#Chat was a nightmare but that's par for the course

[shikai-the-storyteller]

Something I really appreciate about QSMP is the communication, and I'm not just referring to it breaking down language barriers

When streamers run into problems in or out of character, they talk it out. Instead of getting mad or not saying anything and letting things fester, they talk about it and listen to one another, and today is a perfect example of that.

In lore today, Forever and Foolish fought and Leonarda was hit. Foolish was understandably furious, but he talked it out with Leonarda and Richarlyson (who came to check on them) and he was able to calm down a bit and decide what they wanted to do. When Forever asked to talk with him, Foolish heard him out and it ended with Leonarda and Foolish forgiving him. Something that could've easily spiraled into a war motivated by hurt feelings and anger and revenge was prevented solely because Forever was willing to apologize and try to make things right, and Foolish was willing to listen. And regardless of whether or not it's a good idea, the fact that Forever wants to tell Vegetta about what happened says a lot about him. He's under a lot of stress and pressure, but he still wants to be honest and not hide from whatever consequences that might come. He makes mistakes, just like everyone else on the server, but he still has a good heart.

Out of lore, we saw some conflict between Cellbit and Forever, who set up the commercial song and hid it all over Cellbit's castle. Cellbit didn't care much about the song itself, but it was too loud and overlapping and he couldn't stop it because he couldn't find where Forever hid the videos. Cellbit messaged him and asked him to get rid of the videos since he couldn't stream like that and he wanted to work on the castle, so Forever ran over and placed the videos in areas where Cellbit COULD destroy them if he wanted to, and they had a nice little conversation before hopping back in character and shouting at each other.

I dunno -- it just felt really nice to see. As someone who likes the streamers and who likes the lore, it's really refreshing to see people who are willing to talk things out. Communication and community are what QSMP is about, and I feel like we really got to see that in action today.

[gaylordscooter]

Log of the Multiverse: Nightmare

hoo boy i got shivers just writing down their name.

i'm doing their entry before dream's because, like ink, i'll let him write his own. too bad he's so incredibly busy all the time

now nightmare, his brother, the guardian of negativity. they're terrifying. i can't believe they're dream's twin. they hardly even look like a skeleton.

Thankfully they're nowhere NEAR as active as Dream is. in fact, it's a rare sight to see them for the average person. unfortunately i'm with a group of loony people that happen to be the only people nightmare would seek out from time to time.

i actually got a sticky note i wrote on after i encountered them for the first time

[there's a somewhat crumpled sticky note taped on, it reads:

their touch hurts, presumably because of the goop (speaking of goop. no idea what it's made out of). reminds me of the time i spilt hydrochloric acid on my foot on accident. however, it doesn't actually leave a wound or lasting pain, like touching fire without getting burned

you’ll know they're near when you get a heavy feeling in your soul, similar to blue magic but if it hated you.

negative feelings fuel them. it’s like their food. would being happy drive them away?

they don't kill as long as they find you useful apparently im “a cesspool of anxiety and guilt that provides a plentiful amount of energy”. i hope they choke on my feelings.]

i forgot about that last bit. moving on

they've caused quite a bit of commotion back in their peak. they were on par with error in terms of disturbing universes. they just had. different methods (such as, killing loved ones in front of people, making people live out their worst fears, spilling people's very important secrets, manipulating people who are close to hate each other, ruining the happy endings of many universes) they're a lot more sadistic than error. i suppose that makes sense. they ARE the guardian of negativity.

now i was still in my universe while that was happening, i'm just paraphrasing what ink told me.

and then they just suddenly cut back. they stopped doing all of that.

ink expected this, obviously. he knew how their script goes. (of course he cant TELL me what happens in his script. he can only drop hints and even then he tries not to, to play it safe)

what i do know is that the balance between negativity and positivity is Very much out of wack. what i don't know is what the consequence of that is. yet.

I'm gonna go on a limb and say it's nothing good and buckle up for the ride.

wow it sure sucks knowing something bad is gonna happen and being powerless to stop it. how the hell does ink do it.

side note: ive been calling them the "guardian of negativity" but i don't actually know what that entails. same with dream's title as "guardian of positivity". honestly i don't think either of them know either.

i guess dream's positive all the time, like he can't even feel negative emotions

oh my god im stupid. he literally can't, can he?

then that would mean nightmare cant feel positive emotions. that's. wow. huh.

shit. well, i'm gonna have a chat with dream. or ink, if he doesn't want to talk.

[ajgrey9647]

reaching out, grabbing their hand + Boom! Comics; Tommy/Jason POST-introduction to the Coinless Arc but PRE-Shattered Grid (might as well make it a challenge)~

Tightening the Bond

He did not know whether to consider it a blessing or a curse, though he was heavily leading toward the latter. How many people have been ‘privileged’ enough to meet another version of themselves, one that had made vastly different choices and lived a life they’d never conceived of?

Tommy felt it was not what it was cracked up to be. He would not have recommended it to another, that’s for damn sure!

Following the surreal experience of meeting an older, eviler, more psychotic, power hungry asshole of a ‘Tommy Oliver’, the Green Ranger found that he frequently searched his friends’ faces as he chatted, joked, sparred, and fought beside them.

