submission under the cut submission

Octodad

Hank

Marina Ida

Octillery

Professor Inkling

Agent 8

Oswald

Korosensei

Surume

Ursula

Clobbopus

Pearl

Cthulhu

Grapploct

Blob

Occy

Marina

Henry the Octopus

Squidward Tentacles

Azul Ashengrotto

DJ Octavio

Zucker

Octopus Balloon

Ikalgo

Sayuri

Marcellus

Luca

Davy Jones

Eight Ultros

Umbrella Octopus

Cala Maria’s Hair

Onionsan

Fred

Grigori

King Caliente

Octopus Cook

Shapesinger

Mucku

Tickle-Me Wiggly

Cthylla

Takopi

Gyuki

the octopus from the rainbow fish

Octavio

Helmi

Hyouzou

Wako Tako

Doctor Octopus

Desti

Jocktopus

Old Night

Topo

Ollie Arms

H

Mimic the Octopus

Octoper OA

Faye

Medusa Octopus

Karambwan

Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus

Hatchan

Paces, Light of the Ghoti

giant octopus - comet in moominland

giant octopus -mega shark vs giant octopus

Grass demon

Sushi Chef

Octopus Mom

Shiver Hohojiro

Barnacle Bob

Octoling Neo Agent 3

Inkling Octopus

Hatchi

Octorok

Mono

Ollie

Octopider

Wash Buckler

Octonia

Nethimir

Agent O

Kraken

Mimic Octopus

Hatchan, aka Hatchi

Acht / Dedf1sh

Octopuff Travelers

Octopus

Yerbanian Chancellor’s Octopus

Tako

The octopus from the Beatles song Octopus’ Garden

ChuChu

Nanami's octopus

Hachi

Launch Octopus

Icchan

Omanyte

Ivan McDorfleton

[edwardseymour]

Anne of Cleves and Catherine Howard's relationship? I have seen many discussions

✨ terfs/zionists fuck off ✨

i am of the perhaps controversial opinion that they didn’t have a positive — or, rather, a close relationship. and i think it’s much more interesting that way.

it is interesting how the idea of ‘the other woman’ doesn’t really get applied to katherine howard during her time in anna’s household, in the same way it does anne boleyn and jane seymour. in large part this can be explained both by katherine’s obvious youth and anna’s lack of genuine love or passion with henry… but nevertheless, that is very much katherine and anna’s dynamic. they had no opportunity to establish any other, as there was a language and status barrier. to what extent was katherine involved in those awkward, probing conversations between anna and her ladies, exposing anna’s lack of intimacy with her husband? surely they could not have been close, as anna is not recorded as having much involvement with katherine in her capacity as her mistress, and katherine never expressed any loyalty towards anna. anna clearly resented katherine’s relationship with henry while queen: “on 20 june, she complained vigorously about [katherine] to the cleves agent in london, karl harst” (starkey); katherine evidently felt insecure about anna as a potential rival: “henry noticed that katherine was in low spirits, and when he asked her why ‘she said it was owing to a rumour that he was going to take back anne of cleves’. […] katherine reacted to it and even, in her weaker moments, found it credible” (russell).

i’ve seen it argued that they got along very well because of their performance over christmas, but in actuality i think that argument dismisses the fact that it was very much that: a performance. the pair fulfilled their social obligations — during a time of religious observance — anna by acting the loyal supplicant to her new king and his wife, upon whom she owed her position, and katherine by acting out the role of generous wife and queen, and court hostess. especially since they had to act as family members to one another, since anna was the king’s “beloved sister”, and therefore katherine’s sister, too. and clearly impressing a sense of etiquette and rank as queen was a concern of katherine’s (from norton: “katherine was in a state of nerves about how to receive her predecessor and she kept anna waiting while she discussed the correct etiquette for a current queen meeting an ex-queen with henry’s lord chancellor”)… not least because rumours were circulating around this time that henry intended to take anne back.

