#And the chunks of what i can only assume is meat left to float in accumulated Pot Liquid

[conchfritters]

i could push the fuck out of that boulder but sisyphus could NEVER be the only person who washes dishes in a 4 person household

[omaticwriting]

Station 3: welcome to magic bootcamp

Hi there! sorry for the lack of uploads, before you read the chapter, art shown is made by [@disastrousfeline] give them a check! now onto the story!

----------------------------------------------------------------

After spending two weeks of training  I found myself in a crummy trench outside of the walls, I wasn’t sure what I was really going to fa-

[we wanna hear what happened to you in bootcamp]

Really? You know it’s going to be mostly uneventful time, not even sure if I remember most of what happened then.

(please?)

…fine, I’ll try to remember what happened… now, what was the first thing I remember about boot camp? Oh right…the cold and soaking sensation of cold water being dumped onto my entire body while I slept… “FUCK!”I jolted out of my sleep, barely able to register where or who decided to soak me in cold water, desperately trying to move only to fall onto the cold hard floor “SWEET JOSEPH CHRIST, WHAT THE HELL!” I yelled out, well less yell and more a shrewd mewl. I could only gaze at the perpetrators, two men in uniform, I noticed one on my left had a blue outline who just grinned at me with a small sphere of water with ice in it while the other leaned down, I don’t really remember what their faces looked like, but I knew the one who leaned down had a cap covering their eyes.

“Well, aren’t you soggy? You’re late for training.” They just gave the most smug smile while I shivered on the floor. “Best get up, or we’ll soak you again.”

All I could do was look at the two, but I did notice everyone left and had their beds fixed. Which sucked since I got singled out to get through this whole mess “oh fuck off” is the only word I can say before getting up. Nearly slipped from how cold and wet the floor was after they woke me up.

(...such jerks) I know, but at least they gave some decency to toss me a towel, granted it landed on my head, and some dry clothes, which were just a brackish green uniform I saw at the docks. And after that, I was heading to the cafeteria to get some eat and hopefully get through my shitty wake-up call.

I’m not going to describe what I’m eating, the food was just some sort of stew…last I heard no one really knows what’s in it, with some people tasting vegetables and others meat.

[how come?]

Because I never asked…mine did kind of taste like malt beer and… Honestly, I think it was shrimp…not sure, so that made me gag a little.

After stomaching a sub-par breakfast I and many others got to the firing range or what I assume was a firing range. The “range” was a closed area, a pretty gray room full of dummies made from what I could guess was wax and crude plastic, all to look like a durable zombie-looking dummy that hovered through some sort of magic, but those mostly stuck to the back; further ahead was floating rocks suspended by magic.

Behind was just a table lined with rifles. They looked about what I expected most wooded bolt actions to be, with only a single metal rectangle at the end to indicate the sight and an open bolt. 

What stumped me was the lack of a hole to fire bullets from, more so the fact it had no magazine.

[so like the same one Amisia has?]

Who?

(she’s someone we met, we’ll tell you after your story) …Alright, anyway while everyone talked and murmured, I walked over to the table and grabbed a rifle and a rectangular chunk of wood, surprisingly it was covered in beautifully carved runes, it felt kind of a shame to use it.

But that ended when I heard the door open. I looked over and saw the instructor glare at each and every one of us in the room. Their steps were heavy, and glare felt as though it could kill.

With narrow eyes, I quickly put the rifle down and got in line, the rest following and lucky too…I did not want to get into more trouble than I was in, no need for others to pull me down with them.

“Good, I got your attention” I heard the officer say.  I tensely watched as they picked a rifle and a block of wood from the back, almost having no regard for the unfortunate people in line, but hey at least they didn’t put them in punishment.

“Today, you’ll be training on shooting on the restless targets. You all get a hundred shots, am I clear?” they sternly said. I nearly jumped at how much ease they had when they gave a demonstration. 

I’d admit, but I was in awe of how much ease the guy had, firing bursts of three at the target’s head at a far good distance then moving to another to repeat the process all over again.

He had the focus and experience that anyone worth his salt was worth, and I wasn’t the only one with the whole room being impressed by the ease he could shoot that thing. “I trust you all will improve soon” and like that, he left us to our own devices and to look amongst ourselves.

I think I heard someone boasting he’d blow all of them out of the water or something, I didn’t listen all that much, but I heard someone fight while I took a rifle and `ammunition` and tried my hand at it.

“Okay, let’s get this done so I can get home already,” I told myself, trying to shove a block of wood full of runes into a gap of a magic rifle.

[did you try shoving it in?] 

Yes! Multiple times, it.  Just. Wouldn’t. Fit…okay deep breath…okay, okay.

(E-Eri-) I’m fine…I’m fine, it was just so…fuck me, anyway, I got fed up the longer the block of wood didn’t fit into the gap and it went on for so long too, gods…

But, I had met someone who I'd have a great time with through my training and much more.

[Better than Tram?]

…don't tell him that.

Anyway, after what felt like hours of trying to put a rectangle in an oval hole, I heard someone come to me, his voice was pretty robotic, but it sounded rather laid back. “You need to slam it in, if they don’t fit,” he said to me. And I just looked at the chunk of wood with the most annoyed face I could give the moment I slammed the piece of wood in with a satisfied click.

“FINALLY! Fuck me…” I muttered my satisfaction for the whole mess it gave, and I was itching to let it out on some of the targets, though I did plan to thank the guy who helped me.

And I don’t need to remind you that, the only problem was that he towered over me, about at eye level I would be staring at his waist.

The guy himself was wearing a special kind of training uniform I wore, with the addition of armor and an apron of some kind. He had short cyan hair and metallic…He’s just a human-looking robot with a visor that shows a pair of cyan rectangles to represent eyes; it’s honestly not hard to imagine.

[meknoid]

A what now?

[They’re called meknoids] 

Oh, uhh thanks? Anyway, he gave me this wild and crazy-ish smile, like he’d murder me if I looked at him in the wrong direction, and while I looked back with a look that would clearly say, `fuck off`, I still had to admit, he helped me, so I spoke. “Thanks, I suppose,” I think I said that. But the guy just gave this wider smile and landed his hand out to shake. “No problem,” I looked at him and then back to his hand, and honestly, I was hesitant to shake it, but slowly I did. I nearly cringed in pain from how strong his grip was, but he was a robot, so I shouldn’t be all that surprised. “ V1-ck, but call me Vick, nice to be acquainted” 

“Eric Burkham…” I hesitantly replied, with a lot of skepticism, but he did help, so ‘I might as well try to be friendly with the tall killer Robot man’ I’d think to myself as I went along with shooting.

Right out of the gate, I blinked when I noticed despite how heavy the rifle was, it had no recoil. At all, and that led to a few misses to the dummies that sped by rather fast for me to track.

Thankfully Vick was around, he helped me out on how to aim and hit my targets properly, and sometimes in turn, I’d tell him what life was like back at home…even if I didn’t want to then both in making a friend and talking about him, but over time in my two weeks, I grew to like the big guy and despite how I was, I considered him a friend, even if I didn’t really want to admit it in our first few weeks of meeting each other. 

From there it was mostly a blur for most of my training, it was just the same day of waking up, doing tasks, shooting, eating, and then heading to bed, and in those two weeks, they just blended together with only the occasional ramble of rivalry between the two recruit groups, one I long since stayed away from, those who were native to Elsvin and the other where we came from, honestly it was not worth my time and I just ate and headed off, I did not want the drama.

Other than that there were also my chats with Vick, which was refreshing, compared to everything else.

However, there is this one thing I did remember.

[what was it?]

Well, it was the time I “handed” him my revolver.

It was about a week into my training, and I was busy checking if my revolver still worked. I didn’t really worry too much about using it, given that the Isles already had firearms…Magicarms?

However, I was worried this thing would be useless once I used up the only ammo it accepts, so I'd be carrying deadweight and whatever I might face would take more than thirty-eight, much less than six shots worth of it even if make it count…I’m a decent shot, not a marksman.

I kept musing on it until a robotic hand took my revolver from my hands “Oh, what the fuck!” I lashed out. I avoided the rivalry, I was in no mood to deal with a bunch of assholes taking my stuff for some fragile ego.

Looking at the thief, I realized it was Vick. Inspecting my gun as if it was just  “this is an odd-looking revolver?” he spoke aloud. Looking at my gun while I just tried to reach for my gun, who kept it out of my reach by just raising his arms.

To say I was angry was an understatement…at least he’s responsible with firearms, I don’t plan on having my stuff break.

“Vick you fucking mechanical giraffe, give me back my gun!” I yelled at him while he paid no mind. Busy just looking at it, before looking at me, his curiosity did nothing to hamper my annoyance.

“Huh, I’ve never seen this sort of revolver before…” he spoke to me while he continued to inspect it meticulously. Opening the chamber, he delicately and briefly inspects the ammunition before sliding it back in “Why’s it only accepting physical rounds?” “We never had rune rack ammo!” I harshly explained. I was just done with him not giving my gun back, and I was close to blowing a vein or two “NOW GIVE IT BACK!”.

He just looked at me with a raised brow before closing the chamber and walking off “Follow me” 

Pretty much fed up with the mystery I grabbed his shirt with a pissed look “Not until you give back my gun” 

“You’ll get it back later. Now follow me.” He yanked his shirt from his grip and moved on. Whatever was going through his mind made him pretty focused, leaving me with little choice but to follow along.

“This better be worth it Vick…”

We walked out of the barracks past curfew. I wasn’t exactly sure where he took me, but we eventually arrived at a small, half-open bunker. Inside were tools hung up or lined up on a table made from the bunker’s rubble with a photo of two people, one I think was Vick and another was some girl in overalls standing there, while a smooth cuboid sat next to an impromptu forge made from a bed of debris. The forge had harsh orange runes that gave the semblance of a flame that gently lit the place.

“Vick…where are we?” I finally spoke after a long time I was silent for the entire walk, and even then he ignored me and removed the cylinder of my gun, looking at it back and forth before grabbing a large chunk of metal and looking it at the cylinder.

And finally, FINALLY! He gave it back, cylinder and all, quickly and harshly took it from his hands, and looked at him. I opted to stay then. I was probably curious or wanted a full explanation as to why he took my stuff and did nothing, but I got my answer soon enough when I heard a loud clang.

On the metal Cuboid was a chunk of metal, now glowing a bright orange and flattened down on one side, and Vick holding it down with one hand and in the other a hammer as he hammered it down. I sat down by the table while Vick did his project, not knowing what he was doing, but I at least got a closer look at the photo. It was him in a white tunic and apron while the girl wore overalls and a newsboy cap. It looked as if the bunker was still broken, but the two were a lot happier in it.

“That’s my mentor”  I heard Vick say while he gave shape to the metal chunk “She taught me everything I knew, and I owe her a lot for who I am” I don’t really remember it or it was dark, but I swore he smiled while reminiscing.

“Is she…” I paused. I do not really want to finish the sentence and sound like a further jerk than I was. I may be an ass then, but I know better than to ask those questions given my parent.

But he simply chuckled. “She’s asleep, but don’t tell her I made you this for free; she’s got my core for this,” he said in jest. I heard a hiss of steam coming from somewhere, but I didn’t dwell on it when Vick tossed me something. “You should be able to use rune racks now with that” he spoke with pride and I could see why. 

The cylinder that he gave was rather light despite the size it was when it was still a chunk of metal, six shots yet covered in intricate runes, I’d almost mistake it for a piece of art. But it was something that wouldn’t make my revolver useless and I wouldn’t need to spend anything.

After being silent for as long as I looked at it, I put it on my revolver while I pocketed my old Cylinder, with only a few words coming out of my mouth before the both of us headed back. “...Thanks, Vick”

“No problem Eric”

[rreyie]

Fight for Us

Chapter i- the reunion

summary- it’s been a long time since you’ve last seen reiner, one of your best friends from your childhood. but he’s changed. a lot.

genre- some fluff, angst, comfort/hurt

warnings- mentions of trauma, alcohol, readers feeling getting hurt, death. major spoilers for those who have not watched aot. eventual smut, not in this chapter- this is mainly just background info.

a/n- i told y’all i would be giving you a reiner fanfic for 500 followers, so i delivered and now it’s probably a series lol

For the past hour, you had been waiting at the train station for the Warriors to arrive once again. You had heard about their recent victory at Fort Slava, which everyone seemed to be giddy about. Another step towards victory.

You hadn’t seen them since you were about fourteen or fifteen, when you used to hang out with them in their free time when they weren’t training. You would all chat about who would be getting each titan and why and what the future would hold for you all.

It was always peaceful except for when Porco and Reiner had their usual clash, a few of which quickly became violent. It would usually end with Reiner having a bloody nose which you would always have to tend to, telling him to tilt his head back as you dabbed a tissue under his nose and on his clothes to wipe off the remaining blood.

Your parents lectured you each and every day about how you shouldn’t be hanging out with Eldian scum like him, that he and the others were spawns of the devil and not to be trusted around their innocent daughter. They scolded you each time you checked on them or decided to bring them bread to eat, and sent you to your room for hanging around them. They claimed it was out of love, but you knew better at this age that it wasn’t out of love- it was out of fear.

But they gave in on the day they were leaving for Paradis, and let you say goodbye one last time. You and Reiner talked for a while about how he will make his parents proud of him and save the world.

———

“So you think you can do it? You can really turn things around?”

“Of course I can!” Reiner chirped. “I’ll be a hero.”

“But you only have thirteen years, Reiner”, you warn him. “Your life is cut short now. I, I just...”

“Just what?” Reiner asks you, hazel eyes looking your way.

“I just... don’t want to lose you that early.”

You felt your cheeks start to warm, and quickly hid your face in your shirt to save yourself from the embarrassment. Reiners gaze was soft now, mouth slightly agape. You could easily see a pale pink form on his light complexion.

“You’re that worried about me?” He questioned, slightly raising his brow.

“Yeah, sure. You’re one of my best friends and I don’t want you dying early like that. It’s not fair to you”, you said, almost muttering those words.

“Y/n...” Reiner said. “I’m not just doing this for my parents. It’s for you too.”

Your eyes stop staring down at the ground and now avert to Reiner, who’s blush was deep now.

You had no clue what to say. It seemed like this comfortable silence was the best option, just sitting there trying to process your emotions.

The sun was starting to set, and Reiner had to leave at sunrise with the others. He slowly got up from the pavement of the sidewalk and brushed off his uniform pants in case any dirt got on them. You got up with him, wanting to spend every moment you possibly could with him before he left.

“I think this is goodbye, y/n. I should get some sleep before I leave in the morning”, he murmured.

“Okay. Guess I should let you sleep then”, you say. “Just...promise me you’ll come back alive. Fight for us, Reiner.”

Reiners expression turned warm, a smile curling on his rosy lips. “I will. I’ll come back, I promise.”

You both knew what was coming next. Reiner put his hands out for you and pulled you in close, your lips landing on his. You put a hand on his cheek, rubbing at his skin as both of your lips clashed against each other. It wasn’t a rough kiss, but not timid either. It was somewhere perfectly in the middle. Something you both were going to need to remind you of each other.

———

Now the time had finally come to meet eyes with him again. This was the last thing you thought about before the train came rolling in, coughing big clouds of black steam as it entered the station. Cheers could be heard from the crowd on the platform as passengers from inside waved to their families, likely for the first time in years.

You jostled through the crowd once the train came to a stop and started to unload its contents. Soldiers ran to embrace their mothers, fathers, siblings and spouses, some reunions making tears fall from their cheeks. This was the most happiness you had seen in a while.

Nearby, a short brunette girl quite literally flung herself out of the train, shouting into the air about how happy she was to be home. A man with slicked back hair had a rosy-cheeked blonde, clearly intoxicated, slung around his shoulder. For a moment you thought it was Reiner, but you thought otherwise when you continued to observe his features.

“Reiner! I’m so glad you’re home!”

You heard what sounded to be an old woman talking in another direction, the mention of his name making your head instantly turn towards where it was coming from. A woman with short blonde-grey hair was hugging a much taller man, with pale skin, hollow cheeks and noticeable dark circles under his eyes.

No fucking way that’s him, you thought to yourself. The solemn expression on his face did not match what you last saw, the old Reiner you used to know. What the hell had happened while he was in Paradis? Did the island devils get to him?

You gulp and decide to go and see for sure if this was really Reiner. Pushing through the dense crowd again, you walk the direction of the familiar voices.

Once you finally get a clearer glimpse of the old woman and who you assumed to be Reiner, you came to the conclusion that this was in fact him- just a tired, potentially malnourished version of him.

“Reiner!” You call. His head spun around, eyes widening when he saw your figure running towards him. You swore you could see a tiny smile form on his face, a contrast to his exhausted features.

You run into his chest, and wrap your arms around his buff figure. But for some reason, you don’t feel his arms hug you back. It felt strange, but you were going to take what you could get.

“Y/n?” Reiner asked, making you tilt your face up to confirm that it was you. “Oh fuck, I missed you, how are you?”

“Language, Reiner”, the old woman scolded. You could recognize her now, it was his mother- Karina Braun.

“Excuse me mother”, he said. “But really, how have you been?”

“I’m okay, but shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” You question him. “You’ve been at war for years.”

“Yeah, sure”, he responds. “Just tired.”

You pull away, and see Karina starting to smile, making her dimples appear on her cheeks. “This must be y/n, the girl you wouldn’t stay quiet about when you were little!” She exclaimed.

Reiner scoffed. “Not the time, mother. And I didn’t talk about her that much.”

The dispute between them made you giggle. Karina sighed, slightly exaggerated.

“If you like, you can come over for dinner tonight”, she offers. “I’m making beef stew and my sister and her family will be over to talk about what happened. Her daughter is a warrior candidate too, so I bet Reiner and her would have some interesting stories to tell.”

“Sounds wonderful!”, you say. “I’ll be over whenever.”

“Is seven alright for you?”

“Yes, that’s alright”, you reply. “In that case, I’ll see you two tonight!”