Did they look at him and see Lord Drakkon? Did they find that they were right in the beginning to have reservations about letting him join their team? In their heart of hearts, did they fear him, have nightmares that he’d one day turn on them?

Letting out a deep sigh, the teen pulled his knees to his chest, his forehead dropping to rest upon the green denim. His face flushed with embarrassment and shame and guilt though he’d done nothing wrong.

‘Drakkon is the tyrannical monster who tortured, maimed, traumatized, and murdered the Rangers of his world. Not me! I could never be so heinous!’

It didn’t help that immediately after tangling with the vicious dictator, Tommy had returned home to discover his ‘old man’ had been on a three day bender and was primed to insult, spit, and strike his ‘prissy’ adopted son. The earlier part of the evening had been spent listening the dick scream, yell, and degrade him up one side and down another. Nothing he said was new, it was all part and parcel of his usual vile diatribe.

But hearing how screwed up he was, how unwanted, how he was such an annoyance, a leech, a pain in the ass so soon after being confronted with the prima donna that was Lord Drakkon was vastly more painful. He was acutely aware that the other Rangers knew or suspected his home life sucked ass. Tommy took great pains to keep them from coming to his home or meeting his ‘folks.’

Jason already had a taste of the majesty that passed for Mr. Oliver, he knew and it still twisted his stomach in queasy knots when he thought back on the experience. For some reason, the Red Ranger had taken it in his head to swing up unannounced to pick Tommy up for school, once the weirdness between them in those early days had subsided. And par for the course, his ‘dad’ was still hung over when he yanked the door open and squinted out into the early morning light. 

“The fuck you want?” he slurred, gripping the tattered door frame for what tenuous support it could offer.

Jason’s dark eyes blinked rapidly as he took in the old drunk glaring at him suspiciously.

“Umm… I was coming to pick Tommy up for school, sir,” he tried, plastering a friendly smile across his face.

Abruptly, the scuffed door slammed shut and stupidly Jason continued to stand on the crumbled front stoop, waiting anxiously and shifting his weight from foot to foot. From the other side, he could hear angry yelling peppered with a variety of obscenities and slurs. He was getting ready to open the door when it opened and Tommy’s lanky frame was barrelling through, his face reddened and eyes moist.

Mr. Oliver’s voice bellowed out after him.

“I’m not fucking around with you, princess! Not under this motherfucking roof! I won’t tolerate that disgusting…”

Boldly, Jason leaned around and pulled the knob, cutting off whatever cruel insult was dripping from the old man’s lips. He’d returned to his car, where Tommy huddled in the passenger seat, chewing his inner cheek and picking at the hem of his t-shirt. A herd of oxen couldn’t drag anything from the teen and he was silent the entire ride to Angel Grove High.

Now, here he sat atop a picnic table in the park, alone, and ruminating on the exact point of divergence between himself and Drakkon. They shared this sad, abusive history, yet they branched off in differing directions at some juncture. What was it that persuaded them toward good or evil?

Stars twinkled over and the moon glowed like an otherworldly jewel. Was Rita staring down at him right now? If so, she should probably rethink fucking with him considering her fate at Drakkon’s hands. And if any of that wildness resided in Tommy, she’d be wise to give him a wide berth.

Faintly, the Green Ranger heard soft footsteps over his shoulder and he turned slightly to see Jason carefully approaching.

“Hey,” the Red Ranger called softly. “Room for one more up there?”

Tommy managed a small smile as he swung around to face his leader.

“You’re a long way from home, Jase. What brings you out this way?” he asked even as he patted the tabletop beside him.

Bounding up to take the place at Tommy’s side, the dark-haired teen sighed.

“I was worried about you… After everything that happened with Drakkon,” he responded. “Zordon told me you were out here. Alone.”

The Green Ranger’s hands fidgeted in his lap, self conscious at the news that Zordon had been watching him. Perhaps he was concerned about Tommy’s true nature as well?

“Well, I had to get out of the house. I couldn’t take the screaming and insults. My old man’s been on a bender and he’s a fight looking for a place to happen.”

Jason nodded in understanding and he slid a comforting hand on the other teen’s shoulder.

“Sorry, man. Isn’t there anything someone can do about what’s going on?”

“Nah… been there, done that. With my shiny track record, I get all the blame and nothing ever gets better, just worse. I’m biding my time until I can get the hell out of there on my own,” Tommy murmured, relishing the feeling of Jason’s warm, soothing touch.

The Red Ranger was silent a moment, unsure what he could even say that would mean anything right now. 

“Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you trust me?” Tommy whispered, afraid to meet his best friend’s eyes. “I mean… after all this mess…”

Mouth agape, Jason was stunned at the teen’s question. His opinions on Tommy hadn’t changed despite being confronted with his darker self. Tommy wasn’t Drakkon. To him, it was that simple.

“What do you mean? Of course, I trust you, Tommy Oliver,” he said firmly. “Why would you think I wouldn’t?”

Tommy shrugged weakly and averted his face, licking his lips before giving voice to his darkest worries.

“Do you think it says something about me if I admit that I can see why Drakkon killed his old man? And that I sometimes wish I had the balls to do the same?” he blurted out. “Sometimes I worry that I don’t know where I end and he begins!”

Tugging on his shoulder, Jason forced Tommy to look at him.