russell describes anna and katherine’s reunion at christmas as “manners one-upmanship”, and likewise heather r. darsie presents the dynamic as competitive: anne’s gifts, for example, were perhaps a flex of social rank and wealth, “a gift showed a potential rival one’s financial or domestic superiority”. by contrast, katherine sent gifts to anna with her husband, and i wonder if it was a conscious effort to present a united front and reassert her position as henry’s wife. moreover, anna’s deep curtsy and refusal to stand may have been intended as mocking, from a duchess in her own right who may well have viewed the annulment as illegitimate (from norton: “she was not the only person in england to believe that she was truly henry’s wife”; from darsie: “katherine was a former lady-in-waiting to anne, and now the former queen was forcing katherine to acknowledge her humility. […] this show by anne of dedication to katherine as queen consort [was] an ironic dumb show, a very subtle mockery of katherine and the absurdity of the situation”). meanwhile katherine’s lavish kindness, past the point of convention or precedent, may have been weaponised as a means of disarming anna from any means of overshadowing her. anna of cleves socially outranked katherine howard — both of them knew this. the event was successful, but i don’t think we should read it as entirely genuine. these were women doing politics during a pr exercise, and doing it well.

there is no evidence of them maintaining a relationship outside of their public obligations during christmas, however. nor did anna visit court during katherine’s time as queen. therefore i see no evidence to support this idea that they were friendly. arguably there is evidence to suggest they did not particularly respect each other, for if katherine was willing to undermine and ultimately supplant anna by way of courting her husband, then anna was willing to take advantage of katherine’s fall and pursue a marriage she could only feel entitled to if she had never valued katherine as any kind of equal. i don’t think it’s possible for them to have genuinely been close in those circumstances, yet it is interesting how the idea of ‘anna stepping over katherine’s body before it was cold’ doesn’t really get applied to her the way it has been jane seymour with anne boleyn.

[democratthatlovesguns]

There Are NO Iranian Assassins

It is Sunday November 10, 2024, stories have died down about this, but Putin will continue to push it because it's what that asshole does.

I have a prior post about this, but just so we're clear, there are NO Iranian agents actually trying to kill Trump.

There is no real intent for North Korean soldiers to engage in the Russian invasion of Ukraine.

It's all smoke and mirrors ... It is what makes Trump so confident he can end so many conflicts immediately upon entering the White House again - Putin is pulling all the strings.

Also, same script, the Trump team is refusing to sign executive power transition paperwork that in any other presidency would be a nonissue, but they have to make it an issue so Faux News has something to talk about while republicans in congress figure out how to ban abortions nationwide behind closed doors.

All just smoke and mirrors.

Soon, when Trump claims that he strong armed normalized relations with Iran, and his idiot supporters believe him unquestioningly, it will be the most hilarious show of stupidity I've seen in decades. And then, those same republicans will go out and accuse democrats of idolatry - it's going to be fucking hilarious.

It's not going to be hilarious when Trump attempts to make himself Chancellor of America, with the power to veto congress and future presidents, at that point we are going to be at war. We can all thank republicans for that.

[brucewaynehater101]

DC in a Witcher AU: Gotham Kingdom

[I tried with the position names, y'all. Hopefully they fit]

Alfred Pennyworth [??] - Steward

A Steward who, much to the nobles' chargrin, became the guardian of a young Bruce Wayne and the regent. He is the King's most trusted ally and is in charge of ensuring the castle, its staff, and the royal family are in working order.

He was the previous spymaster until Barbara assumed the role. He is also rumored to not being human, but he has neither confirmed nor denied this.

Jim Gordon [Human] - Knight Commander

By the time Bruce becomes king, Jim is the Knight Commander

Barbara Gordon [Human] - Spymaster

Due to her father's position, Barbara is able to hide the fact that she is the current spymaster. She has agents all over the continent, but her most direct and trusted agents are part of the Birds of Prey.

She became paralyzed after an assassination attack targeting her father but, with the help of magic, has a wheelchair able to traverse most surfaces (and even go up stairs).

Lucius Fox [Human] - Chancellor

As Chancellor, his duties primarily concern foreign affairs, internal affairs, and finacial/economic issues. He has several individuals assisting him and advisors that he relies on. Bruce trusts him to oversee these matters and handle/notify accordingly.

Lucius's family members (Tam and Luke) also assist the man in various matters.

J'onn J'onzz [Doppler] - Court Druid

Bruce relies on him for magic/chaos related matters. J'onn isn't human, but he pretends to be in public company. He specializes in mind magic but refrains from it without permission or dire need.

Due to being a druid (and thus never officially trained by a school), Bruce will occasionally contact John Constantine (who refused an official position) for certain magic-related issues.

Duke Thomas [Human] - Apprentice Court Mage

Duke Thomas, unbeknownst to him, possesses elder blood from his father. The side effect is extremely powerful chaos to the point that he was sought out by Ban Ard Academy. The Thomases refused to enroll Duke, much to the Academy's anger.