Karina beamed and nodded. Reiner was clearly starting to get bored of the conversation, observing some of the architecture of the station. It looked like he was in his own world, telling from the foreign look in his eyes. They didn’t seem as bright as they used to.

“I should go. I need to run some errands for my family before tonight, but I’ll be over! See you two later!”

“Goodbye, y/n!” Karina yelled as you waved and began to walk away. For some reason, Reiner did not say anything to you before you left, which you found strange. You chose to not question it out of being polite, he may still be adjusting to being back in Marley.

A couple hours had passed since you left the train station. You went to the market to negotiate the high prices of nectarines and plums, to the bank to cash a few checks, and back to your parents house to drop off groceries and a little bit of spare cash to buy toiletries for the week.

But Reiner didn’t leave your mind while you were doing all of this. You were almost scared to ask what happened to the others who went on the mission, in fear of the truth. Perhaps minding your own business was the best thing to do right now.

You walked into the Braun household at exactly 6:55, a smile on your face. Karina hurriedly walked to the door to greet you, a bubbling sound in the distance along with the scent of meat, garlic and rosemary.

“Welcome, welcome!” Karina chimed. “I’ll take your coat, it’s rather warm in here.”

“Thank you”, you say. “It smells delightful in here!”

“That would be the signature Braun family stew”, she said. “My sister is tending to the stew. Reiner and Gabi are in here waiting for you.”

You walked though the hall that connected to the dining room and small kitchen, where the smell was coming from. Reiner and Gabi sat at the table along with a middle aged man, who was Gabis father.

“Is this her?” The man asked. “Nice to meet you, y/n. This is my daughter Gabi, and I bet you know Reiner. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Gabi gave you a toothy smile, while Reiner just looked down staring at his empty bowl.

“Sit down, Reiner and Gabi are about to tell out about their experiences”, he said and pulled out a chair.

The other woman in the kitchen brought in a steaming pot of a red stew, chunks of meat, carrots and celery floating around in the thick broth. She dished you some, then gave some to the others.

Gabi seemed to talk for hours about how she single-handedly took out the rest of the Allied Forces from a grenade she constructed, Reiner not saying anything and only staring at the stew, occasionally poking the contents.

“It was amazing!” Gabi said. “After this it’s just those island demons!”

“Speaking of”, her father said. “Reiner, how was your stay in Paradis?”

“Dad, you shouldn’t ask that stuff!” Gabi yelled. “Most of it is probably classified anyways!”

“You’re right, Gabi”, he sighed. “Reiner, forgive your uncle.”

“Actually”, he began. “Not all of it is a secret. There was this girl who had the courage to eat a potato at the opening ceremony... what was her name again? Sasha Braus? Yep, that sounds about right...”

“That’s wonderful, but I mean the battle. Did they find out? About you know... the titan thing?”

The slight smile on Reiners face soon disappeared and turned into one of terror, his pupils getting small and eyebrows furrowing slightly.

Gabi elbowed her father. Karina flashed a nervous look to her sister, and you looked back to her for guidance.

“Reiner, are you okay?” She asked.

“Y-yeah, just need to step outside. I think the air is getting to m-me”.” He quickly got up and left his seat and hurried out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

You all sat in silence, growing uncomfortable by the second.

You weren’t hungry now.

———

After failing to make conversation due to the recent events, you get up and excuse yourself, only after putting your bowl in your sink and thanking them for dinner. Gabi promised she would tell you more about her adventures before you headed out the door.

The Braun’s had a small porch on the house, and you assumed that Reiner would be sitting there when you came out. But you were shocked to find him nowhere to be found. You told Karina that you would look around for him, and left the house.

You were out for two hours looking for him. The night was starting to become darker, stars twinkling above you and shining down on this messed up world you were a part of.

But after hours of searching and worrying that you may not see him again, you found him on a bench outside of a pub in Liberio.

“Hey, Reiner!” You yell to him. His reaction wasn’t as sudden as the last time you called his name at the train station. Instead, his head was hanging low and slowly lifted up, his eyes reminding you of a stray dog.

You walked towards him, and stood in front of him once you felt that he noticed your presence.

“Your mom is scared, she doesn’t know where you ran off to”, you lecture him. “You should really come back home-“

“I’m not coming back home tonight, y/n.”

“Huh?” You ask him. “Reiner, it’s almost midnight. I’ll take you home if you need someone to walk you home.”

“Stop worrying about me. I’m staying here for the night, gonna have a few beers. Just... go away.”

These words take you by surprise. You can feel your throat tighten, and you try and swallow the feeling down so you wouldn’t have to deal with it right now. You couldn’t cry, not with him in front of you like this.

“I said fuck off. What do you not get about that?” His gruff voice growled. There was hostility in his expression, like you had never known him, or even worse- he was your enemy.

“O-ok, I’ll be going now”, your say as your voice cracked. You did your best to stifle your tears but you couldn’t stop them from collecting at your lash line. “Um, have a good night, Reiner.”

Swiftly, you get up from the bench and head in the direction of home, where you would probably spend the incoming day crying in embarrassment for making Reiner pissed. This was the exact last thing you wanted to do, make him feel uncomfortable to the point where he was pushing you away.

You stopped at a nearby lamppost to collect your thoughts, slumping against the cold pole and letting a few tears trickle down your cheeks. You grab a tissue from your pocket, and try to soak up your salty tears. You felt like absolute and utter shit.

A few footsteps are heard in the distance, and you are quick to reach in your other pocket and pull out a small pocketknife. After all, Liberio after dark wasn’t a safe place for a woman to be. Especially in this lighting.

“Who’s there?” You ask. “Show yourself or I’m drawing my knife.”

“Calm yourself, y/n.”

The familiar deep voice came closer to where you were standing, and a tall figure showed itself in the shadows. The red armband was crimson in the faded yellow light from the lamp, the man wearing a beige uniform.

“Reiner?” You ask, hoping for an answer. “Is that you?”

“I followed you back. I’m sorry for yelling at you”, he grumbled, and scratched the back of his head. “It’s about time I told you what happened.”

You nod, and sit on the curbside of the dimly lit street. He came and sat with you, just like you two did when you were young.

“So are they like people say?” You ask. “You know, the whole devil thing.”

Reiner shrugs. “They’re not evil. But they’re not good people either. It’s... hard to describe.”

“I understand.”

“You do?”

“Well, that’s a stretch”, you say. “I don’t, but I know how you feel. Um, I know you probably don’t want me asking but... what happened to the rest of the people who went with you? Marcel? Bertholdt? Annie?”

Reiner puts a hand to his face and shakes his head.

“Marcel died first. Bertholdt died a year ago I think. His titan was passed down to some blonde boy with a bowl cut in Paradis. And Annie, god who knows where she is? I’m not sure if she’s alive or dead.”

This information was something you were struggling to process. Marcel was a quick thinker, how could he not survive? And Bertholdt- he had what may have been the strongest titan, and who would want to kill his poor gentle soul? Annie though, you still had a bit of hope for.

“Before he died”, Reiner began. “Marcel told me I wasn’t meant to become the Armored. It was supposed to be Porco, but he interfered to protect him. I’m seeing what he means by I wasn’t meant to do this.”

“Don’t say that”, you order him, but not in a pushy tone. More like a gentle one. “If you’ve made it back alive, that’s enough for me.”

“What would you have done if I died?”

“I wouldn’t know”, you say. “I don’t think I want to even think about that.”

He nods. Death was too familiar to him now, it had almost become his friend now. It wasn’t an uncommon thing to see nowadays.

“And you kept that promise to me”, you utter. “You came back in one piece. I’m proud. This entire country is too.”

Reiner doesn’t look to you. Instead he gives a hum of approval, indicating that he heard you. You could see his chiseled features in the moonlight shining down on him to create a perfect shadow. God he was beautiful, he always was.

[dashboardcat]

I Try One of Everything at Salt City Market (Part 2)

Remember like 3 weeks ago when I did a write-up of a food hall in my hometown, guaranteed to attract the attention of like, 2 people?  Well, it’s time for more of that! 

Attempt #1

While there wasn’t a line outside this time, the market itself seemed just as busy as it was the day after the grand opening.  I also tried to make a point to take in more of the decor, but I don’t think I really have anything new to add other than the fact that I watched not one but two people struggle to stuff the big paper bags their food came in into the trendy, tiny-opening trash cans.  More importantly, I forgot that like, half of the stands are closed on Mondays, meaning I would have to come back another time to finish my quest. 

ERMA’S ISLAND- Jerk Pork (half portion)- $10

I want to say right off the bat that of all the things I’ve tried from this market, this was hands down the best smelling.  And thankfully, the pork pretty much tasted as good as it smelled.  It was tender and juicy, and the sauce was complex, with a good amount of heat that didn’t overpower the other flavors.  The rice and beans that it came with, on the other hand, was a little bland, but that’s nothing that mixing the sauce into can’t fix.  

Unfortunately, I can never show my face there again, because when the cashier asked me if I wanted the half or whole portion, I said “Yeah,” and made her repeat herself like 3 times.

MAMMA HAI- “Marco Polo” Banh Mi- $10

Yes, that’s pepperoni on a banh mi.

The roll was nice and crusty, and to be honest, that’s like 90% of what makes a good sandwich for me.  Unfortunately, the pickled veggies and cilantro (and this blog is pro-cilantro, get over yourselves, haters) sort of overpowered the pepperoni and the char siu pork, which is a shame because I wanted that pepperoni to shine.  If this was a $5 banh mi, I wouldn’t have a problem with that, but at $10 I would have liked a little more meat, or at least for the already existing meat to make its presence felt.  The pate and mayo kinda also get lost, but do present a bit of richness in about every other bite (and, for another controversial sandwich opinion, I don’t necessarily think that every bite of a sandwich has to have an even distribution of everything, otherwise the flavors sort of just blur together after a while).  Overall, it’s a fairly decent sandwich, but left me longing for something more.  They also have a curry chicken banh mi, maybe that one has a better balance of flavor.

CAKE BAR- Locus Cake- $6.50

One thing about Cake Bar that isn’t made apparent by looking at their stand is that, according to their website, it’s meant to resemble a Vietnamese cafe.  In hindsight, this kinda explains the wide variety of specialty teas (specialteas, if you will) they also had available.

The chocolate cake was moist and had little crispy bits running throughout it.  At first, I thought it was eggshells, because I’m an idiot and always assume the worst.  After picking out an especially large chunk, I realized it was broken up bits of Biscoff cookies! (Further research has shown me that the parent company that makes Biscoff cookies is called Locus, thus, y’know, the name of the cake.  Probably should have put that together sooner, it literally says “Locus” on the cookie, one of which was lodged into the top of the cake.)  The buttercream was surprisingly light, and the caramel on top had the perfect consistency, gooey enough to stay put but not so gooey that it turned into a stringy mess after running your fork through it.  The only negative thing I really have to say about the all-around experience was that the box they used made it kind of difficult to get the slice out of it (as you can see, I ended up just tearing the sides up).

Attempt #2 

Since the market is relatively close to my work, I figured I would drop by after work one day to bang out the rest of the list.

BAGHDAD RESTAURANT- Beef Shawarma- $6.99

At first, I laughed to myself upon seeing it in one of those gas station sub bags.  The laughing faded pretty quickly, though, upon seeing it was, in fact served on a sub roll. I'm not a shawarma expert. maybe that can be an acceptable way to eat it? The beef was well spiced and that perfect sweet spot between tender and still having something to sink your teeth into.  Unfortunately, that’s more or less where my compliments end.  What little sauce the menu promised (just called “sauce,” don’t ask me what it is) has soaked into the bread and completely disappeared, making the whole thing somewhat dry and lackluster.  Also, they didn’t cut it, which was fine with the heartier banh mi’s baguette but with the softer sub roll didn’t have the structural integrity to be picked up whole without a struggle.  My biggest gripe with it is mostly on me, though, as the juice from the pickles tainted most of it with pickle stank, which could have been avoided entirely if I had just ordered it without.  

SOULUTIONS- Mustard and Berbere Fried Chicken ($6) and FIRE MAC ($4)

(Note- the $6 order of chicken comes with 2 of these chicken cutlets, but I carelessly ate one before taking the picture.)

I do want to clear the air here and say that yes, I did accidentally order fried chicken and mac and cheese from both of the soul food places.  I was originally going to get the burger, at my friend’s recommendation, but the menu board by the register suspiciously didn’t have the burger on it, so I panicked and ordered the fried chicken again.  

While the breading was stained yellow from mustard, the honey mustard taste was very subtle.  I also have to admit to not knowing off the top of my head what berbere (I had to google it, it’s an Ethiopian spice blend) tastes like, so i can't tell you if this tasted like that.  But, despite not being especially strong in either of the namesake seasonings, it definitely is a flavorful piece of chicken nonetheless.  Flavors work that way sometimes.

The Fire Mac may not have delivered as strongly on cheese as I may have liked, but it definitely did deliver on the fire, drizzled with a tangy buffalo-esque sauce.  And Topped with crumbled bits of fried chicken skins? Can’t go wrong with that.

JUICE AND FLOWERS- “Root | 12” Juice- $8

Misleading name, I didn’t see any flowers anywhere.  Zero stars. 

The beet and lemon were the most pronounced of the flavors, with the ginger lingering on the palate and, unsurprisingly, the apple and carrot mostly being there to round the whole thing out.  The employee that waited on me was very passionate and knowledgeable about the juice, informing me that 2 pounds of produce had gone into this little bottle, and that it’d have a shelf life of 3-5 days.  Which is good, because I put it back in the fridge after I got home to chill it back down, and then proceeded to forget about it for 3 days.  It’s also a very thick and hearty juice, so it doesn’t feel that weird to only want to drink half a bottle in one sitting and, y’know, make this $8 bottle of juice last a little longer. 

Attempt #3

Knowing fully well that I was going to have a long night shift ahead of me, I decided to check out the Coffee Bar side of the market for what would be my third trip over the course of 5 days.  I feel like I should also point out that the Coffee Bar, as its name literally breaks down as, serves coffee during the day and a full bar at night.  I also noticed during this visit that the Coffee Bar has a patio seating area under construction, cheesy string lights and all, that I am looking forward to.

Fruity Pebbles Latte- $6

Against my best judgement, I got it “for here” for the sake of the pic, even though a.) I had to break my rule of not eating in places because this fucking pandemic isn’t over yet and b.) I was nervous about being late for work the whole time (I did, in fact, get there on time).  As I waited, I could see their secret recipe fruity pebbles milk sitting on the counter.  It was, in fact, fruity pebbles and milk.  

I didn’t really think the Fruity Pebbles would work with the espresso, having had been burned before by places that just dump them onto things with no regard of the flavor profile just for the sake of the burst of color.  But, somehow… it did work.  Maybe it’s because cereal milk is never quite as strong as some might hope, but the subtle fruitiness of the milk played well with the chocolatey notes in the espresso.  The espresso itself probably also had the best crema on it that I’ve ever seen on a latte (and yes, I had to google the pretentious espresso-snob term for the foam that floats to the top).

Also shoutout to the pour over, which on their menu board is priced at "4-ish"

I’m so glad I’m living with my parents again at the moment.  Otherwise, this whole thing would’ve been like, a month’s worth of my food budget.

[wordydelights]

hannibal lecter and clarice starling fanfic

The air smelled of freshly brewed, dark roasted coffee and crisp, steamy flesh sizzling on the stovetop. Clarice’s eyes slightly fluttered open as she breathed in the nostalgic aromas, it brought her back to childhood memories of waking up to the smell of bacon and eggs. It was a good scent, it meant her father had the day off and got to spend it with her. Her little feet would jump out of her comfortable bed and dart into the kitchen to find her dad, with a cup of coffee in one hand and a skillet in the other. “Morning' sweetie,” he’d say with a smile. She woke up out of her daze suddenly, her eyes opening in sync with the beat of her heart. 

She glanced around, the edges of her vision blurred by morning weariness. She rubbed her eyes. As she gained awareness, her mind began to wake up with the rest of her body. She then quickly realized this time was distinctly different from her memories. 1) She was located far away from home in a four star hotel located on the east side of northern Lithuania. 2) The smell was most definitely not coming from bacon, she could recognize the signature scent of burnt skin in the middle of a barbecue, after having the misfortune of inhaling its nauseating aroma in the past. She remembered reading about it in a forensics textbook. Burning muscle tissue creates a smell similar to beef in a frying pan and the fat smells like fatty pork on the grill. You never quite get the scent of death out of your nostrils entirely, no matter how much time has passed. 

She heard a creak coming from the kitchen floorboards and jolted awake now certainly knowing she was no longer alone. Attempting to not make a single sound, she reached for her pistol lying on the wooden bedside dresser to her right. Beside it she snatched a small hunting knife, she carried for good luck and slid it in her left sock. She took a step out of the bed, the floorboards groaned slightly and she quickly changed her footing, attempting to feel out the hollow areas that lay underneath to avoid making any noise. She found her fluffy bunny slippers tucked away beneath the metal bed frame and slid her toes into its cushioned soles, muffling the pattering of her steps. Clicking the gun’s safety off slowly, she crept through the doorway keeping her body close to the wall as she peered over into the kitchen. She brought her extended arms close to her chest, the pistol now few inches away from her chin, pointed at the ceiling. She couldn’t hear anything over the sound of her breathing and the occasional pops of oil from the frying pan on the stove. 

“Good Morning Clarice,” an all too familiar voice rang within her ears, breaking the unsettling silence. “You can come out now.” 

Clarice Starling emerged from the bedroom, her gun pointed directly in line with the back of Dr. Lecter. He was sitting in a chair at the mahogany dining table, his back to Clarice, he faced the opened doors to the balcony outside, his legs were crossed nonchalantly as he read the black and white newspaper in his hands. Clarice didn’t hesitate and pulled the trigger. Click. Click. Click.