“That monster was an anomaly! That’s not who you are, or you would have killed him a long time ago!”

“Is he though, Jason? Is he really the anomaly or am I? Drakkon makes sense, not me! What reasons do I have to be a good person? Because everything in my life has railroaded me to go down a bad path.”

He ran a shaky hand through his long tresses.

“You know I have a seedy past, Jase. Getting in trouble at school, getting expelled, going to juvenile hall. Picked up for fighting, drinking, smoking, vandalism, theft. I screamed, cursed, spit at, and fought almost every authority figure that came my way.”

Tommy swallowed, tears threatening. He hadn’t meant to go this deep into confession, but here he was and he might as well have out with it.

“Until you. Well, after I was freed from Rita’s spell,” he continued. “I mean, I know we’ve butted heads a time or two because we’re both stubborn as hell, but… I actually care what you think of me and I want you to be proud of me.”

Jason was dumbfounded. He had no idea Tommy felt this way and he struggled to come up with some sort of reply. When he didn’t speak, the Green Ranger went on, feeling more small and foolish and vulnerable. 

“I’ve never had a best friend before, any friends for that matter. Only acquaintances. And they weren’t anyone I’d trust or confide in or give two shits about.”

His shoulders hunched under Jason’s hand and the Red Ranger felt his frame shake slightly as the tears started to roll down his freckled cheeks.

“When the Coinless told me that Drakkon killed his Jason, I almost cried, right there in front of them and Billy. Because I couldn’t believe you didn’t exist in that world anymore, that that asshole could be such a fucking idiot to not see it…”

Hazel eyes flashed with intense passion before Tommy abruptly stopped speaking, his teeth biting harshly into his lip. He’d almost fucked up and said something that he couldn’t take back. His brain frantically tried to find a way to redirect the conversation before Jason could ask questions.

“I’m afraid that you will see Drakkon in me and turn your back, banish me from the Rangers, and I’ll be alone again.”

“Listen to me, Tommy! That will never happen, ok? I trust you with my life. We go into battle together and I know you’ve got my back, no questions. I wouldn’t hesitate to have you as my partner against Rita and her goons any day of the week!” Jason argued, taking both of the Green Ranger’s shoulders in his hands, fighting the urge to shake him soundly.

“I meant what I said that day on the beach when I asked you to join us. I offered you my hand and I’m still offering it to you, even after Drakkon and his bullshit. It changes nothing in my mind about whether or not I trust you or if you’ll turn on me.” 

Dropping one of his arms, Jason extended his hand towards Tommy. The teen gazed down at it through the haze of tears and sniffed. This meant more to him than the Red Ranger could fathom. 

“Say you’ll stay with me, Tommy, stay with the team… We need you. And we want you.”

A wobbly smile curved the boy’s lips and he gratefully reached out and grabbed Jason’s strong, steady hand.

“You have my word. As long as I’m breathing, I’m your Green Ranger, Jase…”

[jadesage]

Miraculous Ladybug Season 5 Spoilers

Ok, so it's time for me to be asleep, so of course I gotta talk about Miraculous Ladybug :P

First, I have to hope that the nightmares were severely affecting people's decision making abilities, or literal brainwashing was involved, because "Perfect Alliance" was a dumb ass plan on par with those stupid "my home was robbed/I was kidnapped" youtube videos. Like, did people really think Adrien and Kagami were kneading bread and doing Chinese calligraphy live on people's Alliant rings? And every single person, who was having something different displayed on their ring, saw Ladybug and Chat Noir kidnap them?

Also, do people not remember that Gabriel told everyone to find Ladybug and Chat Noir? And told them to akumatize miraculize to save Adrien and Kagami? How is Tomoe not being tried for war crimes? Did people not actually figure out the Alliant rings were causing all this trouble?

Also also, while I am positive that Adrien now has a loving and non insane parent in his life, I'm kind of upset that Gabriel actually succeeded in his plans. Yeah he sacrificed himself, but I'm guessing it's only because he was dying anyway. I believe that if he hadn't been cataclysmed, he would have been perfectly fine with passing on that death sentence to someone else.

[sadistiicangel]

• SWEET DREAMS BITTER NIGHTMARES •

CHAPITRE 3: Attention... Ça tourne !

°°°

Trois jours plus tard… Trois long jours qui avaient paru une éternité.. Syana se réveilla. Difficilement.. et avec bien des douleurs mais sans aucun "souvenirs" ne lui paraissant “réels” pour les jours passés... Et pourtant, son corps lui faisait bien comprendre que tout l'était. Mais... Sans comprendre ce qu'elle avait pu vivre, subir. La seule vague de souvenirs qu'elle avait était… ces choses lui étant arrivé. Ces étrange choses. Ces événements passés et ce… monstre?

Cette chose s'en étant pris à elle.

Mais, était-ce réel ou dans sa tête ? Son ventre lui faisait si mal au point même que bouger trop soudainement ou manger était horrible, tout comme pour son bras. Cette sensation, comme s'il avait été arraché puis remis comme à une poupée. Ou bien même sa gorge. Quelle horreur. Une horreur bien trop réelle pour être imaginée. Avait-elle fait quelque chose de mal pour avoir aussi mal ? Pour subir autant de choses ? Ou était-ce le simple fait d'exister et être comme elle était qui lui valait tout cela ?