To try to force Duke's hand, the academy sent some mages to curse Duke's parents to become the equivalent of brain dead.

Duke, who suspected the academy of foul play, dropped his parents at the church of Melitete and joined a group of peers fighting against authority figures trying to control them and harm others. They end up traveling Gotham Kingdom earning coin and saving people.

Once Duke finally has enough coin saved up to higher a Witcher, he puts a job posting up for anyone capable and willing to go after the mages that hurt Duke's parents. Hopefully, one of them is left alive to reverse what they did.

What Duke wasn't expecting was fully human Tim Drake to answer the posting.

After much debate, Jason gets thrown into this fuckery as well. The three of them face down the mages until one remains. The answer is extremely disappointing: The curse can only be broken by Duke when he reaches that level of proficeny with his chaos.

With Duke's distrust of the academy, Tim introduces Duke to J'onn. Duke's official position in court allows Duke to provide for himself and his parents while he trains.

Tamara Fox [Human] - Ambassador of Foreign Affairs

Her unofficial main role is to track down Tim and drag him back to Gotham whenever he is needed at court. Due to her frequent traveling (and Tim's eerie ability to befriend people), she tends to handle a lot of communication/correspondence with folks from all kinds of backgrounds. The Tim and Tam team have managed to secure a ton of alliances, prevent wars, and increase trade.

She also is aware of what's going on in Tim's lands and lends assistance when she can/wants to.

When she's not with Tim or hunting him down, she manages foreign affairs or assists her father.

Harvey Dent [Human] - Justiciar

Harvey Dent oversees a majority of the justice system within Gotham. He advises judges from all over the kingdom, hears difficult pleas, travels to ensure courts are upholding justice throughout, and consults Bruce on how various laws may impact the justice system and/or people.

During an incident a few years after he became Justiciar, Harvey was cursed. He slips into a mindset he refers to as "Two Face" that causes extreme harm and damage to others. It took time to adjust and find a solution, but Harvey is able to manage this curse with consistent dosages of his medicinal potions. Bruce and others in Harvey's support group are aware of signs of flare-ups and can adequately provide support. Harvey, with this, is happily able to continue his works as Justiciar.

Steph Brown [Human] - Herald

Steph was raised in the capitol city. When he father started committing crimes against the crown, Steph decided to thwart his plans. She doesn't love nobles, but King Bruce has been implementing/enforcing a ton of laws that help people.

Tim, who was investigating Steph's dad, stumbles upon Steph. He thus invites her to help him with capitol related intelligence-gathering and crime fighting. As time goes on, Steph gains an official court position and works closely with Barbara

Jarro [Sentient Starfish] - Court Jester

King Bruce sincerely wishes to officially adopt Jarro as his son. Unfortunately, a good chunk of the nobles would not allow him to do so.

Therefore, Bruce asked Jarro if he would like a position as the Court Jester. Jarro accepted.

Bruce quickly built everything necessary for Jarro to be comfortable in the castle

Harleen Quinzel [Human] - Court Healer

Harley specializes in both mind and healing magic. She grew up with both Harvey and Bruce.

Unlike other court healers, Harley insists on prevention. It is considered an odd quirk of hers that she proclaims stress to cause pain. She also correlates trauma as a reason for some physical ailments. While many do not believe her claims, they are unwilling to receive her ire (she carries a massive mallet with her). If Gotham's Court Healer prescribes one stretching and taking a break, one does not argue.

Pamela Isley [Artifical Dryad] - Environment Advisor

During an accident with chaos, Pamela is the only adult human woman to ever become a dryad. This increased her environmental protection tendencies.

King Bruce confers with her on the best approaches for agriculture and overall biome health of the various sections of the kingdom. Her knowledge on plants, weather, and even animals has saved numerous lives.

[jotun-philosopher]

If you liked that, you might like this: Good Omens and World Of The Five Gods

Heyo! Time for another ramble~!

Good Omens has given me a bit of a taste for theologically interesting fantasy, which led me to the World of the Five Gods series by Lois McMaster Bujold -- let me tell you about it! (Not everything, but hopefully enough to whet your appetite and spark your curiosity ^_^)

Putting everything under a cut, because while this isn't really a meta and I'm going to try to avoid spoilers as far as possible, I am going to be infodumping so it's gonna get loooooooooong XD #AutismForTheWin

So! World of the Five Gods is set in a sort of fantasy-counterpart-culture version of Medieval Europe (more or less late Reconquista era), but with the map rotated 180 degrees. Consistent across countries and cultures is the Quintarian religion, which involves worship of a pantheon of five gods:

The Father of Winter, who deals with mature manhood, fatherhood, justice, fairness, leadership, natural deaths, male virility and suchlike. His colours are grey and black.