“Tsk Tsk. Naughty girl,” Dr. Lecter teased without looking back. “Why don’t you have a seat? Don’t want your breakfast getting cold.” 

She rushed to his seat, swinging the unloaded pistol at his skull. Lecter grasped her wrist tightly with his right and only hand, the pistol about an inch from smashing into his head. His eyes remained glued to the newspapers contents even as he snapped her clenched fist open and flung the gun onto the table. “You’re very predictable Starling. Do you intend on making this more difficult than it needs to be?”

Slowly she made her way to the empty seat across from him. A plate consisting of two sausages, an egg and buttered toast laid in front of her. Clarice kept her unwavering gaze steady with Lecter’s. “What do I owe the delight of your presence, Doctor Lecter? I haven’t heard from you since our previous encounter. No calls or even a letter, unusual for you.” “Writing was a luxury I unfortunately had to leave behind with my dominant hand. The right gets the job done, but the penmanship will never quite equate to the elegance before.  I was sure you of all people wouldn’t need to be reminded of such details,” Lecter smiled as he lifted the black leather glove over his prosthetic to expose it’s plastic skin. Clarice remained silent, her eyes in a deadlock with his.

“I also couldn’t bear to give you the satisfaction of answering any questions I’m sure have been floating about in that charming head of yours. It wouldn’t do any justice to a more intimate confrontation. I was originally planning on leaving your mind to be in constant torment and wonder just for my personal pleasure, but when I overheard that you came all this way to pay me a visit I simply couldn’t resist your cries for my attention,” He paused, glancing down at the plate in front of her. “Please do eat, I assure you it is up to your standards.” 

“Oh really?” Clarice started, gesturing over at the oven. “Then how do you explain that?”

“I cannot make the same promise regarding my meal,” Lecter eerily grinned. 

Starling took a bite of her eggs, the yolk ran like spilled blood throughout her plate leaving a dark yellow pool around the crisp toast. Lecter watched her throat move up and back into place as she swallowed. He leaned back satisfied. “Remind you of the way daddy made them?” he chirped.

“They’re lacking on the pepper and he never used rosemary.” 

“My mistake.” He rose from the chair and attended to the sizzling flesh on the frying pan. 

Clarice scanned the room looking for any objects that could be used as a weapon, despite the other half of her brain telling her it’s useless and he’ll simply see it coming. For the meantime she deemed it to be best to go along with his game. “Why are you here Doctor?”

“I could ask you the same Clarice.”

“Doing my job, hunting you down,” she shot back, her eyes flared like hot charcoal on a grill.

“I’m flattered, but spare the theatrics because we both know this hardly has anything to do with work,” he flipped the long chunks of fat to their opposing side with a spatula.

“Why wouldn’t it?”

“Because you are here. Because you are not a part of the Lithuanian law enforcement. Because the bureau would never send their agents overseas to investigate a criminal who's been off the radar for over three years without concrete proof of my whereabouts, which I know for a fact that I have not provided.”

“People you have had personal connections to throughout your childhood, in your hometown suddenly show up murdered, matching your profile exactly, I would say that’s a dead give away Doctor.”

“You’ve been doing your research I see.”

“Of course, how else would I have found you?”

“Tell me Clarice, are you here for business or pleasure?” His tongue flicked against the backs of his teeth.

“For justice.” “Who sent you? And do not insult my intelligence with anything shroud of the truth because I will know.” Using the metal spatula he set the meat down on his plate next to his two poached eggs. He impaled the fattiest piece with his fork, bringing it to his nose, inhaled then took a slight nibble and savored the flavor in his tongue. 

Starling took a heavy breath, her eyes dropped from his gaze. “No one sent me,” she half-muttered. “Stop me if I’m wrong Clarice but I have a feeling I haven’t left your mind since the night of our last dinner together. I know your biggest question may be; why? Why would a monster such as myself sacrifice a part of my body for you? That question ate at you inside, festering like an aged wound and grew until it consumed you, you told yourself you needed to put an end to my antics for good, and knowing just how personal it had become you made it your mission to hunt me down and lock me back in a cage. But we both know the truth don’t we? No it was never about justice...it was about not being able to deal with your reciprocated emotions. It was creating an excuse to see me once again.” Clarice kept her head facing the ground, her face was stone and expressionless, but Hannibal did not stop. Leaving the kitchen’s marble island he began to approach Starling slowly. 

“You knew I would never come back, that I would leave you alone for the remainder of your life.” He was looming over her now, his shadow darkening her features. “You knew that if we were ever to have another encounter that you would have to seek me out this time.” In that moment Clairce felt a true sense of inferiority, a feeling she was not accustomed to. His body was inches from hers, her head at level with his upper waist. She breathed in his presence, it was a pure, primal masculine aroma. He digressed and sat down at the table, his demeanor changing from sensually intimidating and virile to a common mortal in a split second. 

“Maybe you never realized these feelings until you truly began your research into my past. When you learned I suffered the same pain you felt at a young age. I assume you discovered the details regarding the death of my family?” “Yes. They were killed in a bombing.”

“Yes, everyone died except my sister Mischa and myself. We were held captive in a lodge by Nazi forces when a group of Lithuanian Hilfwillige stormed and looted the lodge. They searched the premises for food but found nothing.” He took a sip from his cup of coffee and moved his gaze to the balcony looking off into the dark clouded skies and continued.

“The blistering chill of winter combined with an empty stomach, it does something to men, brings out the savage within. Mischa and I became the menu options. I put up a fight, but Mischa...she was weak, starving herself, ill from the cold, she was an easy kill. They sodomized her corpse first before slicing her body in bite sized portions and roasting it above a fire pit.”

Clarice watched his eyes as he recalled the events. She could almost swear she saw the reflection of his memory playing like a film in the glare of his pupils. Despite no tears being shed, she felt the immacable amount of pain in the slight trembles of his voice. 

At a loss for words to speak, “I’m sorry,” was all she could let out.

“You see Clarice, monsters like myself are not born into this world with faulty wiring, we are made through suffering.” He turned back towards her, circling the metal spoon inside the coffee cup, hitting it’s ceramic edges with every rotation.

“Is that how you justify your actions Dr. Lecter?”

“I admit there are some sins I have committed I cannot truly justify; however, most of the unspeakable acts I commit I can assure you are in fact poetic justice at it’s finest.” 

Clarice dropped her eyes to her socks, where the pocket knife rubbed against her perspire, she considered her course of action, but only for a second, until she was interrupted by the rattle of the wooden chair she was sitting in. Dr. Lecter gripped the chair’s arms like he expected it to run from his grasp, and leaned close to Starling’s ear. 

“Tell me, do I excite you Clarice? Do you find me in your dreams late in the evening? I imagine I used to appear as a grotesque monster but now perhaps a lover? And when you wake up do you find yourself horrified with yourself for these thoughts you simply cannot control?” She could feel the slight prickle of his facial air as his lips grazed against her earlobe. 

“I never believed you to be a monster Doctor,” she softly spoke. 

“Is that all you have to refute?” She lifted her head and let herself drift for a moment in his pale blue eyes.“I used to wonder if you were capable of love. That night, when you spared me from pain, I found out you were. But may I ask, why me? Was it just because I was one of the first women you had spoken to in years? Because I shared some personal information no one else would dare give to you?” She positioned her left hand further to the edge of her seat and brought her corresponding foot closer in reach. “Is that really what you think of me? So desperate for the touch of a woman I fall for the first to give me any attention in years? I see goodness in you Starling. When I look at you I see the same glimmer of loss within your eyes that I see in mine. You are an unfaltering flame, always burning with a righteous desire. Your character never fails to intrigue me, the way your mind ticks, your witty remarks, your composure in the face of death. No I’ve never quite found one like you.” His thumb fell from the top of her cheekbones to the very underlying rosy purse of her bottom lip. Her breathing was fluttered, rapidly picking up in pace with every passing second, for a second she felt as though she may lose consciousness altogether.

Overcome with emotion, she pulled out the blade from her sock and held it against his throat, knocking the chair down with the commotion. 

“Do it. I won’t stop you.”

“You have to understand how crazy this is. I can’t give up my life for one of FBI’s most wanted. I’d be throwing away everything I worked so hard to achieve. This needs to end. There is nothing between us.” “Then this should make things much easier for you. Don’t hesitate Clarice.”

“I don’t want to kill you.” “I won’t be put behind bars again, you either kill me now or I disappear from the world for good.” 

Clarice let a tear roll down her cheek, pushing Hannibal against the wall behind them. The cold steel pressed Lecter’s adams apple higher up into his esophagus. He never dropped his gaze with her even as tiny beads of blood began to break through the barriers of his skin’s surface. 

She stared into his eyes, his pupils seeming to pulsate as they stared back into her. 

“I can’t,” she whispered.

 “And why is that?”

“The same reason you can’t kill me.”

“And what may that reason be Clarice?” “Don’t make me say it.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, feeling the dips of her collar bones and the rhythmic thumping of her heart. He slowly moved his caress up to her neck and locked his hands around her throat.

“I want you to tell me Clarice. I want to hear the words come out of your mouth.”

She remained silent, nervous trembles running through her body.

He began to squeeze. “Say it,” he hissed. 

She gagged for air while shaking her head no.

“Say it!” his scream echoed throughout the floor of the hotel.

With a rasped voice and tears streaming down her cheeks she whimpered, “I love you.”

With his hands still firmly gripped around her neck, he whipped her around. The walls rattled as her back slammed against them. In a midst of desire he aggressively pressed his lips against hers, his hands still squeezing tightly as she returned his embrace. The warmth of his breath was hot like smoke. He released his grasp as she began to gasp for oxygen. Black fuzziness clouded her vision as she slid down the wall to the floor. 

In that moment it all clicked in her head. A fleeting memory pushed through the adrenaline coursing through her veins and in an instant the dots regarding Lecter were somehow aligned. 

“What was your mother like?” she managed to make out in between heavy breaths. 

Puzzled by the randomness of her inquiry, Lecter responded hesitantly with a curious smile, “I feel as though she truly loved her children but was simply a very emotionally detached person.” 

Clarice’s eyes narrowed, “Did she nurse you as a child Dr. Lecter?”

“Yes.”

Clarice lowered the thin straps of her black satin nighty, her clavicle further exposed, glistening with faint beads of sweat. She took a breath in through her nose and exhaled slowly.

“Did you ever compete with Mischa for the breast?”

“I don’t remember Clarice…,” Lecter began not quite sure where she was going with the question. “If there was a competition I would’ve given it up willingly.” He found the enigma of her quivering lip excessively compelling.

She raised herself to his eye level, her glare burning like firey embers, she leaned her back against the floral wallpaper, “You will not have to compete for mine.”

Her nighty swiftly slid off her shoulders and fell to her ankles as if she manifested it to reality. Lecter’s eyes moved up and down her curves absorbing the image into the most precious capsules of his mind. Pulling him close to her chest, he bent down, inhaling the warmth resonating off her skin, his hands caressing the small of her back while his tongue followed the thin trail of swelter to her breast.

[courage-a-word-of-justice]

BnHA 84 - 86 | Uchitama 9 - 12 (FINAL) | Eizouken 10 - 12 (FINAL) | Magia Record 8 - 13 (FINAL) | ID: INVADED 12 - 13 (FINAL) | ACCA OVA

BnHA 84

Ey? So Gentle is basically Luffy, only he can do stuff with air too.

“Tokoyami, it’s in lesson 3.”

Eizouken 10

LOL, you can see a name similar to “Rachel Enyoung Choi” in one of the credit lists. Update: Euyoung Choi is credited on one of the other folders.

“Kanamoney” is catching on, I see.

“Well, dough.” - Sarasoju, where soju is some alcoholic Korean beverage.

The back of the clock reminds me of that Skipper and Skeeto game I used to play.

Did Kanamori get a fringe cut…?

You can see the symbol for Eizouken on the (imaginary…?) warehouse.

Uchitama 9

The video got encoded funny again…

I‘ve heard of AIBOs before. They’re robotic dogs, although with newfangled drones, Google Nests and stuff, they went out of fashion years ago.

Aibou (with kanji) means “partner”, come to think of it...

While everyone else is talking in the foreground, I’m staring at Beh in the background…

Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve seen Kuro and Nora interact all that much.

Natsuki Hanae as Leo, huh?

Uchitama 10

Second-last episode!

Neko (cat) -> Koma -> ari (ant)…isu (chair) -> suika (watermelon) -> tamago (egg, or sometimes it sounds like tabako/tabacco to me) -> ??? -> koi (carp) -> ???? “Kooten” seems to be a nonsense word.

The video got encoded funny again…

…and that’s twice now…

LOL, this is based on Millionaire.

…thrice…

The original quote is (something like), “It is said that heaven does not create one man above or below another man.” (Yukichi Fukuzawa)

The answer was C, obviously.

…4 times.

Bull does his best Thinker impression.

Oh my gosh, they’re bringing that joke back…? (LOL) Update: The portal joke.

“chunk of meat” – Uh…what?

Holy s***! It’s Bull’s dad! Bull time travelled!

Magia Record 8

I like how the anime introduced Gomakashi, then had the proper OP.

Chuo Ward (Chuoku)? In Hypnosis Mic, that’s a sign Ayappe is definitely a girl…but this ain’t HypMic, so no worries!

The greeting is “Kamihama” because it sounds kind of like konbanwa and the host is Mr Hammer because that sounds like the back half of Kamihama, I guess.

Magia Record seems more overt about its lesbian undertones, I see.

I noticed a piano on a poster in the back. Wonder what that means…?

Just reading translations of radio transcripts like this makes me think of the HypMic radio show. I’ve been using that (and all of HypMic, to be honest) to cope in these tough (COVID-19) times, which is why I’m mentioning it a lot.

Mami!

Eizouken 11

So this is how they met, huh? I never knew Kanamori could have such little faith in people, considering how she is now.

ID:INVADED 12

What I don’t get is Hayaseura’s motive…

Uraido…”from behind”? I need kanji to figure this one out…

Whose well is this Bliss background, ayway…?

Momoki and Matsuoka pass a sign saying 大井南 (Minamioi), which is in Shinagawa.

Why does Momoki need drugs…? To subdue Asukai…?

Oh no. Inami is going to have a vendetta after her man was killed!

According to Ramuda, the optimist sees the doughnut, the pessimist sees the hole…I think’s that’s important for that moment.

…Welp, when a hole in the brain doesn’t kill you, a shot to the stomach does.

In this time of COVID-19, I think talking about people coming back to life is inappropriate…

Post-credits segment!

Uchitama 11 (FINAL)

According to Ramuda, the optimist sees the doughnut, the pessimist sees the hole…

“Tullip” (sic).

Oh, so instead of “Tama” it said “tanu___”, so the kids assumed it said “tanuki”.

Ooh, cat meeting. This should match the dog meeting from earlir in the season. Plus Nora’s face on the title card.

The video got encoded funny again…

“I’m busy right now.” – Nora, sleeping – Yup, that’s my mood. In fact, I was woken up by a call this morning…

I still think the Momo x Bull ship is stupid…

Nora can talk to crows…?

BnHA 85

…huh? What’s up with Bibimi?

Oh, in La Brava’s room there’s a graduation album. No one translated that.

Seriously, Deku’s gotten kinda creepy these days…

Tobita = essentially “to fly” + “field”. Makes sense when the Quirk is elasticity.

“It’s dangerous to go alone!” – I want to reply with “Take this!”…LOL.

This bouncing around thing was basically done by Sonic in OPM.

Update:  Turns out the kanji for elasticity is read dansei, which is th same rading for the characters for a man (but with characters meaning “male gender” instead and the last kanji being shared betwe the two). That’s why Danjuro is Gentle Criminal.    

BnHA 85

I noticed some of the decorations around the school look like heroes we’ve seen – there’s a Midnight one and a Thirteen balloon.

Why is the crowd chanting for YaoMomo…?

It’s in English, huh?

End of credits segment! Keep watching!

“Guys like you who say there are no do-overs in life…”

Hawks! This is the first time I see him outside spoilers!

ID:INVADED 13 (FINAL)

Was gonna finish this the day I got it, but I got access (limited to 1 week)…to Akira, which is a movie I’ve never seen before.

The sharks are a nice touch…(LOL…?)

Welp, John Walker has his hat back now.

Uraido…Hayaseura. Of course, how the heck did I not make the connection?!

The video got encoded funny again…

…wow, after learning a thing or two about CPR, this part actually makes sense to me now…Amazing. (Also, I learnt about comminuted fractures from Double Decker.)

COVID-19 is entering these notes too…because if you cut yourself off from society, you won’t know about pandemics…

Why do I get the feeling Kiki’s gonna kill herself…?

She…almost did it. (Wow, I should try predict things more often.)

That pool…is basically the one from Minority Report!

Wow, that just did an Eva…

Why did they choose such a lively ending song…? Anyways, that wrapped up really well (no pun intended!). See you next time!  

Magia Record 9

The tower appars to be modelled more after Tsutenkaku rather than Tokyo Tower.

For some reason, the subbers like to capitalise “Magical Girl”.

One of the speech bubbles in the back says koneko no gorogoro, or “the cat’s laziness”.

“Stand alone!” This is probably some kind of wordplay on the Solitude (Hitoribocchi no Saihate), since “alone” is hitori de.

Interestingly, the word for “delete” here is keshite (literal meaning: “to erase”).

The sign that passes Sana by while she’s on the boat says “Futaba” on it.

The blue letterboxing is an interesting effect.

“Sorpredente” = surprising.

Eizouken 12 (FINAL)

“They have their own business to run.”

I’ll miss this OP song when it’s gone…*sigh*

LOL, the contrast between Asakusa’s imagination and reality is huge and that’s what makes Eizouken so fun.

“I’m here to deliver the promised data,” Kanamori says (which I think is a more literal translation, ut works better).

It’s unfortunate Comiket 98 was cancelled…

Hey, why didn’t Anime vs. Real Life cover Eizouken?! That would’ve been so good!