Un long soupire passa ses lèvres alors qu'elle restait assise, serrant sa peluche requin contre elle, ne sachant que faire de plus. Mais— ah! En plus.. avec tout cela… elle n'avait en rien pu faire ses courses- Gaah… La bleutée baissa la tête en faisait une petite moue, riant alors nerveusement, en se disant même qu'elle était… véritablement maudite. Elle qui n'aimait pas sortir, si c'était ce qui l'attendait à chaque fois maintenant, elle préférait encore crever de faim. Penser à une chose aussi stupide que ses courses après ce qu'elle venait de vivre…

« Yuyu… Dommage que tu peux pas faire les courses à ma place, hein- … Oui je sais, "Grunk!" Tu veux ta salade— … »

La voix encore cassée et douloureuse, elle parlait comme elle le pouvait; en de petits soupirs douloureux. Elle regarda son cher lapin vadrouiller ainsi, faire ses zoomies habituels avant de venir flop contre son petit dodo. La vie de lapin comme lui devait être formidable. Un long soupir passa ses lèvres, se transformant en un grognements de douleur avant de tousser péniblement. Elle avait mal, certes, mais elle pouvait le supporter, comme d'habitude. Elle ne savait plus comment ces douleurs étaient “réellement” apparues, de façon réalistes et non aussi stupide comme son esprit le lui disait.., Aka… avoir été maltraité par une chose inhumaine, mais tout irait bien. Comme d'habitude, n'est-ce pas-?

Se relevant sur ses deux pieds, elle alla se saisir de son sac, étant à moins d'un mètre, sortant alors une petite boîte à médicaments. Hmm… un Doliprane suffirait pour le moment, au moins le temps de sortir faire ce qu'elle espérait être des courses. Elle l'avala en se pinçant le nez, tirant la langue ensuite. Décidément, c'etait toujours chiant à prendre. Dire qu'en à peine quelques semaines et voulant simplement sortir, sa vie entière était passée de banale à beaucoup trop mouvementée. C'était à peine croyable.. Elle regarda alors son lapin ainsi au sol, un léger sourire aux lèvres, se décidant à aller nourrir son petit gremlin albinos.

Ceci fait et un moment plus tard, ayant attendu que son médicament fasse un minimum effet, la voilà chaussures aux pieds, veste mise, et avec un magnifique écusson au coude, un chat… elle ne se souvenait pas en avoir mis un à cet endroit, mais ça donnait un certain style! Même si… au bras ou elle avait mal, c'était une étrange coïncidence mine de rien. Elle souffla lentement, prenant son petit porte-monnaie et son sac, hésitant un long moment, étant devant sa porte d'entrée, les yeux fermés. Devait-elle… y aller ? Quelque chose, une soudaine peur, semblait la retenir, l'empêcher… C'était totalement idiot, que pourrait-elle avoir de plus que ce que son esprit lui remémorait inlassablement, comme un rêve lucide. Ce monstre, cette chose, elle avait simplement dû la rêver, l'imaginer de toutes pièces depuis son esprit farfelu, oui… Elle devait simplement être…

Paranoïaque.

Ahah..

Ces choses qu'elle avait dû imaginer à la place de la réalité, pour combler sa peur de la foule ou d'être au contact d'autres gens, sans doute… Hah.

Enfin, c'est ce qu'elle aurait espéré. La voilà fuyant à nouveau la réalité, espérant s'en sortir sans dégât… Pourquoi toutes ces choses lui arrivaient comme ça, d'un coup, du jour au lendemain -?! Elle n'avait rien demandé, elle n'avait rien souhaité de tel-...

Elle…

Elle avait souhaité.

Ce stupide vœu fait face à ce magasin. C'était… impossible ! Elle refusait de croire que parmis tous les gens de l'univers, son vœu avait été réalisé, surtout de cette façon. Elle avait demandé une vie plus "vivante", non de mourir bêtement lors d'une sortie !

Serrant la clanche de sa porte, elle ravala péniblement sa salive, cette dernière passant bien mal, tout en étant au bord des larmes. Et si .. si elle était comme cette chose qu'elle avait vu-? Elle se cogna la tête d'un coup, contre sa porte, geignant alors de douleur en se frottant le front avec sa main.

« Mais quel con put- Gaaah….- Aïe aïeuh—… Pas possible d'être aussi co- Une douleur en plus, trop cool—! Ahah ..»

Ses jérémiades fini, elle regarda par le judas de sa porte, une moue au visage. Personne…

Pourvu qu'elle ne rencontre personne cette fois. Elle n'avait qu'à passer deux arrêts, et elle pourrait faire des courses, en toute sécurité ! Syana fit signe à son cher Yuyu, qui devait se poser bien des questions sur la santé mentale de sa maîtresse parfois, avant d'y aller. Clés en poche, la voilà partit, bien rapidement, comme pour éviter quoi que ce soit, éviter tout monde possible…

Éviter de revivre ce que son esprit tentait de lui remémorer. Si ces choses étaient véritablement… vraies.

Maintenant en ville, ayant décidé de marcher et de non prendre un quelconque bus ou tram, elle remettait en question son choix.

Pourquoi je suis sortie.

Pourquoi j'suis aussi con.