The Mother of Summer, who covers mature womanhood, motherhood, love and its results, female sexuality, birth, renewal and healing/medicine, among others. Her colour is green.

The Daughter of Spring, whose purview is youth, beauty, virginity, education and planting. Her colour is blue, which is frequently trimmed with white.

The Son of Autumn, who covers war, hunting, courage, harvest and emotion. His colours are red and orange.

The Bastard, the broadly benevolent but frequently inscrutable trickster figure of the pantheon. His purview is orphans, demons, disasters and chaos, illegitimate children, queer folks, executioners, divine justice where mortal justice fails, lives unnaturally cut short, "all things out of season". His colour is white. He likes it when his followers 'pray' to him by cursing him out, both because they're actually *thinking* about their situations and because he finds it hilarious. (His sense of humour is a bit odd...) At the uttermost end of mortal justice, when all else has failed, one can pray to the Bastard for a 'death miracle', which if successful will kill both you and the intended target via one of the Bastard's demons taking your soul and theirs.

The Quadrene religion views the Bastard as a demon rather than a god, and reviles as heretical those matters which fall within his purview.

The gods have total power over the world of spirit, but their ability to affect the world of matter is highly limited at best; they thus have to rely on mortal agents. The tool is not the work, though -- tools get broken, after all -- so being a tool of the gods tends to really fucking suck.

WotFG has (at time of writing) three novels and twelve novellas.

The novels are:

The Curse of Chalion -- The Daughter's book. An escapee from a slave galley seeks a position in the household of his old patroness, is assigned as secretary-tutor to the Royesse (= princess) of Chalion (roughly equivalent to Castile in Reconquista-era Spain) and does his darndest to protect her from the deadly court machinations of the PROFOUNDLY evil chancellor and his brother while also seeking a way to break the curse of the title. (Seriously, get you someone who's as fiercely loyal and devoted to you as Cazaril is to 'his ladies'!)

Paladin of Souls -- The Bastard's book, and direct sequel to Curse, taking place a few years later. Ista, Dowager Royina of Chalion, is fed up of being locked in her rural castle by well-meaning caretakers who mistake her god-touched status for insanity. She goes on what is ostensibly a pilgrimage for her mother's soul, and finds that the gods are not done with her yet... (not quite the little-old-lady fantasy hero I've seen tumblr posts about -- Ista's in her forties -- but she is *very* badass and outspoken; one can imagine her being played by Catherine Tate)

The Hallowed Hunt -- The Son's book, set about 250 years before Curse, in the Weald (roughly analogous to Germanic areas). Ingrey kin Wolfcliff is dispatched to a remote castle to collect a young woman called Ijada, as well as the corpse of the highborn would-be rapist whose head she bashed in with a giant war hammer. Devious machinations and long-laid schemes abound surrounding the Hallow Kingship of the Weald, into which Ingrey and Ijada are swiftly drawn.

The thirteeen (so far) novellas focus on Learned Penric kin Jurald, scholar and sorcerer-divine of the Bastard's order, and his demon Desdemona. They take place roughly 150 years after Hunt (so, about a century before the start of Curse) and start out set in the Cantons (equivalent to Switzerland), but Penric (and the stories) travel around a fair bit. There is some interesting gender-wibbliness involved as well, because all of Desdemona's hosts prior to Penric were female, still live on in some way within her such that Penric can channel and converse with them, and Penric has to cross-dress more than once (particularly and memorably channelling the courtesan Mira).

In terms of approximate internal chronology, the Penric novellas are:

Penric's Demon, Penric and the Shaman, Penric's Fox (collected in the omnibus titled 'Penric's Progress')

Penric's Mission, Mira's Last Dance, The Prisoner of Limnos (collected in the omnibus titled 'Penric's Travels')

Masquerade In Lodi [chronologically earlier than the stories in Penric's Travels], The Orphans of Raspay, The Physicians of Vilnoc (collected in the omnibus titled 'Penric's Labors')

The Assassins of Thasalon, Knot of Shadows, Demon Daughter (at time of writing, to the best of my knowledge, only available in e-book format)

edit 17/08/24: Penric and the Bandit (published 1st July 2024, ebook format only)

The novels and novellas can technically be read in any order (though, being a sequel to Curse, Paladin of Souls contains spoilers for that book). Personally, I find the worldbuilding easiest to digest when reading the novels in publication order (Curse, Paladin, Hunt), then the Penric stories. It's up to you, though!