I noticed one of the viewers had a “No Disc” pop-up of some sort. Also, the moving logo exists now, too (LOL).

I like how 1 of the UFOs hits the windshield.

The arrows really bring your attention to what’s the same in the split screens.

Magia Record 10

The Mifuyu in the previous episodes was either a flashback or a fantasy, right?

Mami is wearing a Wings of Magius badge…!

On the titlecard, there’s what seems to be a radio tower with a small lightning bolt above it.

BnHA 86

Hey, Tsu has a sister..?

Ah,so this is Mirko! I’ve heard of her too!

Is it just me, or does Endeavour hav CGI on him…?

Hawks reminds me of Fubuki from OPM…

Wow, even Endeavour’s trying to be funny…the world really is different now. (This humour has a terrible success rate with me, though.)

There seem to be holes in Hawks’ jackt for his wings.

So basically, Hawks is being the Iori to Endeavour’s Riku (but without too much of the homoerotic overtones that come from being close in age, since Endeavour is 46 – 7 and Hawks is 22), so to speak.

Oh! That punch is based on All Might’s! Same framing and everything!

Hajimari no doesn’t suggest a pronoun, so they must have chosen that based on the manga or the production company or something.

Magia Record 11

Shaft headtilt!

This Witch…apparently it appears early on in the OG series according to This Week in Anime. It does give off that vibe.

…wow, that fight was fast.

The video got encoded funny again…

Why are all the magical girls Naruto running???  

Hachibey = Kyubey (where kyu = 9), but for 8.

ACCA OVA

Who’s this-oh, never mind.

I don’t remember the OST being so…cool.

Jumo, where ju = tree I guss.

Nino! Who’s the blonde though? I forget…

Jumo for Jumoku…right. I forgot.

Shinro, literally “path of advancement”. I’ve grown a lot since I last watched ACCA, but I only feel I’ve gotten dumber since then…to be honest.

I like how the flashback is saturated in blue…actually, that reminds me of Given, now that I think of it.

Where’s Grossular? I liked him the best because he’s basically older!Kyosuke Kuga. Update: Spoke too soon.

Now that I’ve learnt keigo between the OG and now, I can understand more of what Mauve says.

Magia Record 12

(no notes, sorry!)

Magia Record 13 (FINAL)

Is it just me, or can I see a feather-like object floating down the screen…? (Or is that static?)

You can see one of the hooded Wings (on Touka’s left) has dark blue hair – roughly Sayaka’s shade.

Ooh, Mami and Sayaka fight! (I’ve never been one for catfights, but this is certainly a match-up I want to see!)

Mami’s fate really sucks, huh? Her head came off in the OG and now she’s a tool for the Magius…

Yachiyo does look a lot like Togo from Yuki Yuna, doesn’t she…?

Anyways, this is all for now. There’s an s2 on the horizon, but COVID-19 means it could be years down the line…see you when s2 arrives.

[druddigoon]

Azula Alone

She’s halfway around the world before he catches up to her. 

“Azula.” Ozai has not aged a bit, his voice still smooth as silk, smoldering like coals. He’s somehow gotten into her rundown little shack of a home despite barred doors, royal regalia striking against the dust and cobwebs. Azula ignores him and continues on preparing her dinner. 

“You are the rightful heir of the throne.” The people of the nameless Earth Kingdom village she stayed at are nice, too nice, and accept her Fire Nation coin in exchange for their wares. She had procured a bushel of beet-carrots from the farmer down the street, as well as a mud trout from the fishmonger’s wife, which are added to the wild marsh-leeks and shiitake mushrooms she foraged earlier this morning, the latter of which she’s learned to identify through years of stomach-churning trial and error. She’s chopping them with her dagger—the only weapon she has on hand—keeping careful mind to avoid clipping her fingers. 

“Your brother is a weakling. He was never meant for the throne.” Her supplies are dwindling; all the valuables she had fled with have been traded away for food and shelter, and soon she would be left with neither. She needs to find a way to make a living, and soon. Not in this town, though; even from a cursory glance she can tell their businesses are drying out like a pond in a drought. It’s a wonder no one’s recognized her for this long. 

“I love you, Azula.” Ozai’s breath ghosts heated down her neck and she screams, flings the dagger like a kunai at his chest. It lodges in the far wall with a dull thud, and an eternity passes before she can breathe again. 

He’s catching up with her, she realises through snatches of air. She’s always assumed he’d stay at the palace, locked down in the dungeons and only occasionally manifesting by her side in the crimson halls, but she’s a refugee in the hinterlands of the Earth Kingdom yet he’s following, he’s here. 

A faint trickle of warmth exudes from her fingertips from where she accidentally chopped her skin. It is the same color of Ozai’s robes, and for a moment she cannot tell them apart. 

“No you don’t,” Azula whispers, “I am more than what you make of me, father.” A mantra. A plea.

The empty house does not respond. 

She’s out by sundown, carrots and fish and marsh-leek left rotting on a bloodstained table. 

.

.

It’s been years, and the ghost tug of chains still burn across her wrist. Her head’s lighter without her headpiece and her duties to weight it down; it adds to the feeling of surrealness as she walks these hinterland roads. When Azula closes her eyes her hollow husk of a former self is floating, like a ghost. 

The old Azula is a construct of war. She cannot survive in peace. 

The first village, she rents an inn. The food is simply chunks of meat floating in gruel, along with a mug of ale. She eats the gruel without protest but forgoes the beer; alcohol lowers inhibitions, lowers control, and the last thing Azula wants was her control of herself taken away. More that it already has, at least. She stays for the night, sleeps on a mattress of stale straw. It’s degrading, it’s foreign, and it wards her demons away. 

In her dreams, the Avatar sits meditating over a single candle. It’s small but it burns bright, too bright, a wildfire on a wick that devours the wax until it’s nothing but a stump, fading fast. The Avatar opens his eyes and his arrows glow blindingly white. A verdict has been reached. Slowly he extends his hands—one pressing into hot wax, the other poised near the flame—and snuffs it out. 

Azula wakes in cold seat. She’s out and on the road again before her hands stop shaking.

The second village she walks into in broad daylight. Azula feels incredibly self-aware of her crimson robes and pale skin as she walks into a shop and asks storekeeper for some generic men’s clothing. She’s an old woman in her twilight years, but her hands are strong and grip firmly onto Azula as she takes her measurements. She catches the indentation of a ring on the woman’s ring finger and wonders the story behind that. 

She is handed her clothing and rations quick, and changes in the shrubbery nearby. When she walks out she sees a man and his daughter playing in the dirt roads. The daughter is dressed in dusty rags with a mouth full of crooked teeth, but she’s riding on her father’s shoulders and laughs like heaven. 

The third village is a ghost town, and she’s near breaking enough to try the old liquor bottles in the tavern. When she comes to her senses again, all the glasses are shattered on the floor and there is wetness stinging in her eyes. She’s standing in a puddle of crimson and it reminds her of the royal halls, all too familiar. 

She hates it. 

Hates how it makes her feel, bound in chains and ice, a child again, maybe, sitting at the foot of Azulon’s throne. Except there is no fire and Ozai is perched on it instead, voice dripping venom onto her head, and he says: “Your mother is dead.” 

Ursa was too brave to love him. 

The fourth village, her father is waiting for her. 

.

.

Ao3

[mirannalegacy-blog]

Avant Le Deluge: Chapter 1

Part one of Children of Divided Universe

Deep in the outer rim, five young women have narrowly escaped death on the fringes of unknown space.  They’ve decided to trust each other, but unable to flee to the Republic Core Worlds and with the suspicion that the Empire would very much like them dead, the stakes are higher than they know. 

This is my very self indulgent project to write my main character’s origin stories and their adventures through out the Star Wars the Old Republic story lines. Also on AO3:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/17191718/chapters/40422764

                                                   3.20.4 ATC

                                                     Anndara

The universe swayed and tumbled.  Anndara’s mind was hazy and the pain that coursed through her body sent spiraling tendrils through her mind, creating a siren song of unconsciousness.  But the cold pressure of the surface she was laying on and the coppery taste of blood coating the back of her mouth pulled her into the waking world.  Everything hurt. Someone took her hand and she registered the distant pressure. It was an unsteady hand, shaking and clammy, and she could hear hitched and trembling breathing nearby.  She tried to move her head or open her eyes, but her body did not respond to the sluggish commands. The surface she was laying on lurched and the person squeezed her hand a little tighter.  Voices flitted about her as the shaking became more intense.

“This is Regan Hyra on board The Horranth, we need emergency medical attention! I repeat, emergency medical attention!”

The voice was loud and steady, but there was a note of desperation in it.  

“What if she doesn’t make it?”  The imperial accent marked this voice as different, it was much closer and unlike the first was cracked and ragged.

“She’ll make it.”  This voice was quiet, but the conviction it held would have made a corpse decide that death wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.  The pain swelled once more and Anndara felt herself beginning to fall. As darkness closed back in around her mind, she hoped very much that the owner of that voice was right.

                                                     _________

                                                         Regan

On any other day, the sight of the Lyn-Taro Mining Facility would have been background noise to a regular day on the job with her parents.  On any other day, she would have thought that it was cool how stark the contrast was between the gleaming dove greys and whites of the station stood out against the jet black surface of the asteroid.  On any other day she would have passed out from the excitement of flying a freighter on her own. But not today. This was not any other day. This was in the top twenty of the worst days of her life. This was complicated by the fact that all nineteen of these other days were the past nineteen consecutive days and the closing ten days of the month held the promise of knocking this bad day out of the park.

Regan keyed the mic again as she brought the ship in for what was probably going to be an illegal landing anyways, she cleared her throat, “This is Regan Hyra on The Horranth.  Overseer Jerome, I know you’re gonna be pissed but we’re coming in anyways!”

She stretched across the console, taping at the landing display to bring back full manual control.  She hated automated landings. They were always too slow. She was in no mood for slow. The ship lurched as she forced it to doge yet another clump of debris.  

“Regan, what’s the status.”

The twi’lek didn’t look around as her companion approached the pilot’s chair.  After three months on the lamb with the Togruta, Regan knew she wasn’t asking about the landing permission.  Can we trust these people.  Can we get through this.

“We’re up shit creek.  I’ll talk us out of it,”  She said, as she pulled the ship into the docking bay, “Get her out as soon as possible, she needs to be stabilized.  We owe her that much. Keep her sister out of trouble.”

Regan heard Melyra jog away, hopefully to load their associate onto a stretcher for transfer.  As she set the ship down and heard the reassuring hiss of the landing gear taking the weight of the ship, she glanced out the window.  A group of people were running towards the ship. A medical team and she recognized the heavy figure of Overseer Jerome. She set her jaw, swung her self around in the chair and grabbed her jacket.  Show time.

Melyra and the red twi’lek Osanna were already down the ramp and passing the stretcher off to the med team by the time that Regan emerged from the ship.  The girl’s sister was hovering by one of the landing struts, watching them take her away.  Regan recognized some of the people, but she locked eyes with the now livid Overseer Jerome.  

The realization of how beat to shit they all were, never mind the mystery girl, began to sink in.  Melyra was covered in blood. The Togruta’s montral and lekku were burned and cut deeply in some places. Her arms were covered in bandages from burns and blaster bolts.  Swaths of Osanna’s face were turning from what Regan assumed was her typical crimson color to a purply-blochy mottling that didn’t do wonders for her complexion. Osanna had avoided most burns, but the robe that she wore had large chunks of the skirt missing and the belled sleeves had been signed away.  The sister’s face bore the unmistakable slice of a vibroblade wound that was only being held together by butterfly bandages. She also sported blaster bolt grazes cutting across her calves, fringed in by smoldering fabric and open to the air. She had refused any and all medical attention beyond the bare minimum. Regan was also now quite aware that the pain on the side of her face had subsided since applying kolto cream to her own burns but that the cream still covered most of the right side of her face and neck.  They didn’t look good. They were all desperate and deep fried in an almost literal sense. She had to keep Overseer Jerome in a charitable mood despite the goo on her face and the blood on everyone else. This was going to take some doing. The burly man stalked up to her and brought his reddened face inches from her own.

“Overseer Jerome,” she said brightly, pulling her face into what she hoped was a genial expression, “Thanks for the save!  We’d be dead meat if you hadn’t left the bay doors open--”

Before she could finish her sentence, Jerome cut in, his voice rising with each word, “We were in the middle of comms maintenance!  I have quotas to fill! Imps and Pubs breathing down my neck and now you! Compared to you decompression would be a joy!”

Regan’s bravado began to falter and her stomach dropped out as he then hissed in a deadly voice, “Where are your parents?  What the hell happened? Why are there a bunch of teenagers in my docking bay?”

She tried to rally herself, but the flash of images from the past months rose in her mind and her breath quickened uncomfortably in her chest.  She turned her eyes away, “That depends on who you ask.”

“I’m asking you runt.”

The tone caused her to snap her eyes back to him.  The intensity and severity of her gaze made Jerome take a step back.

“Then you best start nursing your best whiskey now,” she said dangerously quiet, “because you ain’t gonna like it.”

                                                  _________

                                                   Anndara

Her mind was still foggy when the med droid began tucking a blanket around her and the on call doctor began speaking to her.  The bright white of the room and the lights made everything seem to meld together. She felt very warm and...safe. It was a feeling that she let herself fall into.  It had been a while since she hadn't objected to sharp objects being near her.  She could feel the strange stretch of the tacky adhesive holding a sensor over her heart and one to her temple. The doctor’s form swam before her.

“How are you feeling?  Squeeze my hand if you can hear me,” The wavering face of the older zabrak man said.

She squeezed his hand.  

“Good.  We’re going to be moving you out of the operating theater shortly.  Honestly it was probably best that you came here. We have a lot of experience treating patients who have been injured by falling debris.  Okay, and lift.”

Anndara felt the jostling of being transferred from the stationary table to the floating gurney.  

“Okay, can you try telling me how your feeling?”

The lights and ceiling began moving.  If she moved her head just slightly, she could see the droid pushing the floating bed.  The quiet beeping of the monitor display that was connected to the droids arm sped up and slowed down occasionally.  She registered that it was her heart beat.

“Kinda fuzzy.”  She mumbled. Her throat felt very dry.

“Any pain?”

“No.”

“Excellent.  We gave you a fairly low dose of painkillers.  We can always give you more if needed.”

“Where am I?”

“The Lyn-Taro Mining station, Rayter Sector.  The med wing specifically. Do you remember the name of the ship you came in on?”

“Horranth, I think.”

“Good.  Can you tell us your name?  Do you remember who you came in with?”

She listened to the beeping as the doctor asked her questions.  She occasionally heard it slow down and a wave of sleepiness would pass over her.  The rational part of her mind that was only a little awake knew this was just the anesthesia but the primal part that was running full throttle sent a sharp knife of panic into her each time the beeping slowed.  She focused on her breath and keeping the beat steady.

“Can you squeeze my hand?  How are you feeling?”

The knife of panic ebbed.

“Yeah.  Anndara Kora.  My sister and...some other people.  Are they okay?”

“Good.  They are doing fine.  Anndara we’re going into your room now.  The medical droid will start you on some more kolto and some fluids.  Your IV is already in, you’ll just feel a little pressure when the fluids start, alright?”

“Kay.”

“Once you’re a little more back in the land of the conscious, I’ll have to talk with you some more and we’ll start having you drink some water.  I’m going to step out for about five minutes while I go get your sister. You are out of the woods and you’re in no danger.  With the standard procedure, you'll have all of your bandages off in three days, may be less.  You seem to be healing up very quickly.  If you need anything, the droid will call me or one of the nurses, all right?”

“Sure.”

The doctor squeezed her hand.  At some point the gurney had come to a stand still.  Rather than white, the room was now light blue with dim lights.  She worked her tongue around her mouth trying to bring some relief to the dryness.  She supposed this is what cottonmouth must feel like. She had never been drunk, but if this was any indication of what a hangover was like with the strange numbness and sticky throat, she never wanted to experience it again.  A few minutes passed. The world began to come back into sharper focus, and with it reality came sinking back in. She remembered the falling durasteel, reaching out with the force, pushing the others out of the way, and pain. She squeezed her eye shut, trying to block out the image of the burning and crumbling ship.  She began to deepen her breaths, trying to meditate to keep herself calm. It was a method she had used many times by now to reconnect with her body. She curled her fingers one by one, curling them in and pressing the pads to her palms, tensed her arms and untensed, pressing her shoulder blades back and into the padded gurney under her.  Then she flexed her feet...nothing...she felt nothing… Panic swelled through her as she attempted to bend her knees and only one responded. Her left leg pulled up from the bed while her right leg remained still, only the muscle straining to bend a joint that...wasn’t there. The panic bloomed in her chest and threatened to overwhelm her.  Distantly she heard the droid telling her that she needed to remain in bed, that she must calm down, as she pushed herself up with her hands. Her head spun as she sat up, pulling off the sheet to stare at her hospital gown clad body. Her eyes widened when they lighted upon the places where her left leg and her right foot should have been.  Her left leg ended just above the knee. Her right leg ended at her ankle. Both limbs were wrapped in bandages and kolto patches, but where the bandages ended, her legs were covered in burn salve and patched cuts. She let out a strangled cry.

                                                  ___________

                                                      Melyra

Regan and Jerome had been in the Overseer’s office for a while now and Melyra was beginning to wonder if they were ever coming out.  Osanna sat on the sole chair, her robes neatly tucked around her, while the sister, who had introduced herself as Aurelia, paced the small office.  Melyra was leaning on the door frame.  She kept her eyes trained on the door to the infirmary wing and an ear out for the distant sound of Regan and Overseer Jerome’s raised voices. ��She wasn’t confident they would be getting much charity outside of what they had already received.

“Do you think they’ll have to take her leg?”