Pourquoi je suis pas resté bêtement et simplement dans mon lit à la place de me trauma encore plus -?!

Se disait-elle tout en marchant. Se frottant le front dû à son précédent, et idiot, geste.

À son grand malheur, elle fut en plein.. "embouteillage de monde-?", comme elle appelait la chose. Ses écouteurs dans les oreilles, elle regarda à droite, à gauche, agitant ses doigts dans les poches de sa veste comme à son habitude au rythme de ce qui lui passait en tête, voulant éviter une crise de n'importe quel genre. Panique, peur, énervement... tout. Mais être dans un tel nœud de gens, venant de tout les sens, c'était impossible d'avancer -?! Impossible. Dire que quelque jours avant, les rues qu'elle prenait quotidiennement était littéralement vide.

Le karma, le monde entier, était contre elle, impossible autrement- elle avança, se faufilant entre les gens, voulant au minimum avancer, ce sortir de cette longue rue.

« … Chance sur mille… un milliard, Sya'... Bordel, pourquoi toujours moi…-? »

Elle chercha alors un potentiel endroit calme, ou elle pourrait se reprendre, se calmer, être un peu hors de cette foule qui lui faisait perdre contrôle de tout en elle… Mais être bousculé tél un chiffon, telle une feuille au vent, et réfléchir en même temps n'étaient pas deux choses qui allaient ensemble pour elle. Pris de panique, elle se tourna à mainte reprise, tournant en rond encore et encore... se cognant à plusieurs personnes avant, d'enfin, faire face à un mur. En effet, à force d'être bousculé de la sorte, son chemin avait totalement… dévié. Un mur en coin. Elle était totalement bloqué à présent ! Entre ces murs, et les gens passant en trombes derrière elle. Mais la chose la plus étrange, comme si elle ne semblait pas en avoir eu assez, était qu'elle voyait des gens. Non pas derrière elle en tournant la tête, surtout vu ce à quoi elle faisait face, mais… derrière ce mur auquel elle faisait face. Des hommes en uniformes blanc, faisant passer des gens sous un étrange…. Bâton ? Elle ne savait absolument pas ce qu'était cette chose, mais quelle qu'elle soit, la plupart des gens semblant y passer .. n'en sortaient pas.

Qu-...

Elle recula alors, prise de peur et semblant se poser bien des questions à nouveau. Voir au travers d'un mur était impossible ! Mais.. bien du monde semblaient la fixer à présent, ayant reculé au point d'être à nouveau dans la foule, alors que quelque seconde avant, tout le monde l'ignorait tel un fantôme. Se tournant lentement, son regard ambrée regarda rapidement de droite à gauche, les gens la fixant, elle fut prise de court et d'une panique impossible à exprimer, quand une femme la pointa du doigt tout aussi soudainement, hurlant un;

« Regardez-la ! Elle en fait partie! Sa réaction le prouve– T-Tuez la—!! »

Ne comprenant rien à rien, elle secoua vivement et négativement la tête, disant qu'elle ne faisait partie de rien, elle recula doucement, sa voix se déchirant en un horrible silence. Les mots restent coincé dans sa gorge alors que les larmes lui venait aux yeux. C'était quoi encore, comme histoire -?! Pourquoi devrait-on la tuer en plus de cela-?! Elle partit dans le sens inverse à ces gens, un étrange frisson parcourant son corps, dérapant comme si le sol glissait, elle jura entre ses dents.

Faire partie de quoi ?

La tuer pour quelle raison ?

Qu'avait elle fait de mal a cet instant ?

Pourquoi et comment avait-elle pu voir… au travers d'un mur-?!

Dans l'incompréhension totale de cette suite d'événements, elle sentait que sa tête n'en pouvait plus, tout comme elle. Son corps étant déjà étrangement faible depuis plusieurs jours, elle ne savait que faire, hormis fuir.

Enfin…

C'est ce qu'elle aurait aimé faire-

Fuir.

Sa tête heurta un corps, jurant aussitôt en se mordant la langue, elle recula, prête à fuir à nouveau, à détaler au sol s'il le fallait, avant de sentir quelqu'un lui agripper le poignet mais non brutalement, plutôt… doucement, comme pour lui dire de se tenir en place. Surprise mais aussi effrayé de ce geste, elle tourna doucement la tête, les yeux rougissant de larmes, tremblante de tout son long, elle osa regarder la personne qui venait de l'arrêter…

Encore une fois, sa simple sortie finissait ainsi- c'était… une horrible habitude qu'avait pris sa vie décidément. Mais elle fixa cette main, son regard remontant doucement pour voir cette personne, voyant un homme habillé de noir; un long trench-coat bordeaux sur les épaules, index contre ses lèvres à lui en signe de ne pas faire de bruits. Il lui fit signe de la suivre, la tirant avec lui, évitant avec brio et aisément tout ce monde. C'était incroyable…