The setting of WotFG as a whole (as I mentioned at the start) is informed to varying degrees by the history of Spain's 'Reconquista' era; the influence is especially strong in The Curse of Chalion, to the point that I'd strongly advise against making a drinking game out of it -- there are parallels to persons and events you wouldn't think could *have* parallels! Good fodder for a history-side-of-tumblr meta post, though, eh? ;-) (pls tag me if you do make one, I'd love to read it!)

Having come to WotFG from Good Omens, I have a particular soft spot for the Penric stories -- there are a few parallels with GO (a small enough number that it's probably safe to make a drinking game out of it -- though I'd still recommend tumblr meta-posts as the safer and healthier alternative!), all of which are more than likely genuine coincidences, but enough to add an ineffably lovely layer of enjoyment :D Have fun finding 'em ^^ (Srsly, the AU fanfics almost write themselves...)

Happy reading!

(tagging @ao3cassandraic and @vidavalor -- I get the feeling you'll like WotFG if you haven't run across the series already)

[dixieconley]

The Red Death

Thorn: I feel terrible. I think I coughed a lung up. Can I fake my death and take a day off? Thire: Not feeling so hot either, vod. Can I take the war off? Fox: ::flatly:: If I don't get time off, you don't either. I don't remember the last time I felt good. Thorn: So you're not sick like the rest of us? Fox: …

::flashback 1:: Triage: One of Hound's people brought back a fast-acting virus with them after visiting the lower levels. Most of the Guard is already infected and the rest are likely to get it soon. Fox: … Fox: We can get sick? Triage: Apparently. I don't know what this is. If I could, I'd find out what it is and see if there's a cure. But I don't have the training or the tools. Fox: … Triage: Best case scenario, we quarantine the Guard and wait to see how many survive. Fox: And the worst case scenario? Triage: … Triage: You don't want to know.

::flashback 2:: Fox: Your excellency, may I speak with you? Palpatine: Of course, commander. It would be my pleasure. Fox: I-- Palpatine: And commander, take your helmet off, would you? I like to see the faces of the people I'm talking with. Fox: … Fox: ::takes helmet off:: Sir, it would be in the best interests of everyone if other parties took over the Guard's duties for the next few days. Many of my men are ill and my chief medical officer tells me that it's likely all of us will be by the end of the week-- Palpatine: Oh? And why would you think you deserve something like that? Fox: I-- ::vomits on Palpatine's imported handwoven carpet:: Palpatine: Disgusting. Truly disgusting. No, commander, you'll do your duty or you die. You're all replaceable anyway. Perhaps your successor will be more competent than you. And less pathetic. Succumbing to a common virus, really. Hardly worth the money paid for you.

Fox: It doesn't matter. We do our duty or we die. Thire: Or we do our duty and we die. Thorn: That's the spirit! Always look on the bright side, vod!

And Fox would say something, but Thire's not wrong. So…

Fox: Business as usual, vod'e. Dead and dying to the medbay, pair up so that if one person passes out, the other can cover for them and try not to vomit on any senators. Thorn: If I can't puke on a senator, can I puke on the chancellor instead? Fox: … Thorn: Fox, you magnificent hypocritical bastard. You didn't. Fox: I only got the carpet. Thorn: I want to be you when I grow up.

And so the Corries get on with their jobs because no one cares if they're sick or not while Fox resigns himself to signing off on several decommissioning orders by the end of the day because the majority of senators have an extremely low tolerance for clones behaving like anything other than droids. (That a significant number seem to think of them as sex droids? Fox would like to see how they fare against the real thing.)

What no one realizes is that the Vode were genetically engineered to be better than their progenitor. To be more resistant to disease, to heal faster and, whenever possible, to not get sick at all. For them to all get sick at once? Requires something highly contagious and more along the lines of a deadly bioterrorism agent, not a mere common cold.