Melyra looked up in surprise as Osanna spoke.  She had her hands clenched in her lap and her eyes down turned.  Melyra didn’t know what had passed between Osanna and the mystery girl, Anndara. No one did. What little they knew was that something happened that made Osanna very nervous.  Osanna wouldn’t even tell Aurelia.  Melyra had a distinct feeling that Osanna was afraid that she would be punished for what had happened. From what little she had gathered about Osanna, Melyra figured that Osanna had never been outside the Empire, maybe never even off of Dromund Kaas.  She also had the feeling that she had been raised as a kind of pet by a Sith lord.  At least that’s what she assumed.  And part of her didn’t want to dig too deeply into that topic.

“Probably.  I’ve seen enough field amputations to know,” she told the twi’lek.

This was obviously the wrong thing to say as Osanna curled in on herself and her tiny frame began to shake.  Aurelia stopped her pacing and shot Melyra a stern look. She moved to kneel beside Osanna and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“She’s strong.  She’s survived this long.  She'd put herself in harm’s way to help any of us, that includes you.  This isn’t your fault. I know that if she were here she would want to say that.  It wasn’t your fault,” Aurelia said, soothingly. Osanna nodded meekly.

As she watched Aurelia comfort Osanna, it struck Melyra as odd that their positions were not reversed.  It was strange that Aurelia, the one whose sister was undergoing surgery on a backwater mining colony after being busted out of an Imperial transport, was the one doing the consoling.  The human seemed to know what she was doing, Melyra mused, and had had that confidence throughout this entire fiasco. She was good at keeping herself under control, even though she looked to be about the same age as Melyra herself.  Thirteen, fourteen, somewhere in there. She was, perhaps, the exact opposite of Regan who seemed to fly through every situation with only the vaguest comprehension and always seemed to get through anything by the skin of her teeth and her outstanding ability to bull-shit.    

Then she heard the click of a door opening and a conspicuous lack of yelling.  She turned and saw Regan fuming down the hall. The sleeves of her oversized and disticntly second hand aviator jacket scrunched up to her elbows and her hands balled into fists.  The look on her face would have caused a Manka cat to turn and run. Melyra and Aurelia both stood up straight as Regan stormed into the room.

“It went that good, huh?”  Melyra asked as the green twi’lek pulled a box from her pocket and began to shake out a thin white stick.

“Must you smoke?”  Aurelia asked, distaste dripping from every word, “And where did you even get those?”

Regan ignored her the first part of the girl’s question as she balanced a cig between her lips, but her hands were shaking so badly she was struggling with the lighter, “I pulled them off that bastard.”

There was a particular venom in her voice that Melyra had not heard before.  She crossed her arms and tilted her head.

“What happened?”  She asked.

“He didn’t buy half my story.  Which is fine, half of it was made up,” Regan said as her lighter finally clicked to life, “But I wasn’t about to tell him the truth about, you know,” she gestured to Aurelia and Osanna and the movement put out the meager flame,“Dammit.  But he got the gist. He knows we’re on the run from the Empire but also that the ship we were on probably had no other survivors. But I wouldn’t put it past the Sith to have some kind of black box,” she finally succeeded in lighting the cig and she blew a stream of smoke into the room, Aurelia looked at the twi’lek in disgust, “So the bastard said to go to the Republic and I didn’t tell him why but I said that wasn’t an option for some of us,” she shot a glance at Melyra and Aurelia, “So HE got upset that he might have a bunch of felons on his station and wants us gone once Anndara is stable.  But before one rotation is done.”

Regan took another pull on the cig and let out another plume of smoke, shifting her gaze up to the ceiling.  Melyra could almost feel Regan’s heart pounding and she saw the shaking in her hand that held the cig, the thousand yard stare, the labored and shallow breaths.  From the sudden flash of concern on Aurelia’s face, Melyra knew she saw it too.

“Reeg, what’s the coordinates for Corelia, Dantooine, Kessel, and Sullust?”

Regan inhaled sharply through her mouth and began mechanically listing.  Aurelia gently pulled Osanna from her chair and Melyra carefully pulled Regan over and settled her down in it.  

“What’s happening?”  Osanna asked looking puzzled at the sudden coordination between the Togruta and the human.

“She’s having a panic attack,” Aurelia said gently as she carefully plucked the cig from Regna’s trembling hand and Melyra knelt down in front of the green twi’lek and gripped her shoulders firmly as she began to breathe more shallowly, “could you get her some water?”

“O-okay,” Ossana stuttered and moved beyond Melyra’s line of vision.

Melyra looked Regan in the eye and began to exaggerate her own breaths, breathing noisily through her nose and out through her mouth with a hissing sound, waiting for Regan to begin copying her.  After several minuets of unresponsive trembling and desperate breathing, Regan’s eyes began to focus.  She followed the pattern, breathing in and out. Melyra could tell that she wanted to cry but she also knew that Regan wouldn't do that in front of the others.  Part of her wished that she would.  It would bring some catharsis to the weight she knew Regan was carrying inside her chest.  Regan leaned forwards and let her forehead rest against Melyra’s, eyes closed, still breathing deeply, but more quietly and evenly.  She carefully placed a hand at the back of Regan’s head, returning the leaning pressure.

Melyra could feel Osanna standing behind her, but she let the silence hang in the air for a time before she quietly said, “We’re going to make it through this.”

She pulled away to take the water from Osanna as Regan muttered, “We always do.”

She noted the tremble in Regan's confirmation.  It might be a while before it was gone again.  Melyra offered her the cup and she took it, taking a sip and the resting her elbows on her knees, her head hanging down.

“Sorry ,” she said her voice cracking.  The other three immediately began to protest.  

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Aurelia replied, “I’ve had them too.  You cut it off very quickly. You’re doing well!”

“Yeah, you’re talking,” Melyra added.

Osanna nodded.  Melyra assumed she still hadn’t fully understood what was happening.  She didn’t blame her.

Regan looked up at Melyra, her body still shaking, and raised her cup to her, before taking another swig.  As Melyra nodded her head in acknowledgement, she heard the sound of running feet. She started towards the door-way when  the zabrak man skidded to a halt and panted, “Please come quickly!”

He was gesturing at Aurelia who immediately moved to follow.

“What’s going on,” Melyra asked.

“Miss Anndara is quite agitated, one of the nurses is with her now,” He said, turning and trotting away at a brisk pace.  Melyra half turned to Regan who was already standing up and waving her and Osanna to follow the Aurelia.

“I had hoped that she would not have tried moving so soon,” he continued as they moved down the hallway, “I had hoped that you would be there when I told her about her legs, but it seems I misjudge how quickly she would come out of the anesthesia.  For one as small as she is...that is to say, she has a very fast metabolism.”

“Yes," Aurelia agreed, rather distantly, “quite fast.  Is she alright?”

“Well, she is fine, physically,” The doctor replied as they passed through the medical wing doors, “But I believe she has attempted to remove her IVs and has thrown off every attempt to calm or restrain her.”

Aurelia broke into a run.

“Its room Five-Twenty--” the doctor began, but she had already rounded a corner, “never mind, she seems to know where she’s going.”

Melyra cast a cursory glance at him before picking  up into a run and following Aurelia.

                                                ________

                                                 Osanna

By the time Anndara had calmed down, the lights of the mining complex had already finished their cycle from their daylight simulation to their night simulation settings.   Regan and Melyra had stolen pillows from another room and had curled up on the floor. Osanna hovered in the doorway to the room, watching the sleeping forms of the sisters on the medbed.  Aurelia held her sister even in sleep. It was touching really, that they had each other. The peace of Anndara’s face a contrast to the anguish Osanna had seen only a little while ago. She tried to push the images away, but they filled her mind anyways, spilling over with washed out colors and deadened sounds.  

They had found her sobbing on the floor, a nurse and two droid standing over her.  One droid lay in pieces on the ground. Many of her wounds had reopened and the blood from the cuts on her face mingled with her tears in puddles beneath her cheek.  Heedless of this, Aurelia had laid down on floor facing her sister, she placed a hand on Anndara’s arm, and spoke to her softly. Osanna didn’t hear what she said, but something about what was said or how it was said had made Anndara’s sobbing redouble, and Aurelia just laid there and let her cry.  It had been then that Osanna looked at her legs. The bandages on her legs were pink in areas and…

Even now Osanna’s eyes lingered on the stumps where Anndara’s leg and foot used to be.  There was a type of horrid fascination that she didn’t like but it was bubbling in her gut all the same.  She had never seen a person who had lost limbs and it was disconcerting. And all of this roiled up the guilt.  She watched them for a moment more and then slipped away down the hall.

She walked the corridors of the facility aimlessly.  She wasn’t sure what to do with this whole no-one-telling-her-what-to-do thing. Once she had figured out what the Sith really we, she didn’t want to stay.  She should feel good about what she did. Now she just felt...empty. She could do...whatever she wanted. But what was that, exactly? How did this work? She tried to dig through all of her thoughts and feelings as she walked.  There was a lot to sift through. As far back as she could remember she had never left Dromund Kaas. Her flight on that transport with the Sith who had taken her out of her training had been the first time she had left the ground.  It had all gone so horribly wrong. It was her fault.

She must have left the medical wing and wandered into the living quarters because she found herself looking into a small kitchen and dining area.  The table was very clearly a hand-me-down or a relic from the dawn of time. It was dented and stretched and none of the legs were the same length.  There were a handful of datapads, some mugs, a pitcher, and several boxes on the table. At one end of the table, carefully pushing a block under one of the said table legs, was the zabrak doctor from earlier.  

He glanced up and smiled a little sadly at her, then righting himself and testing the table for stability he said, “If you can’t sleep, perhaps you would humor an old doctor and share a cup of caf?”

Osanna glanced around.  No one else was there, she couldn’t sleep, and she decided that it couldn’t hurt.  It was a small decision, but a decision nonetheless. She padded over to the table and settled herself in a chair close to the doctor.  

“I don’t believe you were in the room when I introduced myself to the others,” he said.

Osanna shook her head.  That must have been after she had seen them reconnect the IVs and she had run out to find the closest bin to be sick in.

“Doctor Lo, at your service,” he held out his hand.  She stared at it and then glanced back up at him, confused.

“You shake it,” he said encouragingly.  Osanna tentatively held out her own hand but was still very confused.  She had seen people bow to each other in greeting, but never this. Sith and Imperials tended to keep their distance.  It kept your lifespan a little longer. She had apparently let her hand hover in the air a little too long because Doctor Lo grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her hand towards his other one.  The sudden contact set off alarm bells in her head and she violently pulled her hand way, smacking the back of her arm against the chair next to her as she jerked back. Doctor Lo began to back pedal, his brain working overtime.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, holding up his hands in what he was hoping a nonthreatening manner, “I was just…”

Osanna’s mind was chanting warnings.  She had pulled her hand away, that was bad.  Bad, bad, bad. The part of her brain that was rational reminded her that not a few hours ago she’d left the Sith and that this was fine.  The part of her brain that worked best when one is overtired, stressed, and very out of one’s element was also holding court with the very persuasive argument that trial and error up until this point had yielded fairly poor results.  It was a stand off, so she compromised, by staring at him wide eyed and remained rooted rigidly to her seat.

“Are you...okay?”  He asked, his voice carrying deep concern, “I was just trying to show you how to shake hands.”

“I-I don’t want to be touched,” she said, “I’m just…”

He was still looking at her like that.  It wasn’t helping.

“I’m new to this whole thing and I don’t like being touched.”

The words came out a lot higher than she would have liked.  But it felt liberating. Saying it out loud. She wondered if this is what Regan felt like all the time, just saying things.  What a way to live.

“That’s fine,” he said, still rather confused, “So I’m guessing you haven’t been out much?”

It wasn’t an insult, Osanna decided, just a weird question.

“I got to go outside when I was on Dromund Kaas,” she said defensively, I mean she had seen trees and animals and monsters and stuff.  

Dr. Lo looked at her blankly and quietly said, “Oh.  Okay. Um, what��s your name?”

Osanna looked at him curiously before deciding that this was probably fine.

“Osanna,” She said curtly.

“That’s a...ah….That’s a nice name.”

“Thank you.”

There was a long beat of silence.

“Would you like some Caf?”  He asked, gesturing to the carafe.

“What is...Caf?”  She asked, trying out the new word.

“It's a hot caffeinated drink made from beans on tropical worlds.  It's supposed to give you more energy,” he explained, “something of an acquired taste, though.”

She could do whatever she wanted.

“Okay.”

The doctor poured the dark liquid into a mug and pushed towards her.

“There you go,” he said encouragingly, “give it a try.  It is kind of bitter.”

She glanced at the mug and then back up at the doctor.  He smiled and nodded in what could only be described as a baffled but supportive way.  She scooped up the mug and sniffed the contents tentatively. It smelled...well she didn’t have the words for how it smelled.  She didn’t know how to describe food other than ration dry and soupy. But she liked it, whatever the smell was. She took a sip.  She pursed her lips and her eyes watered.

“I also tend to make it rather strong,” Dr. Lo said absentmindedly took a sip from his own mug.  She managed to choke down the bitter liquid and set her cup down.

“I don’t think I like it,” she said, attempting to get rid of the taste by smacking her lips.

“A perfectly reasonable response,” he said, chuckling into his mug, “perhaps tea would be more your speed.”

They fell into silence for a while yet again while Dr. Lo sipped his Caf.  Osanna glanced at the datapads and boxes on the table.

“Curious?”  He asked, gesturing to the accumulated piles.  She nodded, turning her gaze back to him.

“It’s stuff I’ve collected for you and your friends,” He said and Osanna’s eyes went wide, “Overseer Jerome made it clear to me that you all can’t stay here, however, Regan has also made it clear that you are “hurting bad and we have fuck all places to go.”  She’s always had such a way with words. I’m guessing you're one of the ones from a rough situation. She may not be the best person in the galaxy, but I know Regan. She practically grew up here. She wouldn’t ask me for help if she had no other options. So, I’ve been asking people for donations.  And I’ve pulled together some of our surplus. Not much, but…”

He waved his hand as if to say it was nothing.  Osanna’s eye prickled and she would very much like him to know that it wasn’t nothing.  

“Thank you,” she said, quietly.

“Your friend, Anndara, she’s going to need some adaptive tech like--,” he began, but stopped mid sentence as Osanna began to cry.  Dr. Lo raised a hand to pat her shoulder but thought better of it and settled for rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s going to be alright,” he said soothingly, “I can’t help much because I need my job here and Jerome's an ass, but we’re doing the best we can.  I promise.”

“You didn’t need to do any of this,” she said wiping her eyes, “Thank you.  You care. Thank you. And it's my fault she got hurt and I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that we’re here and that we’re problems and that I don’t know how anything works and--”

“Hey, hey,” he cut in, “I don’t know where you come from--other than Dromund Kaas, which is a little weird--but you’re doing good.  You’ve been through a lot and I’m sure it's not your fault that she’s hurt these things just--”

“She got hurt pulling me out of a collapsing room.  If I hadn’t been stupid--”

“You can’t control a collapsing room.  She helped you.”

Osanna continued to cry and Dr. Lo was at a loss.  His usual methods for comforting people were at a disadvantage in this situation, but there was also the fact that once Osanna had started crying, she couldn’t stop.  It was like a release valve had finally been opened on all her emotions and the only thing that made sense was to let it out. Her eyes were so obscured by tears that she didn’t see Dr. Lo get up, but she did see the tissue box that was pushed in front of her.

“Its okay to cry, too.  It's good, in fact,” he said as she took a tissue and dabbed at her streaming eyes, “Just let it all out.”

“Thank you,” she said as she buried her face in her tissue.

[mysterioustransmissions]

My favorite comics of 2017

Keeping with my new tradition of posting this list super late, here, on the last day of 2018, is my best comics of 2017 list. I can offer excuses -- my wife and I remodeled our house and welcomed our first child into the world this year, and I’m also unfailingly lazy -- but 2017 was also a killer year for comics, making this a bit larger of an undertaking than usual. Both Koyama Press and co-publishers Retrofit Comics and Big Planet Comics had absolutely stacked lineups. You’ll see them listed as publisher for many entries below.

I always struggle with how to order this list. I got serious about organizing my comics collection in 2018, and am running into the same problem. There, I’m thinking of dividing it into two -- a single-author section organized by author name (which ends up being mostly minicomics and graphic novels), and a multiple-author section organized by title (which ends up being mostly traditional-sized comics). Here, I’m essentially doing that same thing, but mixing them together; some entries are by title, and some author name.

Comics I especially enjoyed are marked with an *.

Allison, Matthew; Cankor: Calamity of Challenge #2 and #3 (self-published).

Berserker 1, edited by edited by Tom Oldham and Jamie Sutcliffe (Breakdown Press). There was a lot of anticipation and very specific expectations placed on this book ahead of its release, but no one seemed to walk away from the finished product satisfied. But it’s got a killer cover, great production design, and strips by some of the best cartoonists going. I hope Breakdown does another one.

* Booth, Tara; How to be Alive (Retrofit Comics & Big Planet Comics). One of the funniest books I’ve ever read. Booth’s drawings are a riot to look at, that the gags are also great is pure gravy. About as big as crossover hits get in my house. (I.e., my wife also loved it.)

Cardini, William; Tales From the Hyperverse (Retrofit Comics and Big Planet Comics). Cardini’s sci-fi world is made bigger and more engaging by the rapid-fire pace of this short story collection. His wild experimentation with color is always an inspiration.

Corben, Richard; Shadows on the Grave #1 - #8 (Dark Horse Comics). Not my favorite of Corben’s late-period Dark Horse horror books, but there’s plenty to enjoy. I was stunned by the sheer efficiency of the storytelling -- there are entire stories told with a single image and a few word balloons. A lot of these books sport great covers, issue #1 here, seen at the link for this entry, is one of the best.

Darrow, Geoff; The Shaolin Cowboy: Who’ll Stop the Reign? #1 - #4 with Dave Stewart (Dark Horse Comics). I was so bowled over by the experience of buying Shemp Buffet monthly that I initially scoffed at Cowboy’s return to more traditional narrative, but it turned out to be no less wild and no loss at all.