L'homme devait avoir… la vingtaine, qui sait, à vue d'oeil. Les cheveux mi-longs d'un magnifique châtain foncé, coiffés en arrière, une longue tresse à l'avant d'un côté de son visage. Les yeux noisette si elle avait vu malgré la vitesse. Elle ignorait tout de cet homme, mais… il ne semblait pas avec ceux en blanc ni même de l'avis de la tuer comme les autres l'avait si expressément hurlé, ceux la poursuivant alors, mais dont le bruit semblait s'éloigner au fut et à mesure que l'inconnu la guidait plus loin. Peut-être aurait-il des réponses…Hein ? Peut-être pourrait-il l'aider à comprendre tout celà, pourquoi et comment sa vie avait tant changé-? Non .. c'était idiot de penser comme ça, de ce dire qu'un simple Inconnu allait avoir les réponses à ses stupides questions. Comment ces choses si étranges n'arrivaient qu'à elle… Réfléchissant bien trop, elle ne réalisa pas de suite que leurs fuite était finie, et que cet homme l'avait emmené devant un arbre. Immense. Si grand qu'il était digne d'un bâtiment haut de dix étages. Enfin… au minimum. Vu le tournis que celà lui donnait, ce devait même être plus ! Elle le regardait, son nœud en plein milieu lui faisant penser à la façon dont elle les dessinait il y a bien longtemps. Mais le plus surprenant pour le moment était ces choses répartit sur les longues branches. Elle pencha la tête, tendant son bras libre comme pour les toucher sans y parvenir, n'en revenant pas, avant de voir cet homme, bras croisés contre son torse, la fixer, l'air sérieux mais à la fois surpris. Agréablement surpris…

« Donc tu peux le voir. Bien. Si ces hommes t'auraient attrapé tu aurait pû dire adieu à ta vie. Comme les autres quoi. Heureusement que ma patrouille se faisait à ce moment.

-C… C'est… censée être… rassurant…?

- Oui. Entre.

- Huh…? S-Stop–! »

Un soupire d'exaspération passa les lèvres de l'homme au manteau, il la prit par les épaules pour la pousser bien rapidement avant de la faire passer au travers de l'arbre, par ce nœud. Tout aussi étrange que ces propos, Syana hurla de surprise avec sa voix encore faible, finissant a l'intérieur, à genoux. Les mains au sol et tremblante de cette surprise. C'était… digne d'un conte de fée tout ça, c'était pas la réalité -! Elle regarda autour d'elle, tournant sur elle-même tout en tapant le sol rapidement, comme pour s'assurer de la chose, la vue semblant la choquer au point de faire une dizaine de tours sur elle-même pour admirer tout cela.

À l'intérieur, cet "arbre" ressemblait en tout point à un immeuble, où tout du moins, diverses pièces reliées par des escaliers. Des étagères aux murs les plus proches ainsi que divers livres, des milliers de livres et ce genre...d'aquariums cylindriques, vides, mais bien présents dans le fond de la pièce. Elle ne savait que dire, hormis…- si… y avait-il des murs ici-? Ou est-ce que ses yeux lui jouaient encore des tours à ne pas les voir par elle ne sait quelle magie —?!

Son cœur battant à une vitesse bien trop élevée, elle crut tomber en arrière, avant de se cogner , à nouveau… et donc de voir un homme derrière elle, vêtu d'un costume étrangement stylisé, une capuche sur la tête.Dos à celui-ci et étant toujours au sol, elle releva la tête pour le regarder…

Cet homme-ci devait avoir sans doute la cinquantaine, ou plus âgé quoi. Des cheveux courts et blancs cendrés, malgré cette capuche les couvrant. Des yeux d'un magnifique vert pâle, digne de pierre de jade, donnant un magnifique contraste. Le plus surprenant étant cet air si apaisant et réconfortant qu'il affichait et dégageait.

La jeune aux oreilles pointues le regarda, se tournant et relevant aussitôt comme par réflexe, détestant être dos aux gens. Qui- Qui était-il-..? Pourquoi avait-elle cette impression de l'avoir déjà vu… Cette étrange impression alors qu'elle ne le connaissait absolument pas…

« Merci, Nathan. Je te suis reconnaissant de ton aide ici. …Mademoiselle, vous êtes en sécurité ici. Puisque cela fait la seconde fois que nous nous rencontrions, je me présente… Je me nomme Garance et je suis celui à la tête de cette “organisation” dirons-nous. Je vous prie de me suivre..

-Seconde… fois ? Huh…? -Elle pencha la tête en haussant un simple sourcil- Et …Si je… r…re…refuse…?

- Tu souhaites peut-être retourner dehors et ne rien comprendre ? Comme tu l'as si bien fait jusqu'à maintenant ? Vas-y alors, hop. -Il lui fit un signe de la main- Allez. Nous ne connaissons pas ton rang donc tu as une possibilité sur trois d'être tué ou de crever comme un chien coûte que coûte.

- Nathan ! Il suffit. »

Avait fait franchement le dénommé Nathan, avant de se faire réprimander, sa langue étant aussi affûté qu'un couteau, et sa franchise… digne de la sienne quand elle ne connaissait pas quelqu'un ou qu'elle était dans son dis mauvais "mood".

Hah…

Mais, elle regarda l'homme à la capuche, le suivant tout simplement. Mourir-... Ce mot lui résonnait à présent en tête. Pourquoi devrait-elle mourir comme un criminel -? Elle n'avait rien fait pourtant ! Rien à avouer ou même à culpabiliser. Elle fut conduit face à l'un de ces étranges aquarium, qui avait attiré son regard peu de temps avant. Regardant ce dernier, elle tourna pourtant la tête à sa droite, là où l'homme était debout, le fixant dans la plus grande incompréhension…

« Assieds-toi je te prie. Calme toi et imagine toi plonger dans une immense bulle. Une bulle où tu es en sécurité. Aussi épaisse qu'un char d'assaut et loin de tout… Peux-tu y arriver ?