And so:

Thorn: Fox! Fox! Fox: ::irritable and feverish:: What?? Thorn: The chancellor is dead! And so is most of the senate! This is just the Best! Day! Ever!! Fox: … Fox: What happened?? Thorn: I don't know? They just started keeling over. There's bodies everywhere. It's great. I guess it started with the worst of the shiny raping demagolka and spread from there? Triage: This is the worst case scenario I was afraid of. Natborns aren't built to handle the kinds of things that the Vode are. Interesting that it crosses the species barrier though. Thorn: And I got to puke on Free Ta when he tried to stick his kad down my throat! This really is the best day ever! Fox: … Fox: I'm giving everyone the rest of the day off. We'll revisit in the morning. Triage: Why? It's too late to quarantine the Guard. The disease has already spread to the Senate and likely outside of it as well. And recovery will take more than a day in any case. Fox: … Triage: You are quarantining the Guard, right? That is what you're trying to do, isn't it?? Fox: … Fox: Once everyone's gotten some sleep, we'll reassess. Thorn: And throw a party! Because it's not every day you kill the biggest bastards in the galaxy by heaving your guts out.

[beardedmrbean]

Federal agents have raided the homes of top aides and confidants to New York Mayor Eric Adams, including the city’s police commissioner, in what appeared to be a major corruption probe at the heart of America’s biggest city.

In addition to NYPD Commissioner Edward Caban, the raids on Wednesday and Thursday targeted the city’s deputy mayor for criminal justice, Philip Banks III, his brother, schools Chancellor David Banks, First Deputy Mayor Sheena Wright, and a third Banks brother, Terrence Banks, who is not a city official, local media reported.

"Investigators have not indicated to us the mayor or his staff are targets of any investigation," Lisa Zornberg, the mayor’s chief counsel, said in a statement. "As a former member of law enforcement, the mayor has repeatedly made clear that all members of the team need to follow the law."

As he left City Hall in lower Manhattan on Thursday afternoon, Adams, a former police captain, told reporters, “The goal is to follow the law and that is what this administration always stood for and what we’re going to continue to stand for.”

The search warrants at the homes of the deputy mayors and the schools chancellor were first reported by the nonprofit news outlet The City. The seizure by federal agents of the police commissioner’s phones was first reported by Spectrum News NY1.

While New York, like most big cities, has had its share of scandals, the search warrant on Police Commissioner Caban, by investigators from the U.S. attorney’s office in Manhattan, was striking.

“It’s unprecedented for a commissioner to even be mentioned in the context of a federal criminal investigation,” said Hank Sheinkopf, a veteran Democratic political consultant. While other police commissioners oversaw the NYPD during federal probes of the department’s practices, and of individual officers, “not one of them had a federal search warrant served on them,” Sheinkopf said.

A spokesman for the U.S. attorney’s office in Manhattan declined to comment, as did the FBI.

More: NYC Mayor Eric Adams wants changes to sanctuary city laws, increased cooperation with ICE

Adams is known for keeping a tight circle of friends and confidants, many of whom date back to his days in the police department.

Deputy Mayor Philip Banks is a former top NYPD official who was named as an unindicted co-conspirator in an earlier federal bribery probe. His brother, schools Chancellor David Banks, is the romantic partner of First Deputy Mayor Sheena Wright.

Adams adviser Timothy Pearson, who was also reportedly served with a search warrant, is a former police inspector. Pearson and Terrence Banks could not be reached for comment.

This week’s raids were unrelated to an ongoing federal investigation into possible illegal Turkish financing of Mayor Adams’ 2021 campaign, a source familiar with that probe said. The FBI seized Adams’ mobile phones and computer in November 2023, and searched the home of his campaign treasurer.

“The FBI is more engaged in municipal corruption cases around this country than it has ever been,” Sheinkopf said. “You know, those 5:30AM wakeup calls don’t come out of thin air.”

[whencyclopedia]

Thomas Cromwell

Thomas Cromwell (l. c. 1485-1540 CE) served as chief minister to Henry VIII of England (r. 1509-1547 CE) from 1532 to 1540 CE. With his king and the Archbishop of Canterbury Thomas Cranmer (in office 1533-55 CE), Cromwell masterminded the English Reformation which saw the Church in England break away from the Pope in Rome and such momentous acts as the Dissolution of the Monasteries. Gaining favour from the king for his role in successfully annulling Henry's first marriage, Cromwell is also credited with restructuring England's finances and developing the institutions of government. With powerful enemies at court and blamed for arranging an unsuitable marriage for his king to Anne of Cleves (1519-1557 CE), Cromwell was arrested on charges of treason and heresy and executed without trial in July 1540 CE.