Davis, Eleanor; Libby’s Dad (Retrofit Comics & Big Planet Comics) and You & a Bike & a Road (Koyama Press). You & a Bike & a Road does something that’s often attempted and rarely successful -- it beats the audience down so it can then lift them up higher. Its success is due in no small part from its origin as a real-life journal. The visceral and emotional pain Davis feels on her journey is sincerely felt, and the lack of cynicism the storytelling choices are made with allow the reader to feel it whole cloth. And listen; it certainly doesn’t hurt that Davis is an amazing narrative storyteller besides -- Libby’s Dad is no less affecting.

DeForge, Michael; mini kuš! #43 'Meat Locker' (kuš!). I sleep on DeForge. I take him for granted. I feel like I’m not the only one? I see some excitement when his books come out, but no discussion. Blame it on the high volume and opaque nature of his work, the dearth of comics reviewers, and me, obviously. Also obviously, whenever something of his does find its way to my hands, I’m never sorry.

Estrada, Inés; Alienation #3 - #6 (self-published). The bundled version of this series, seen at the link for this entry, has the coolest book packaging I’ve ever seen in my life.

Expansion by Matt Sheean and Malachi Ward (AdHouse Books). I didn’t like this nearly as much as this same team’s previous Ancestor (due no doubt to its earlier and improvised creation), but damn, what a cover.

* Forsman, Chuck; Slasher #1 - #4 (Floating World Comics). I’d say the majority of my interest in Forsman’s work is in seeing how he presents his it and steers his career -- he’s among the best there is at that. Slasher is his first work I strongly connected with. It digs deep and gets wilder and wilder.

Ferrick, Margot; Yours (2dcloud). I’m a simpleton, so I was surprised at how deeply I was able to be moved by something this abstract. As always, grabbing 2dcloud’s whole line on Kickstarter expands my horizons and makes me a better reader.

Foster-Dimino, Sophia; Sex Fantasy (Koyama Press). I’ve actually only read the minis of this. This collection has the one I’m missing, plus some new material, but I love Sex Fantasy. It’s like a perpetual motion machine for thought -- you can just think about it forever.

Fricas, Katie; Art Fan (self-published). One of those things you dream of happening at a show -- picked this up at MICE not knowing anything about it, and was delighted by the artwork and knocked out by the “reviews of trippy art events”; particularly the first, about Duke Riley’s Fly by Night.

* Friebert, Noel; WEIRD6 (self-published), SPINE: I’ll Still Watch (Bred Press), Old Ground (Koyama Press). Sometimes when I have a fever, I can’t break loose of a single, circular thought -- I have the same thought over and over, only to realize once the fever’s broken that it was barely coherent. Friebert’s newer, decompressed work is like that. You turn page after page, and nothing happens. It’s the same characters still doing and saying the same things, again and again. You turn the pages faster and faster, almost in a panic, hoping to break the cycle and resolve the unease before you. But it’s no use.

* gg; I’m Not Here (Koyama Press), Valley (kuš!). I’m Not Here is one of a few books I recommended to people who were enjoying season 3 of Twin Peaks at the time. It doesn’t convey information so much as emotion, and rewards as much thought as you want to put into it.

* Hankiewicz, John; Education (Fantagraphics Books). I loved this so much I only read a few pages a night to make it last. Michael DeForge once called Noel Freibert an “astronaut” -- that applies to Hankiewicz also. No one’s ever done anything like this before, and if we didn’t have Hankiewicz I don’t think anyone ever would. Bringing poetry and modern dance (!!) into the language of comics, this was another book I recommended to watchers of season 3 of Twin Peaks -- you don’t understand the story by connecting facts, you understand it by connecting emotions.

* Hanselmann, Simon; Portrait, XMP-165 (self-published). XMP-165 was the first big payoff of the longform nature of Megg and Mogg, and it destroyed me. Also released this year was Doujinshi, Cold Cube Press’ gorgeous re-release of a Japanese Megg and Mogg fan comic.

Harkam, Sammy; Crickets #6 (The Commonwealth Comics Company). People talk about how good this book is, and I agree, but I’m not sure I could tell you why.

Haven, Eric; Vague Tales (Fantagraphics Books).

Hernandez, Gilbert and Jaime ; Love & Rockets Vol. IV #2, #3 (Fantagraphics). I made the terrible error after Love Bunglers to trade wait Locas, and for whatever reason they haven’t released one since. So I was way behind when this started coming out, but I bought and read it anyway. I initially found the story to be light, but I eventually realized I had a free ComiXology trial and caught up. It’s as great as ever.

Ito, Junji; Dissolving Classroom (Vertical, Inc.), Shiver: Junji Ito Selected Stories, and Tomie: Complete Deluxe Edition (Viz Media). Tomie may have come out in 2016 actually? I describe it to people as being about a beautiful woman who stands around until some total lech of a man inevitably murders her, then she comes back and annihilates him in the most unpleasant manner possible. Repeat ad infinitum. I don’t think the text 100% supports my reading, but that’s what it means to me.

Landry, Tyler; Shit and Piss (Retrofit Comics). The ephemeral, disjointed nature the single issue format served this story better, but it’s still extremely rad.

Loup, Celine; The Man Who Came Down the Attic Stairs (self-published).

Marcus, Ben; Crisis Zone 3rd Edition (Bred Press).

Mignolaverse and John Arcudi; Dead Inside #3 by Arcudi, Toni Fejzula, and Andre May, Lobster Johnson: The Pirate’s Ghost #1 - #3 by Arcudi and Tonci Zonjic, Hellboy: Into the Silent Sea by Gary Gianni, Mike Mignola, and Dave Stewart (Dark Horse Comics). Ignoring a few years in college when I was a lapsed comics reader, I’ve bought every Mignolaverse comic since I was about 13. That loyalty has slowly eroded over the last half decade about. I’m not alone in thinking the Arcudi-Davis run is one of the greatest of all time, and that the books started to go downhill after Guy Davis left. Beyond the departure of Davis, there are a few reasons for that, in my view.

First was the decision soon after to expand the line’s offerings. Doubling the line’s output and bringing in (inevitably) inferior creative teams was a no-win proposition for readers. Who wants more of something not as good?

Second, I think that Arcudi, a great writer, has shifted his focus from tightly-plotted five issue arcs to series-spanning character arcs. While I’m guessing this reads great in big chunks, it doesn’t spread out month to month, some months out of the year. I’m looking forward to a big re-read of everything after B.P.R.D. wraps in a few months, to see if this theory holds. Lobster Johnson: The Pirate’s Ghost came close to standing on its own, but was still rife with moments that I can only assume were big character payoffs because I didn’t remember enough to know. (Especially cool covers by Zonjic on these issues.) However, the non-Mignolaverse title Dead Inside offered the type of visceral, plot-based payoff his B.P.R.D. run with Davis hooked me with. I hadn’t been this thrilled by an Arcudi book since Killing Ground.

But third, and worst of all, has been the addition of writer Chris Roberson, whose books read like updates to the Mignolaverse Wiki. (The Visitor: How and Why He Stayed was okay, but pretty much solely due to Paul Grist’s fun art and layouts.)

I’m staying aboard the main B.P.R.D. book as it races to the finish line, and will continue to buy anything Arcudi writes, which seems to be mostly these Lobster Johnson comics. (Although even that’s looking increasingly, and sadly, unlikely to continue: https://twitter.com/ArcudiJohn/status/1075086925436874753) And I’ll certainly buy any more of these very sporadically-released Hellboy OGNs, like Into the Silent Sea, they decide to release -- the only real non-Mignola drawn Hellboy books anymore.

* Milburn, Lane; CORRIDORS (self-published). Sits comfortably next to Inflated Head Zone by Zach Hazard Vaupen, one of my favorite comics. They both forsake straightforward narrative in favor of theme-driven emotional impressionism, and do it with horror. This is catnip to me, and something I aspire to (although I’m far too boring to achieve it).

* Mirror Mirror II, edited by Sean T. Collins and Julia Gfrörer (2dcloud).

Now: The New Comics Anthology #1, edited by Eric Reynolds (Fantagraphics Books).

* Providence #12 by Jacen Burrows, Juan Rodriguez, and Alan Moore (Avatar Press). It came out months after, but it’s a safe bet Moore wrote this before Trump got elected, right? A more accurate depiction of the shell-shock of being thrust into a post-facts world I haven’t seen.

Roberts, Keiler; Sunburning (Koyama Press). Another big crossover hit in my house.

* Shiga, Jason; Demon Volumes 2, 3, and 4 (First Second). Demon became a book I wouldn’t stop showing to anyone who would listen. Like Gina Wynbrandt’s Someone Please Have Sex With Me, its hook transcends the normal comics reading audience -- you can show it to anyone and they get it right away. Specifically I would show people this amazing video https://youtu.be/NRxCTeM5pyU, which would clue them into what Shiga does enough to get them to read Demon. Demon has a story, but it’s more about rules -- establishing them and playfully subverting them with a level of inventiveness that regularly leaves you in awe.

* Terrell, Jake; Extended Play (2dcloud). This delightful book took me completely by surprise, an experience made possible by 2dcloud’s subscription model.

Tomasso, Rich; She Wolf: Black Baptism #1 - #4, Spy Seal: The Corten-Steel Phoenix #1 - #4 (Image Comics). The end of this second series of She Wolf approached the same hostile disregard for what came before as the end of Tomasso’s previous series, Dark Corridor. But where Dark Corridor acted on that impulse by simply burning it all down, She Wolf has enough respect at least to replace what came before by pivoting into a completely different comic. The freedom this affords the plot to dart in unpredictable directions is exhilarating. And it’s fun and beautifully laid out and designed, as always with Tomasso.

Tran, Thu; Dust Pam (Peow). Gorgeous!

Vaupen, Zach Hazard; Combed Clap of Thunder (Retrofit Comics and Big Planet Comics).

* Willumsen, Connor; Anti-Gone (Koyama Press). The part where the protagonists drive their boat past a window with a dog in it rewired my comics-making brain forever. This was another comic I only read a few pages of a night to make it last longer, and also recommended to friends of mine who were enjoying season three of Twin Peaks -- the plot is obfuscated in a similar way.

Yanow, Sophie; What is a Glacier? (Retrofit Comics and Big Planet Comics).

Yokoyama, Yuichi; Iceland (Retrofit Comics). Another comic I recommended to Twin Peaks season three fans. Similar to the residents of the Red Room, the characters seem truly of another world, their motivations and actions incomprehensible to us.

[gospacegay]

LRTIHEW: Part Twenty One

The title stands for “Longest Rusame Thing I Have Ever Written”. Can you feel it? The feelings! They grow!

First Chapter: https://gospacegay.tumblr.com/post/165808913233/lrtihew-part-one

Previous Chapter: https://gospacegay.tumblr.com/post/166625322238/lrtihew-part-twenty

There is swearing, fluff, eventual smut, insanity, and lord knows what else

“Good morning Alik!” Ivan greeted, sitting on his host. His joyous mood couldn't be squished by anything. Like his rage, joy could become so consuming. Trapped while still clutching a spatula, Alfred twisted around so he could see. “Hey. You're excited.” he greeted. “Happy birthday!” Ivan replied, squeezing Alfred tight when he tried to wriggle free. Ivan didn't mention the nation's age directly. He noticed that America stopped mentioning his age completely at the beginning of the twenty first century. Ivan had done the same after the twelfth century. His bosses usually assumed he was lying about his age after three generations.

Canada watched the exchange between sips of coffee, somewhat perplexed. “I didn't know you could be so friendly, Russia.” he commented, having a strange drawl differing from his American sibling. “Yes. I made a friend. I decided this today.” Ivan informed, stating what was now a solid fact in his mind. “I don't think you understand how friendship works. You can't order people to –” Alfred was silenced as he was snuggled painfully tight. It felt so good to touch another living person. Alfred tapped on the floor, and Ivan relented.

Ivan mostly resumed normal interactions, seating himself. Lighting a cigarette, he looked over with a bored expression at Canada. “Hey! Use an ash tray ruskie! That table is expensive!” Alfred scolded sharply, sliding one over. Taking the ash tray, Ivan rolled his eyes but obeyed. Resuming staring at Canada, Ivan analyzed every tic and action. He enjoyed dissecting others, making them squirm. It was an unhealthy habit, but so was smoking.

“Alfie? Why is he staring at me?” Canada asked nervously, edging away in his chair. “Stop being weird to Matthew, Ivan.” Alfred said, not really paying attention. “Ruining all my fun.” Ivan muttered in his native language, taking a drag of his smoke. A minute later, a heaping plate of fried chicken was placed on the table. Ivan took one without asking, enjoying the strip of meat. He ignored Alfred glaring at him. “So... no party... what do you want to do, eh?” Canada asked, now several chairs away from Russia.

“Does it really matter? I'm ruined!” Alfred complained, tearing into a fried chicken chunk. “Why is that? Your drunk rambling was not clear.” Ivan inquired, curious. Alfred's phone was slid to him, a video set to play. He watched it with distant interest, looking at the tiny screen. It was a prisoner being tortured in American prison clothes, a rather bloody and inefficient procedure. The video was tame in Ivan's opinion, even if it violated a dozen human rights.

“That was a poor form of torture. They should have started with water boarding. No bruises. No mess. All results. Threatening to kill their family is even easier.” Ivan criticized, sliding the phone back. “Of course you would say that, you psychotic bastard.” Alfred retorted, his heart not really in it. “Cheer up Alik. I have done much worse, and I am still invited to world meetings.” Ivan purred, offering a smile.

Frustrated, Alfred slammed a fist on his supposedly expensive table. A small cracking noise was heard. “Yeah, because they're scared of you for some stupid reason! Maybe you eat babies... I don't know! Not my business to know... but I have a reputation to maintain. I have charities and senators to meet. This video China leaked is shitting on all of that. I've already had two public appearance cancellations because of this! I'll never be able to show my face at a party again!”

Ivan darkened with jealousy as Alfred spoke. It had been centuries since the Russian been so gloriously popular. Some days he just felt like a washed out war dog with no battle to wage. Canada paled slightly and avoided eye contact with him. A spineless coward like the rest. Maybe Ivan should just murder him. No... no... It wouldn't change anything. He would just be alone... again.

“... but... I am glad you came. I'm surprised France didn't try to rape me in my sleep.” Alfred continued, mood lightening up. “Only because I tried to kill him. He is not to be trusted.” Ivan muttered, still brooding. Old memories of France making moves on a much younger Russia floated up, making him shudder. “Huh... Guess I owe you one there.” Alfred replied, oblivious as ever.

Still extremely upset, Alfred refused to do anything interactive. They ended up watching movies. Canada picked the first one, but they barely made it twenty minutes in. It was a horribly inspirational sports movie where nobody died at all. The second movie was a suspenseful feature of Ivan's choosing. It was more artistic than straightforward, about a man escaping a virtual reality society. Alfred was clutching a pillow by the end. Canada would be shocked at times, muttering things like “Was that really necessary?” Ivan personally thought it was well crafted.

The last movie was easily the worst. It was procedural crime drama that could kill from how boring it was. Canada fell asleep watching it due to the late hour. Still stuck in Russian time, Ivan was wide awake. After Alfred started nodding off, Ivan simply left the couch to occupy himself. By the time the shitty movie ended, Ivan had already read all of America's emails, organized the kitchen, and alphabetized the book shelves. Turning the TV off, Ivan took stock of the situation.

Alfred looked so mature in his sleep, glasses askew. There was the faintest laugh lines on his otherwise smooth face. A splash of freckles spanned across his features. With his deep tan and sun bleached hair, the young nation distantly resembled a beautiful sunflower. Deciding what to do, Ivan abandoned Canada on the couch.

America was carefully scooped into Ivan's arms, his rest unbroken. Laying the freckled nation on his bed upstairs, Ivan hesitated. What did friends do without pushing boundaries? That internet article completely escaped Ivan at the moment. Being nice... sharing interests... strictly clothes on type things? He couldn't remember. Oh well. Ivan would just improvise, for he was very resourceful.

Tucking Alfred under thin covers, Ivan lay beside him in thought. He might as well try to nap and regular to USA time zones. Heaving a sigh, he pushed off the bed and went to recover his luggage. He discovered his sword clean and propped up by the door. That was nice. Next to that was a grey luggage case with Cyrillic labels. Dragging all of this upstairs, Ivan paused in front of Alfred's door.

His clothes would still be on, and it wasn't like Alfred's privacy was important. Yeah, it would be okay. Sneaking in quietly, Ivan put his luggage beside the antique wooden dresser. Easing onto the mattress, Ivan took up the remainder of space. Fearing he may fall off, Ivan slid closer to the centre. Crushed against Alfred, the ash blonde didn't much mind. Until four years ago, Ivan always napped with his precious Koshka wrapped around him, closer still than his precious white scarf.

Gently brushing a thumb against Alfred's cheek, Ivan pondered things. He had made a friend, a real friend. Koshka would be so proud, if cats could be proud about others. They could be selfish. It was funny how Ivan was always pulled to selfish people. Once Ivan had been happy to associate with France, until the romance nation tried to put moves on him. Now it was America, the most egotistical nation to grace media for the past century. Was Ivan making a mistake? Alfred wasn't trying to kill him or do anything inappropriate... yet. Trying not to dwell on that thought, Ivan finally rested.

[leonmckennedy]

My Kingdom for a Prince

A fill for [this prompt] on the kinkmeme:

Noct is captured by a person or people of your choosing and fed exclusively Really Nasty Things for the duration of the kidnapping. Could be foods he flat-out hates, or could be things that people generally don’t consider food. Preferably some combo of both! Like, every other day they switch off or something. (No bodily fluids, though, please!) Anyway, he eats what they give him, or he doesn’t get fed.