-.... Huh-? Hmmh…- Je… Hmn-

- Doucement, doucement… parfait-... Maintenant, pose les mains sur la paroi, ton front également et… Ahah— parfait nous y voilà, ouvre les yeux, doucement…

- …Qu- Ah-! HAH— QU-?! »

Écoutant cet homme à la voix douce, mais semblant se méfier de lui malgré cela, elle fit comme indiquer, mais au moment même ou son front toucha cette parois... elle eut l'impression de fondre au travers, d'entrer dans quelque chose de si confortable et apaisant. Ce qui se confirma quand elle ouvrit à nouveau les yeux sous la demande de ce Garance, voyant une douce lumière émanant tout autour de l'aquarium. Prise de surprise, elle hoqueta à nouveau, regardant autour d'elle, ses cheveux flottant comme dans de l'eau, alors qu'aucun liquide n'était présent à l'intérieur, d'autant plus qu'elle pouvait respirer à plein poumons…surprenant, fascinant… le calme se faisant sentir ainsi, elle souffla, de bonheur, les yeux brillants. Où qu'elle soit, elle aurait bien voulu avoir la même chose chez elle! Même si son tout petit appartement n'aurait sans doute pas la place. Du coin de l'oeil, elle pu apercevoir les deux hommes parler, se signer plusieurs gestes, le calme aux visages, avant que le plus âgé, celui à la capuche, ne lui tapote l'épaule, signe de sortir. Ce qu'elle fit, à contrecoeur, face à cette sérénité qu'elle avait pu ressentir..

« Puis-je savoir ton prénom ?

-….. -Elle recula de quelques pas, serrant son haut à elle-

- N'aie crainte, allons... S'il te plaît— Nous ne te feront rien de mal, au contraire... Nous allons t'aider et répondre à ce que tu souhaites. Nous sommes tous similaires ici, et tu es des "nôtres" si je peux me permettre de te dire.

- ….. Syana-... Syana Rheim…

- Syana… Merci. Ton rang est le cinq, tu semble détenir un pouvoir te permettant de voir au travers de tout; Humains, murs, portes, qu'importent les choses. Un pouvoir impressionnant je dois l'avouer... Mais, je suppose que tu n'en avais pas conscience... N'est-ce pas ?

- …. N… Non- c'est… impossi- C-Comment…–?

- Je vois… toutes ces choses étranges y sont liés et ces "hommes en blancs" que tu as dû voir sont ceux devant arrêter les gens comme nous, ceux à "pouvoirs". Je sais que cette histoire doit te paraître folle et irréelle, digne d'un rêve, mais je peux t'assurer que ce n'est que la vérité. Alors … je t'écoute; as-tu des questions ?

- P…Pourquoi tout ça est apparus d'un coup… ? Pourquoi moi...? Un jour j'étais normale et tranquille .. et a-après… tout était comme ça, je pouvais voir ces…. Ces horreurs, au travers des murs, et des choses bizarres arrêtent pas de m'arriver.. tout les jours- je… je comprends rien-! J'ai l'impression de devenir folle-

- Malheureusement tout est réel…. Tout. Ce monde, ces choses, nous… tout existe. Je suppose également que tu as dû avoir un élément déclencheur, quelque chose qui t'as fait sortir de ton quotidien. Ou bien même un désir. Quelque chose aussi petit et impossible soit-il, non… ?

- Uh… Je… voulais simplement une vie moins ennuyeuse- être un peu plus… normale— et quand je suis passé devant ce magasin, je l'ai souhaité et le jour d'après… BAM ! J.. J'ai rien fait de mal, je vous promets monsieur Garance ! Je… je voulais pas, je- J—

- … Je vois. -Garence pencha la tête tout en se tenant le menton- Je vois Syana, calme toi ma chère… nous t'aideront, je te le promets. Nathan, je compte sur toi pour l'aider. Ton pouvoir est de loin le plus utile de tous les membres ici et tu es l'un des plus informés et fort ici-même.

- … Je n'ai de toute façon pas le choix hein, alors soit. J'accepte.

- Je… je veux rentrer, ça recommenc— … mal… à la têt-... »

Mais la pauvre bleutée n'avait pas pu en dire d'avantage ni entendre plus, son mal de tête revenant ainsi que ses douleurs, elle ne réalisa que trop tard qu'elle venait de tomber au sol, ou sur quelqu'un... Comment pouvait-elle le savoir dans cet état, un malaise. Toutes ces choses… tant de nouvelles choses…. Pouvait-elle véritablement compter sur ces gens ? Contrairement aux autres, elle n'avait pas eu cet étrange sentiment de malaise, de mal être. Cette envie de fuir et de se cacher loin… ces gens semblaient… différents, et ils l'étaient, en soit. Oui. Tout comme elle, elle n'était pas si… normale, banale, bien que toujours digne d'un fantôme par moment…

Peut-être que ces gens pourraient l'aider, en tout, et ne pas rester dans l'incompréhension.