Early Career & Rise

Thomas Cromwell was born in Putney, London, the son of a blacksmith and cloth merchant c. 1485 CE. The young Thomas earned a living as a mercenary soldier in Italy from 1503 CE and then went into business where he learnt banking in the Italian banking house led by Francesco Frescobaldi. He visited Rome in 1517 CE and then moved on to Antwerp where Cromwell worked as a merchant in the cloth trade. By 1520 CE he was back in London and making a name for himself in the financial and legal community there, where he established his own legal practice. In 1523 CE he became a Member of Parliament and already displayed an interest in Church reform. Thomas' work as a legal agent caught the attention of the Lord Chancellor, Thomas Wolsey (in office c. 1513-29 CE). Cardinal Wolsey appointed Cromwell as a legal adviser in 1524 CE and his obvious administrative talents would see him become Wolsey's most important secretary. He became a member of the King's Council in 1530 CE which eventually resulted in the apprentice even taking over the role of his master.

Thomas Cromwell was third time lucky for Henry VIII after his previous two Lord Chancellors, Wolsey and Sir Thomas More (in office 1529-32 CE) failed to make any progress in the king's 'Great Matter': to secure a divorce from his first wife Catherine of Aragon (1485-1536 CE). Wolsey could not persuade Pope Clement VII (r. 1523-1534 CE) to annul Henry's marriage and Thomas More had been against the whole idea. Wolsey died on his way to imprisonment and then trial for treason in 1529 CE, and More was imprisoned in 1534 CE. Cromwell, who had cleverly distanced himself from Wolsey when his career started to capsize, found himself sole or chief minister to Henry VIII from 1532 CE. The new man would have to step very carefully as a servant to a highly temperamental sovereign. Indeed, one of Cromwell's major tasks was to interrogate More and persuade him to accept his king as head of the Church of England instead of the Pope.

Continue reading...

[dosesofcommonsense]

FAMOUS ATHEISTS' LAST WORDS BEFORE DEATH:

1. ANTON LEVEY—Author of the Satanic Bible and high priest of the religion dedicated to the worship of Satan. One of his famous quotes was: “There is a beast in man that needs to be exercised, not exorcised”. His dying words were: "Oh my, oh my, what have I done, there is something very wrong. . . there is something very wrong.”

2. GANDHI—At his death, he said, “For the first time in 50 years, I find myself in the slough of despond. All about me is darkness. . .I am praying for light.”

3. THOMAS PAYNE—The leading atheistic writer in American colonies: "Stay with me, for God's sake; I cannot bear to be left alone , O Lord, help me! O God, what have I done to suffer so much? What will become of me hereafter? I would give worlds if I had them, that The Age of Reason had never been published. 0 Lord, help me! Christ, help me! No, don't leave; stay with me! Send even a child to stay with me; for I am on the edge of hell here alone. If ever the Devil had an agent, I have been that one."

4. SIR THOMAS SCOTT—Chancellor of England: "Until this moment I thought there was neither a God nor a hell. Now I know and feel that there are both, and I am doomed to perdition by the just judgment of the Almighty."

5. VOLTAIRE—famous anti-christian atheist: "I have swallowed nothing but smoke. I have intoxicated myself with the incense that turned my head. I am abandoned by God and man.” He said to his physician, Dr. Fochin: “I will give you half of what I am worth if you will give me six months of life." When he was told this was not possible, he said “Then I shall die and go to hell!" His nurse said: “For all the money in Europe I wouldn’t want to see another unbeliever die! All night long he cried for forgiveness.”

6. ROBERT INGERSOLL—American writer and orator during the Golden Age of Free Thought: "O God, if there be a God, save my soul, if I have a soul!" Some say it was said this way: "Oh God, if there be a God, save my soul, if I have a soul, from hell, if there be a hell!

7. DAVID HUME—Atheist philosopher famous for his philosophy of empiricism and skepticism of religion: He cried loud on his death bed "I am in flames!" It is said his desperation was a horrible scene.

8. NAPOLEON BONAPARTE—French emperor who, like Adolf Hitler, brought death to millions to satisfy his greedy, power-mad, selfish ambitions for world conquest: "I die before my time, and my body will be given back to the earth. Such is the fate of him who has been called the great Napoleon. What an abyss between my deep misery and the eternal kingdom of Christ!”