[AO3 Mirror here]

Canon Divergence: AU where there was no arranged wedding, so Noctis and the bros were present for Insomnia’s fall. And also Ardyn does some fuck shit. Really, fuck that guy

Warnings: Gross food (obvi), bugs, vomit, force-feeding?

it’s around 6k words… Sorry y’all… I went overboard. After a while the AU started fleshing itself out a bit @__@ 

When Noctis wakes up, his first thought is the passing “god my fucking head hurts. ” He doesn’t move for a good few moments, only groaning when he realizes the pounding against his skull probably won’t let up anytime soon. Eventually he blinks his eyes open, waits for his vision to settle, and attempts to sit up. But it’s impossible, because his hands are trapped behind his back and his legs feel like jelly, and after a few more moments of that specific brand of hell he has his second thought. “fuck .”

Next he takes stock of what he sees around him; he knows he’s lying on concrete, as it’s cold and smooth and nothing like his bed back at the citadel. He wiggles to turn on his side, to get a clearer view of the room around him. It’s small and dark. The walls are a dirty gray, barren, no windows. The light he’s seeing with is but a little sliver filtering in underneath the door on the opposite wall. There’s a small latched window on the door, closed. Underneath it is a wider but narrower slit, also closed.

In the corner there’s a small bed, with no blankets or pillows, essentially looking no more comfortable than the floor. In the opposite corner, a small bucket.

The purpose of this room becomes abundantly clear the more he stares at it, and he takes in a deep breath in an attempt to curb the panic beginning to settle in. It’s a cell. He’s locked in a cell. The prince of Lucis, a prisoner.

Noctis flexes his fingers, testing the strength of his binds. There’s barely any give. He’s not sure he’d be able to break through even if there was, however. Because just turning to his side and moving his hands feels absolutely draining, equally so with the pain throbbing in the back of his head. Frankly, he just feels plain bad.

He makes a few more attempts to sit up and manages eventually, groaning when a bout of vertigo hits him. With his stomach churning and the dark walls spinning before him he almost doesn’t hear the approaching footsteps outside.

Noctis does notice when the door’s window slides open and light begins to pour in.

“Well, hello there.”

The voice is smooth and vaguely accented and Noctis recognizes it almost immediately.

His memories come in bits and pieces.

Insomnia… fell. The signing ceremony went well until it didn’t. The imperials moved in and everything went to hell. Noctis fought as hard as he could but there was only so much he could do when they were so vastly outnumbered. The explosions, the fires, the mass panic as the citizens fled for their lives. And—

“You, ” Noct spits, and his voice is quieter than he wants, too torn and broken.

“Oh my.” The voice comes with a face. The man, red hair all sorts of askew and damning smile adorning his lips, peers through the tiny window. “You aren’t still mad at me, are you?”

“You bastard!” The words seem to burn Noctis’ throat, and he knows now why his voice sounds like that. He’d been screaming, before. “You scum— you bastards betrayed us, and you … when I get out of here you’re dead.”

The man chuckles then, sounding for the world like he’s in the middle of a friendly conversation. It boils the blood in Noctis’ veins— he’s not just mad, he’s seething. He’s shaking, down to his core, tastes metal where he’s biting the inside of his cheek to stop from snarling.

Murderer. This fucking murderer stands in front of him and has the gall to laugh? Oh, he’ll rip this guy’s throat out first chance he gets.

“I take it you’re still sad about daddy dearest? Come now, an entire day has passed by now. It’s not healthy to hold grudges, you know.”

Noctis does snarl, then. He doesn’t have energy for anything, and he knows now that his skull is pounding from the beating he took to the back of the head. Neither of these stop him from dragging himself to his feet and launching himself at the door. It succeeds in doing nothing but making the man laugh, the window being too small for Noct to do much of anything.

“By the gods, my dear boy, we need to teach you some better manners.” The man turns away now, addresses someone Noctis cannot see. “here, give our guest a nice little surprise.”

The man’s face leaves. Noctis is too focused on following him with his eyes to notice the other window sliding open, and by the time he looks down there’s a metal instrument poking his stomach and it’s too late.

The shock has him convulsing and it hurts, it hurts so much but he can’t breathe, let alone scream. It only lasts a few seconds before he simply drops, hitting the ground hard and gasping, finally, when his lungs start to work again. His body shakes, and he takes in breaths that don’t stick, gives heavy coughs.

The man’s laugh starts up again, sounding so far away, and Noct can’t respond. All he can do is roll over and try to breath, focus on the frantic pounding of his heart.

Fuck.

The first night, no one comes back. Noctis slips in and out of a fitful sleep. His dreams are just disconnected memories; the citadel becoming overrun with magitek infantry, the monster like machines dropping in from the skies. People screaming. His father’s face the moment he died, pierced through the back by a man, smiling with a mouth full of tar.

What happened to his friends, he wonders. His Crownsguard who fought so hard to help him escape the palace at his father’s last wish, who stood by his side even when surrounded. Did they go down too, like him? Are they captives too? Or are they like his father, rotting in the center of a burning city, a kingdom lost?

Noctis doesn’t cry that first night. He stares blankly at the barren walls of his cell and imagines death. He feels numb.

The second day, someone approaches his cell. Or some thing , he should say. When the door opens it is what seems like an entire squadron of MTs that swarm in, surrounding him.

It happens at an inopportune time. Noctis had been attempting to conquer the armiger, to pull out a sword or a dagger, something, anything. He’d been trying for hours, unsuccessfully. Noctis isn’t sure if he’s too weak or too inexperienced.

“What the hell do you want?” Noctis asks. He’s not sure how threatening he sounds, with the dry, worn throat, but he tries anyway.

He’s standing, having pulled himself to his feet in the hopes it’d help his efforts. It was an ordeal, as it became more and more apparent how injured he is. He definitely has a few broken ribs, sprained shoulder, still nursing the concussion he knows he got from his head injury. If his hands were free he’d have checked on the rest of his body, as he’s sure there are other bruises and cuts all around.

All in all, he eyes all the MTs warily. Because while he definitely won’t go down without a fight, he knows it would be a very one sided fight.

Two of the MTs grab his arms, holding him in place. Another one approaches him from behind and removes the binding from Noct’s hands. Immediately Noctis lunges for one of them, and receives a swift kick to the side for his efforts.

He falls over, hitting the ground, and watches shakily as the machines start to empty the room, red eyes watching him the entire time. One of them leaves something in front of the door before it closes behind them, throwing the room into darkness again.

Noctis takes a few moments to recuperate before crawling over to the door, eyeing the left object with a cautious eye.

It’s a tray of what Noctis assumes is supposed to be food. Assumes, because it smells absolutely disgusting.

“Ugh….” Noct covers his nose with one hand, trying not to gag. It looks like some kind of soup except it seems more gelatinous than it should be, and smells like rotten meat. He’s not touching that.

The second little window on the door, upon closer inspection, has an indentation meant to carry food trays. The MTs left it open, probably to collect the empty tray when he finished. Noctis holds his breath as he picks up the tray and deposits it in the  window, only exhaling after walking away.

Gods, he’s already a prisoner. Beaten and trapped and hopeless. Disgusting slop would be the cherry atop the sundae, wouldn’t it? hell if he would fall to that level.

All he has to do is bide his time. Recuperate his powers slowly, heal up a bit, then he can find an opportunity to break it. Noctis isn’t sure how long that’ll take, but he is going to do it, that much is certain.

The third day, they come and take away the tray of gross slop, and return with another. Noctis takes one look at it and feels his stomach drop.

It’s a vegetable puree, mostly carrots if the orange color is any indication. It’s not a perfect blend, either, as there are whole chunks floating in it; a few peas, lettuce, something red that might be beets. The dish also smells repugnant, admittedly because of the vegetables.

“Are you fucking serious?” Noct asks absolutely no one, because besides of that murderer from a few days ago no one with the capacity for conversation has come by. The MT who left the tray is probably already gone, not that he’s sure the thing would listen to his complaint.

At least, next to this dish is a glass of water and what looks like stale bread. He downs the water too quickly, the warm liquid sliding down his throat feeling like heaven. After that he tries the bread, but it’s so stale it barely tears apart, and is like a thick gum when he tries to chew it. He eats half of it before he can’t anymore, which is a shame because he’s really hungry.

Noctis eyes the soup, dares to pick up the spoon even. I’m desperate, he tells himself. It looks better than the brown slop they tried giving him yesterday, and he needs to keep his strength up if he wants to stand a chance at escaping. So he scoops the orange goop into his mouth and promptly spits it back out, gagging and turns away.

It didn’t smell too bad but it tasted very not like carrots. It’s all sour and musty tasting. It sticks to his tongue even after spitting it out, and Noctis regrets downing his water too fast because he desperately wants the aftertaste out of his mouth.

Well, that’s all. He places the tray into the window and walks back to the bed, sitting down gingerly.

He’s checked himself over for injuries after being freed, and is fine outside of the numerous bruises he has. There’s an exhaustion that sticks to his bones now that he isn’t in an adrenaline pumping, battle situation. His head hurts constantly. He doesn’t know when he lays down and falls asleep, but he is glad for it.

He sees Ignis in his sleep, first. The man looks worried in his dreams just as he does in real life, giving Noct an exasperated yet caring look. The dream seems to cycle through different memories; stargazing as children, music lessons that Noctis could never get to stick, a time when Ignis had been sick and Noctis insisted on visiting him to make sure he was already. It wasn’t a thing for royalty to do, he was told, to check on a retainer. He had attendants to do things like that. But ignis was too important. He’d go over the young man’s place and made lukewarm soup from a can and wiped his face with a towel to cool him down.

When his first fit wakes up him, Noctis is trembling. He wants to see Ignis so badly. Wants to go to him like he did when they were still so young, to hear sweet assurances in his voice.

His empty stomach cramps and Noctis curls up into a fetal position, trying to listen to his own heartbeat to lull himself to sleep. It doesn’t work.

The fourth day is about the same. They come silently, besides of the vague whirring sounds that seem to follow MTs around, and leave a new tray of food. Just like the previous days, it’s something straight revolting.

Noctis isn’t sure where to start with this dish. It’s green and brown and those are colors that don’t agree with him when they’re on his plate. The brown seems to be chunks of meat, most of which are so overcooked that they’re actually charred black. Beside it is a green goop, of which the sight of makes Noctis groan. What was with these fucks and vegetable puree?

Nevertheless, Noctis ignores it. He downs the new glass of water, sipping it slowly this time, and then places the tray back in the window. He paces back to the bed and sits down. There he begins to stretch his shoulder. There’s not much he can do about most of his injuries, because without access to his armiger he had no potions. And no potions meant dealing with the pain.

He’s also dizzy; the water has been a life-send, but it only does so much for his empty stomach. The hunger makes him feel so weak, yet looking at those dishes makes nothing but bile rise to his throat.

Just a little longer, he thinks. He hasn’t had luck with the armiger, but he’s bound to get it eventually, right? He could escape. He could.

He relives a precious memory of his; Prompto staying over his place for the weekend, an increasingly frequent occurrence. They lay on Noctis’ bed, side by side, playing king’s knight until they’re too tired to stare at their phones so they talk instead.

It’s around the time Prompto began to join the Crownsguard, at Noct’s suggestion. He’s nervous about the training, he lets slip. He’s not sure if he’s ready. Because Noctis is too cool and stronger than he is already, and Noctis trips over his own tongue trying to deny those words.

Of all of them, prompto deserved it the least. Being attacked, having their nice life stripped away under their feet; it wasn’t good for any of them but Prompto is normal. A civilian. He didn’t deserve it.

There’s what feels to be a pit in the bottom of Noctis’ stomach, untouched by the gnawing hunger. It grows from his stomach to his chest and it becomes harder to breath for a few minutes before it evens out. Noctis gasps.

He hates this cell.

“A little birdy told me you haven’t been eating.”

On the fifth day, the man comes back.

“What does it matter to you?” Noctis doesn’t move from his perch on the bed. His stomach doesn’t hurt as much as it did before, but in place of the pain is an all encompassing exhaustion. just keeping his upright position feels draining. Speaking even more so.

“It matters a lot to me, my dear Noctis. I didn’t bring you all the way here just for you to perish.” at that the man backs away from the window and pulls it closed. Seconds later Noctis hears the click of the door being unlocked. “Here, I brought you something—prepared special for our lovely little prince. Made with love.”

When the door opens the man is standing there, look absolutely insufferable with his lips curled up into a satisfied smirk. Everything about him looked terrible, from the scruffy quality of his facial hair to his outfit, layers upon layers with colors that had no business being together.

The man doesn’t come into the room, however. Instead a small crowd of MTs begin to filter in on either side of him, marching right up to Noctis’ bed. One in particular approaches Noctis head on, carrying a tray in its hands.

The last few meals had been absolutely awful but this one is in a league all on its own. There’s a big bowl, filled to the brim with what looked like tar. Inside of the soup are floating chunks of what could possibly be meat or vegetables but are essentially indistinguishable. And then the smell is an entirely different story; it smells rotten all around. like rotting meat or dairy that had been left out in the sun. The scent makes Noctis’ stomach roll and he starts to pull away and finds that he can’t.

The MTs grab his arms, holding him in place.

“Now, now, Noctis,” he says, and Noctis throws his head up in time to catch another one of his god awful smiles. “Be a good boy and finish your food.”

A metal hand grips him by the hair, pulling his head back, and Noctis begins to thrash, the disgust rolling around his stomach turning to dread. gods, no, no. A s much as he fights it he doesn’t have the energy to push the machines off of him. He watches, shaking desperately, as the MT in front of him fills a spoon with that revolting slop and leans in closer.

Noctis tries locking his jaw, but another MT grabs his face and pulls it open. It hurts. It hurts and he can’t stop the fucker from pushing that spoon into his mouth.

It tastes like it looks. like spoiled milk, thick and sour and invasive. He wants to spit it out but they cover his mouth and he’s stuck tasting it, the gross consistency rolling around his tongue and sticking to the sides of his mouth. Noctis shakes his head, a last ditch effort to try to get free, anything, anything other than what’s happening. After a few seconds another hand covers his nose and Noctis nearly starts choking right there.

He’s going to die. He’s going to suffocate if he doesn’t swallow this mess and the taste is starting to burn and he feels the tears pricking at his eyes.

“My, aren’t you a fighter? Sure this is what you want?”

Noctis starts to chew. He bites into a chunk of rancid meat, the juices exploding over his tongue and starts gagging and the tears are flowing freely now. He keeps chewing and then swallows, shivering at the feel of the thick liquid crawling down his throat. He swallows it all down and the MTs, apparently pleased, remove the hands from his face and air graciously floods in.

He gags immediately. The tears are still running down his cheeks and he takes in a gasping breath and he feels his stomach lurch forward. It’s disgusting. It hurts. He wants to go home.

“Good boy.” the man sounds more smug than he should have the right to. Smug and victorious. And maybe it’s true. Noctis takes in heaving breaths and he shudders and it does, truly, feel like he lost. “I have some important business to attend to, but I’m sure you’ll finish your dinner while I’m gone, yes?”

The monster in front of him fills the spoon up again and Noctis shakes his head, a sob breaking out of his throat. “No. No, no, no, no—”

“Ta-ta, my dear.”

Noctis sees the man leave from the corner of his eye before the MTs move in closer, the hands returning to restrict his face again. Another disgusting spoonful is deposited onto his tongue and Noctis flails, trying and failing to spit it out before his mouth is covered again.

Each spoonful feels worse than the last. He hoped that he’d get used to the flavor after a while, but he doesn’t. The taste is revolting every single time, and he’s not free after swallowing because the aftertaste sticks to his tongue and the roof of his mouth. The soup started out warm but by the time he finishes the bowl it’s cold, and he’s not sure if that made it easier or harder to take.

Eventually they leave him. They take the remnants of their awful meal and leave Noctis to sprawl across the ground, spitting and heaving. The MTs close the heavy door, and the room is dark once again.

There always seemed to be this duality to Gladio. He could be harsh, yes, but strangely kind. later, when all the strength Noctis tried to keep fails him and he voids the contents of his stomach into the corner bucket, he thinks Gladio wouldn’t call him weak for it.

Gladio was strict. He would get angry at Noctis constantly back home, for skipping out on sparring lessons or for refusing to get back up after being knocked down. “My arm hurts,” young Noctis had said once, and Gladio had sneered at him.

“It doesn’t stop working just because it hurts,” had been the answer, but Gladio still sat down next to him, sighing heavily and announcing that they might as well take a break.

What he wouldn’t give to have those days back, to be the whiny brat complaining about his lessons. When he finishes puking he lies against the wall, stares up at the ceiling. There are small cracks in the concrete, and he busies himself with counting them until his eyelids are heavy and he falls into a restless sleep.

He also wishes he could go home, but in a desperate fit he remembers there is no home for him to return to.

A prince without a kingdom.

On the sixth day, Noctis regards the door with dread. Strangely enough, though Noctis has no sense of time in this cell he feels as though the troopers arrive earlier than usual. And like the previous day they march inside, surrounding him.

Noctis flinches when they come near, their metal hands landing on his shoulders and holding him in place. He’s seen more of these machines now than he has in his entire life, and it is no less unsettling to see them now than the first time he’d ever laid eyes on them. He wishes he’d been dealing with humans. At least they would talk to him, taunt him, yell at him, anything. Without that Niff man from before to laugh at him, it was just the MTs, and the most they could do is glare with their shining red eyes.

They move so oddly, like puppets being yanked by their strings, and they’re built much larger than he is. Noctis doesn’t like it.

“What,” Noctis starts, and his voice sounds much worse than he was expecting. He hasn’t spoken since yesterday, after all. He’s extremely parched and it hurts, just pushing out any words. “W… what you got for me now?”

Sure enough, one of the troopers brings him a tray.

Only the food on the plate is moving .

“No,” Noctis shakes his head, sucking in a shaky breath when a large hand holds it still. “No, not that. Oh gods…”

Noctis is pretty sure they just reached into the dirt outside and threw it onto a plate. It’s the only way to explain why there are fat, pink worms wiggling before his eyes, directly contrasting what looks like actual mud on the bottom of the plate.

His “meal” is glistening in the dim light. It’s slime, actual honest to god slime mixed in with his dirt and worms.

“I can’t— I can’t do this. Please, please.”

But there are no response from an MT. The one holding the tray lifts up an empty fork and holds it out in front of him.

He has to pick it up. They want him to pick it up and eat it himself. He’d be shaking his head if he could. The hands holding his shoulders down push harder, and Noctis just barely holds back a whimper. He takes in a shuddering breath and just. Thinks.

If he doesn’t do this, it’ll be a repeat of the previous day. They’ll hold him down and spoon feed him and he won’t be able to breath and he’ll choke and—

Noctis takes the fork. The MT holds the tray within arms reach, and Noctis cautiously pokes around the plate. He has a vague hope that maybe if he pushes it around he’ll find something actually edible. Instead, under a clump of dirt and an especially big worm he finds that… it’s not a worm at all. It’s red and big and has little bulbs sticking out of its head and is definitely a real fucking slug.

That explains the slime at least.

“C-can I get a raincheck on this, guys?” right about now he wishes he’d have that gross, vegetable puree from days ago. Even that seems more appealing.

The machines seem to hover in closer, and Noctis knows he’s pushing a limit now. He’s gotta get it over with, he’s just got to do it. With the fork he spears a small piece of dirt, gags when it crunches and he realizes it’s not simply dirt. But he’s done it now, so he lifts it to his lips and pushes it in his mouth.

He takes a bite and it’s disgusting. Whatever the crunchy thing was he knows it doesn’t taste good. It’s a bug, probably. He has to try really, really hard not to just spit it back onto the plate, because he doesn’t know how the MTs will react to that. Eventually he chews it enough to swallow.

Okay, not that bad. If the rest of it goes like that, then he can get through this. He can get through. He takes a chance, spears one of the smaller worms and brings it to his face. Eating it is nothing like a gummy worm at all, but at the very least, thankfully tastes like slimy dirt. Makes him gag, yes, but not the worse he’s ever had.

Noctis is strangely proud of himself for doing it. The troopers around him stare, but they aren’t holding his nose closed so he considers it a good thing. Only… the slug, sitting now in the middle of the plate and thankfully unmoving, bless the gods, is haunting him.

He’s not eating that.

“Alright, I think I’m full.”

No response.

“I’m done. Thanks guys but—”

The MTs on either side of him clamp down suddenly and Noctis feels the panic bubbling inside of him.

“No! no, I ate a lot of it already, aren’t we good yet?”

A hand on his head yanks at his hair, pulling his head back and making him yell out. Another grips his jaw, holding his mouth open and in one smooth movement that slippery monster is on his tongue and he’s thrashing, cries muffled by a metal hand.

The slug nearly hits the back of his throat. The taste is disgustingly bitter, so much so that it has him shaking with his desire to spit it out. He takes in a thick, panicked breath, the last he gets before fingers close his nostrils and he’s left to suffer with the taste.

He starts to chew. It’s possibly the worse sensation; it’s so slippery that it feels like he’s chasing it around his mouth while trying to chew. The consistency reminds him of a gelatin dessert, if gelatin was chewy like an overcooked piece of meat, or leaked copper-like blood.

He can’t stand chewing it, it’s that bad. Instead he pushes with his tongue and just swallows. It goes down so slowly that he starts to choke—but with the hand over his mouth he can’t spit it out, so he forces it down some more.

Once it’s down, and the MTs are satisfied with that they let him go. Not just his mouth or his head but fully, and Noctis stumbles from his seat to his knees, coughing. Two coughs in and the bile pushes up from his stomach and he’s voiding everything. The slug, the dirt, everything. His mouth, his nose, it all burns. He takes heaving breaths. It hurts so much.

The MTs leave then, going as abruptly as they arrived. Noctis watches the marching of their feet from the floor, sees their mismatched gait out the door and into the thing light coming from the wall beyond. Once the last one leaves, however, there’s another pair of feet standing in the doorway.

“My, my, what a right mess you’ve made there. Meal wasn’t to your liking, I presume?”

Noctis looks up, slowly, reluctantly, right into the face of his captor. And he’s never felt such unbridled hatred in his life.

“I’ll let it slide just this once but… and don’t get mad about this, dear Noctis…. you’ll have to start pulling your weight around here eventually. Cleaning up your own messes at the very least. And, here’s a little secret,” The man walks up to Noctis, bends down to level with him and whispers, “By cleaning, I mean… constructing your next meal, if you will. Just because you couldn’t stomach it the first time doesn’t mean you should let it waste.”

Noctis heaves again at the thought.

“Goodbye and good night, my boy. Sweet dreams.”

Noctis sleeps on the ground again that night. He’d only managed to crawl away from the site of his mess , not having the energy or motivation to pull himself to the bed.

He lies at such an angle that his vision aligns perfectly with the corner, so he stares at the junction between the wall and the floor. The more the darkness lingers, the more he stares, blinking into the nothingness ahead, the stronger the feeling in his chest becomes. Like a rubber band wrapped around his upper body, he feels constricted. A few more moments and he takes in a long, shuddering breath, blinking rapidly.

And then the calm breaks.

And then he breaks.

“F….father…” Noctis pulls himself into a tight ball, arms tight around his torso. His next breath leaves as a sob, and he can’t stop it.

His father was a busy man. He had to rule over an entire kingdom, and for all of Noctis’ complaining, he knew as well as anyone how much of a burden that was. Years, of seeing his father attend meetings for hours, being pulled away from family time to take care of urgent business. Years, even, of watching his father gray at the hairline, watching his gait get just that much slower, his body moving just that more heavier.

Regis Lucis Caelum may not have been the best father, by any stretch, but he was Noct’s father, and he misses him so, so much. Right now he feels the smallest he’s ever been in years, like he’s eight again and all I wants is to be in his father’s arms, where he could be safe. Where he could take away the pain.

But he can’t. Not because he’s locked up in a dark cell in some hellhole, but because he’s dead. His father is a corpse rotting on the floor in the place they’d called home, and Noctis screams because he’s dead and he’s never coming back.

The worse thing is that he’ll never forget that moment for as long as he lives; his father, ushering him away from the citadel with his Crownsguard, calling on his magic to shield Noctis in his final moments. The view he had, then, of a red-haired man, who he thought was just another stuffy imperial politician, breaking through Regis’ defenses —and what kind of man is he, to break a Caelum’s magic, to overpower his father’s will— and stabbing him.

And laughing about it, too. laughing that same insufferable laugh he’s given Noctis all week, and that smile that sends prickles of rage down Noctis’ spine.

Noctis screams out his grief until his already parched throat is sore, until there’s nothing but weak sobs crushing his chest. He doesn’t know how long he cries. Until his tears dry up, maybe.

When sleep finds him he dreams about his father’s smile.

On the seventh day, the man doesn’t come. None of the magitek troopers come either. Time passes and Noctis stares up at the ceiling, having dragged himself to a sitting position at some point. He waits. He flexes his fingers, vaguely searching for his armiger even knowing it probably won’t work, as it hasn’t the entire time he’s been trapped in this god awful place. He’s partially convinced he’ll never be able to conjure it again.

So he waits, and waits, and waits.

Eventually he starts to wonder what’s happening. The dim light that comes through the crack under the door shifts, as if people are walking by. Or running, even. Noctis hears the telltale signs of MTs, the rattling of their armor as they run, but none of the shadows under the door stop there.

Curious, Noctis gets to his feet and walks over to the door, putting his face against the cold metal and trying his best to make out the commotion outside.

Minutes pass and it gets louder out there; more moments and it sounds awfully like there’s a battle commencing just outside his cell, the precise clanging of metal that could only belong to the clash of a weapons ringing loudly in the air, along with the subtle explosions MTs are known for when they’re destroyed.

All at once, hope begins to bubble in Noctis’ chest. It’s probably foolish to think someone is coming to his rescue, that anyone even knows he’s here, but he figures whoever’s out there fighting off the imperials have to be an ally. They could help him.

“Hey—” Noctis starts, clears his throat because he’s not loud enough. “hey! hello!” he starts to bang on the little window, wishing they’d left it open so he could see what’s happening. “Anyone! hello!”

There’s some more explosions, more clashing. Then suddenly he can feel the presence of another outside of the door. He worries for a moment when they don’t immediately speak, but his fears are calmed when a voice, another human that isn’t that goddamn murderer speaks to him.

“…highness?”

Oh gods. They knew him. They knew him.

“Yeah— yeah, it’s me. Oh gods,” Noctis leans heavily against the door, lets out a laugh that’s a borderline sob. “Please, help me. Please, please .”

The door unlocks. It creaks when it opens, and Noctis barely has enough time to register what just happened before he’s grabbed, pulled into arms that aren’t familiar but are warm and human .

It’s less a hug and more that the man is checking Noctis for injuries. Noctis knows he must look awful— beaten, bruised, smelling like an actual dumpster. But he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed about it.

The man— who’s wearing a Kingsglaive uniform, Noct notices belatedly— pulls back, hands firmly on his shoulders, and looks him in the eyes. “Can you walk?”

Noctis nods.

“Good. Okay.” The man reaches a hand to touch the communicator in his ear. “Guys—I found him. He’s safe.”

I’m safe.

“We gotta move. Stick close to me, okay?” The man faces the door, pulling a dagger from its sheath on his side. “Can’t have you dying after we just found you.”

The man leads him out of his cell and through an MT infested corridor, fighting them off left and right. His heart is pounding in his chest the entire time, but it’s excitement rather than panic, and Noctis can’t complain about that.

He’s free.

Insomnia was destroyed. This isn’t something that has to be explained to Noctis, because he’d seen it first hand. The riots in the streets, the magitek weaponry firing from the skies, the troopers cutting down civilian after innocent civilian.

He doesn’t have to be told it’s destroyed, but just existing outside of it’s walls knowing that its no longer there… it’s a lot to take in.

Turns out he’d only been taken to an imperial base stationed in Lucis. He’s not sure why, when Niff technology allows them to travel far and they could have certainly taken him back to Niflheim, but he is still incredibly thankful he wasn’t that far from his homeland. and also thankful he isn’t dead. He’s battered and broken but alive and he can allow himself to be the least bit happy about that.

Right now he’s sitting in the backseat of a truck, speeding towards a safe-house, and he can definitely allow himself to be happy about that.

“We’ll be there in less than half an hour, highness.”

Noctis had been more than relieved to have a more familiar voice with him. He never interacted much with members of the Kingsglaive, as many of them still lived outside of the wall. So as gracious as he feels for the man who saved him– Nyx, as he’d introduced himself later – he didn’t know him personally.

But driving the car now, the man they’d met up with escaping the base is an influential member of the Crownsguard. It’s Cor the immortal, in the flesh, and just hearing his voice is enough to make Noctis relax a little.

In response to the man’s statement, he nods, head barely moving from where it lies against the back of the seat. Cor doesn’t say anything else, so Noctis assumes he saw that.

“They were worried sick about you, y'know.” Nyx speaks now, turning around in his seat to face him. “We were all looking for you, trashing niff bases left and right. I can just imagine the look on their faces.”

Noctis feels himself chuckle. It’s a little low in his throat and sleepy because gods he’s exhausted, but it’s genuine.

Yeah, he can imagine.

[wilfordndarkdidntdeservethis]

Home Alone Demencia

[squirenonny]

[Requests are now closed! Catch up on the others on Tumblr here. Or read them all on AO3 as Finding Family.]

Wooster requested, “Could I request a scene from just after Shiro joined forces with Keith, but before  Keith had truly earned Shiro's trust (as opposed to the lesser of two evils). I'd like to see what might've taken place for Shiro to decide that maybe this was the real deal.”

(This one is considerably less fluffy than the rest because of the context, but it was just too good a prompt to pass up.)

Set three months before the start of Duality and immediately after Keith frees Shiro.

Shiro sat on his new bed, wondering when the universe had turned upside down.

It was a real bed, with a mattress (thin though it may be). With sheets. The room was small, but it had a door that closed and a light he could turn off when he slept. He had clothes in the closet, a private bathroom, running water. Amazing how such simple things could feel like a luxury.

It couldn’t last.

He kept waiting for the guards to burst in and drag him back down to the Arena. For Haggar to appear and hack off another limb to replace it with her weapons. For the young Galra officer who had freed him to prove as much a monster as anyone else out here in the depths of space.

There was a knock at the door, and Shiro froze, slow to remember that strangers hadn’t always just barged in on him unannounced. Why anyone here would knock baffled him, but by then he was on his feet and heading for the door. Nothing good could come of ignoring the Galra.

[continued below]

When the door slid open, Shiro found himself staring at Keith, the Galra who had stolen him away from Haggar—Shiro’s commanding officer, now. Keith seemed wary, his ears halfway back like a feral cat who couldn’t decide whether or not to bolt. He held a tray loaded down with food, a second tray floating near his shoulder. Shiro froze again at the sight of them.

It was more food than he’d seen at once since his capture. Real food, too, not just the colorless mush the prisoners were given. A lot of this was mush, too, but it was more brightly colored, and there were chunks of what looked like meat and vegetables mixed in.

And the smells.

Shiro stepped back to let Keith enter the room, careful to keep his face neutral so Keith wouldn’t see how hungry he was. His stomach had awakened at the spices in Keith’s food, and he didn’t want to consider what he would surrender if Keith tried to bargain for this meal.

Keith ignored him for the moment, though, just shut the door behind him and tapped a panel on the wall. The desk beside the bunks retracted into the wall, and a small table with two chairs rose from the floor. Keith set both trays down, claimed one of the chairs, and gestured for Shiro to take the other.

Shiro did so, frowning, and stared at the flimsy spork Keith held out to him.

“I didn’t know what you like,” Keith said once Shiro had taken the utensil. Then he dug into one of the dishes in front of him. He paused with the food halfway to his mouth, frowning at Shiro, who still hadn’t moved. “What?”

“You… brought me food.” Shiro didn’t know what else to say. There had to be a catch.

Keith’s ear twitched once, a mesmerizing motion. “Well I didn’t think you’d want to eat in the commissary with half the ship watching,” he grumbled.

Shiro blinked. He was serious? Despite the situation, despite the weapon grafted onto his arm, Keith seemed not to think of him either as a tool to be used or a threat to be controlled. He didn’t threaten or bribe. Instead, he brought Shiro food. He knocked before entering.

Shiro still didn’t trust it. He wouldn’t trust it. Not as long as there was a shadow of a chance that this was a trick. He had very little power in this arrangement, and he wasn’t going to give it up at the first glimpse of kindness.

But Keith made it very hard to stay suspicious. After the meal, he produced a jar of ointment he said helped with bruises and small cuts. He registered Shiro’s cybernetic hand with the door controls and showed Shiro how to lock the bathroom door while he showered.

And he did it all so casually, as if these were things he might do for any prisoner in his custody. Or as if he didn’t consider Shiro a prisoner at all.

Standing in the bathroom, the air around him hazy with steam, Shiro stared at his reflection. He didn’t know when he’d changed so much—his face was harder than he remembered, his shoulders broader. He had dark shadows under his eyes and white in his hair and a scar across his nose—a scar Keith himself had given him.

This is your life now, he thought, feeling suddenly, achingly, old. Scars and fears that you can never get away from.

At least he’d spared Matt this nightmare. At least there was that.

He didn’t come to trust Keith immediately, however much Keith tried to make him feel comfortable. He slept poorly for the first week, fear combining with the sounds of his new quarters—sounds of the Galra sleeping an arm’s length away—to keep him on edge.

Fortunately, Keith didn’t ask him to leave the room often. They ate here, and Keith went alone to the frequent meetings Shiro assumed were meant to ensure that Shiro hadn’t gone rogue and slaughtered anyone in their sleep.

The only times Shiro left in that first, endless week were the hour or so spent on the training deck each day. This was a trial in its own right, but a familiar one. Shiro could handle fighting, and the jeers he received from the other Galra were as much white noise.

(The jeers never stopped entirely, but they did taper off after the first time Keith broke a soldier’s nose for calling Shiro a pathetic waste of Quintessence.)

By the second week, Shiro ventured out of their quarters more often—always with Keith—and the other Galra he met consumed most of his paranoid energy. He still didn’t trust Keith, but he rarely remembered to watch for a betrayal.

In the fifth week, Shiro stepped out of the shower to find Keith lying on his bunk, watching a video of some sort that he’d projected onto the underside of Shiro’s bunk above him.

“You didn’t tell me you had Netflix,” Shiro said. Without thinking, he sat on the edge of Keith’s bunk, close enough that his hand brushed against Keith’s foot. Keith went still, his eyes wide as he stared at Shiro the way he might stare at a grizzly who’d decided to steal a potato chip off his plate. It was only then that Shiro realized: this was the first time he’d touched Keith without flinching. They hadn’t even been able to spar against each other without running the risk of Shiro freezing up, which was why Shiro mostly stuck to fighting sentry bots.

“What’s Netflix?” Keith finally asked, sounding strangled.

Shiro breathed in, then made himself relax. “Something that lets humans watch movies and TV shows—entertainment,” he added, gesturing at the video playing overhead. He couldn’t see the picture from this angle, but the voices (which didn’t quite manage to sound authentic) seemed to be arguing about a broken communicator.

It was staggeringly mundane. Shiro would have expected Galra entertainment to be far more violent than this.

Shiro watched the distorted image for a few moments, his head ducked to get a better angle. All the while, he felt Keith’s eyes on him. Then Keith scooted toward the wall, opening up more space on the bed. It wasn’t a wide bunk, but there was room for the two of them to share, if Shiro didn’t mind some close quarters.

He hesitated only a moment before accepting Keith’s tacit offer, stretching out beside him and looking up at the video playing above him. Keith immediately launched into an explanation of what sounded more and more like a sitcom the longer he talked, though Shiro only half heard him. Even just a month earlier, he wouldn’t have thought it possible, but somewhere along the line Keith had won his trust—and that made everything just a little bit more bearable.