9. SIR FRANCIS NEWPORT—Head of an English Atheist club, to those gathered around his deathbed: "You need not tell me there is no God, for I know there is one, and that I am in his presence! You need not tell me there is no hell. I feel myself already slipping. Wretches, cease your idle talk about there being hope for me! I know I am lost forever! Oh, that fire! Oh, the insufferable pangs of hell! Oh, that I could lie for a thousand years upon the fire that is never quenched, to purchase the favor of God and be united to Him again. But it is a fruitless wish. Millions and millions of years will bring me no nearer the end of my torments than one poor hour. Oh, eternity, eternity forever and forever! Oh, the insufferable pangs of Hell!”

10. CHARLES IX—The French king. Urged on by his mother, he gave the order for the massacre of the French Huguenots, in which 15,000 souls were slaughtered in Paris alone and 100,000 in other sections of France, for no other reason than that they loved Christ. The guilty king suffered miserably for years after that event. He finally died, bathed in blood bursting from his veins. To his physicians, he said in his last hours: "Asleep or awake, I see the mangled forms of the Huguenots passing before me. They drop with blood. They point at their open wounds. Oh! That I had spared at least the little infants at the bosom! What blood! I know not where I am. How will all this end? What shall I do? I am lost forever! I know it. Oh, I have done wrong."

11. DAVID STRAUSS—Leading representative of German rationalism, after spending a lifetime erasing belief in God from the minds of others: "My philosophy leaves me utterly forlorn! I feel like one caught in the merciless jaws of an automatic machine, not knowing at what time one of its great hammers may crush me!"

12. JOSEF STALIN—Soviet Georgian revolutionary and politician. In a Newsweek interview with Svetlana Stalin, the daughter of Josef Stalin, she told of her father's death: "My father died a difficult and terrible death. . .God grants an easy death only to the just. At what seemed the very last moment, he suddenly opened his eyes and cast a glance over everyone in the room. It was a terrible glance, insane or perhaps angry. His left hand was raised, as though he were pointing to something above and bringing down a curse on us all. The gesture was full of menace. . .the next moment he was dead."

13. CAESAR BORGIA—Italian nobleman, politician, and cardinal: "While I lived, I provided for everything but death; now I must die, and am unprepared to die."

14. THOMAS HOBBS—Political philosopher: "I say again, if I had the whole world at my disposal, I would give it to live one day. I am about to take a leap into the dark."

******************

BELOVED, compare these last words from atheists, with these last words, from these saints of God:

THE APOSTLE PAUL: “O death, where is thy sting?”

KING DAVID: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no Evil.”

AUGUSTUS MONTAGUE TOPLADY (1710-1778): Toplady will ever be famous as the author of one of the most evangelical hymns of the eighteenth century, "Rock of Ages," which was first published in 1776.

During the final illness, Toplady was greatly supported by the consolations of the gospel: "The consolations of God, to so unworthy a wretch, are so abundant that he leaves me nothing to pray for but their continuance."

Near his last, awaking from a sleep, he said: "Oh, what delights! Who can fathom the joy of the third heaven? The sky is clear, there is no cloud; come Lord Jesus, come quickly!" He died saying:"No mortal man can live after the glories which God has manifested to my soul."

Lastly, JESUS CHRIST said: “I Am the Resurrection and the Life. He that believeth on Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.”

Only fools never learn from history, and it's amazing that even in our days, with all these facts on our fingertips, someone with a mind can devote his entire life to a delusion, and want everyone to know that there is no God. No wonder the bible says,

"Only fools say in their hearts, there is no God." (Psalm 14:1).“

[ieytdconfessions]

Agent Phoenix, upon finding out they will meet Chancellor Magpantay, wore a barong (also known as a barong tagalog).

(While it is traditionally worn by men, who's really stopping them? Also, the fabric is apparently cool on the skin, perfect for the warm climate.)

.

[tiredassmage]

They had to be taken care of. You know that.

[AUTO-SEND-PROTOCOL] Mentally composing this message in case I meet an untimely end on Ziost, which I now see is even more of a distinct possibility than when Vitiate first surfaced. The Republic has gone to war, possessed combatants line the streets of New Adasta, and you may very well like to kill me yourself. If my service here is cut short, know that it was ultimately life that I served. My own life, yes, but also Agent Shan's, Minister Beniko's, the Supreme Chancellor's, those of the millions in New Adasta and the countless masses across the entire galaxy-- even yours. If Vitiate wins, no one wins. Farewell. Agt. Rane Kovach.