Elle espérait…

Ce tournant était quelque chose qu'elle n'aurait jamais prévu, et qu'elle n'avait pas su gérer…

.

.

.

FIN DU CHAPITRE 3.

© sadistiicangel – 2024. All art and writting by sadistiicangel ! Do not copy / steal / trace/ repost anything please. Thx.

[artdecosupernova-writing]

Fictober '19 Prompt No. 19 — "Yes, I admit it, you were right."

Category: Fanfic Fandom: Tales From the Borderlands Rating: T Timeline: an AU sometime before the beginning of the game CW: spoilers and strangulation because it's kinda par for the course y'know Word Count: 893 Additional Notes: this was my first piece of fanfic in QUITE a long time. probably like...five or six years? I'm so rusty 😩

***

"Oh, perfect."

The cubicle gremlin walking far too close behind Rhys for no other reason than being a cubicle gremlin unaware of his surroundings didn't anticipate him stopping abruptly, causing him to smack into his CEO from behind. Rhys, who had gone rigid with terror enough to root him to the floor, barely noticed as his employee ricocheted back into a potted plant and knocked dirt all across the hallway.

Rhys spun around, not to make sure the guy was alright—because at that moment he didn't even know he existed, let alone the custodian loudly cursing him out from the corner—but to make sure what he'd heard had not actually been spoken and that he'd only imagined it had been spoken in the voice he'd had nightmares about for the last two years.

"Mm," the voice said again. "You're not gonna find me over there, cupcake. A little to your left. No, more. A liiiittle more…ha, nah I'm just fuckin' with you. I kinda like the coziness of your cybernetics. Feels like a lil' house for me."

Rhys broke into a cold sweat, unsure of what to do. He realized then that his right hand had clenched into a shiny metal fist without his knowledge.

"…I have a tendency to burn down houses, in case you've forgotten."

The robot arm shot up and its powerful hand closed around Rhys' throat, shoving him violently into the wall, pinning him with a titanium grip. Another hand materialized around the wrist, not at all blue and noncorporeal like he'd expected, but flesh and blood, white-knuckled, holding so tight with unprecedented strength that when Rhys attempted to fight back, the arm sparked and whirred in protest.

"Tell your little peons," Jack growled in his ear, signature masked face fading into Rhys' peripheral, "that Daddy's fine. Nothin' to see here."

Rhys, bug-eyed for several reasons all at once and in desperate need of air and circulation to his brain, glanced at the small crowd gathered near the end of the hall. They stared at him, alarmed.

"I'm…f-fine," Rhys managed to eke out. "N-nobody…come help me…or…a-anything..."

"We've got a lot to chat about, Rhysie baby," Jack said. "So move along to your dinky office like a good boy and I'll pretend you didn't just try to subtly hint that you're in dire need of rescuing. Not that it matters," he added with a smarmy chuckle. "To them, it looks like you're just having one of your run-of-the-mill mental breakdowns. Real cute, kinda disconcerting for the CEO of a major corporation."

Rhys looked him right in the eye. "Wh-why…should I…do anything you s-say…?"

"That's just…not a smart question. Possibly the dumbest question ever asked in the history of the universe. You are strangling yourself. I am making you strangle yourself. You wanna be defiant? Sure, I got no problem ending your miserable life right here."

"You're not…real..."

Jack's smile widened until it stretched across almost his entire face and he leered at Rhys with a predatory gleam in his eye. "I don't think I need to be, do I?"

Rhys slumped into the plush fabric of his office chair minutes later, throat already badly bruised as well as his ego. He held a glass of ice from his minibar up to his pulse point and watched Handsome Jack do a slow spin in the middle of the room, nodding in approval at select pieces of decoration.

"Yeah, I'll admit it," Rhys croaked, "you were right."

"You're gonna have to be more specific."

Rhys cast his gaze to a point over Jack's head—one of the three oversized gaudy-as-hell chandeliers that came halfway down from the ceiling. "We're not so different. You're right."

"Yeah, I'm really just here to get a hold of your business and ruin your life, so if you could save the platitudes and shove 'em right up your scrawny ass, that'd be great."

"You're not gonna succeed, Jack. I don't know how many times I have to tell you that."

"Here's the thing," Jack said, taking his sweet time to make his way over to the desk. "I'm not in your cybernetics. There's no way I could be."

Rhys rolled his eyes. "Right, after the 'cozy little cybernetic house' comment I'm supposed to believe—"

"This is all your brain. I can't tell if you snapped after Pandora or somethin' miswired or if you just…were so obsessed with me that you long for my presence and infinite wisdom—"

"Gag me."

"Oh, we'll get to that later—but I'm not in your eyeball anymore. I'm right…up here." He jabbed a finger at Rhys' forehead and he felt it; sank back in his seat at the unexpected contact, eyes wide. "Or am I? Who's to say I'm not real? Will you ever truly know?"

Rhys, still shellshocked about being able to feel the finger on his skull, dropped his glass of ice and shot his chair back so fast it toppled over with him on it. "No…no, you're not real. This is…this is a very elaborate prank. I…I'm in a nightmare. I gotta wake myself up..."

Jack perched himself on the desk, propped his feet up on the overturned chair, linked his hands behind his head. "Wakey, wakey! Rise and shine and smell the roses covered in skag shit, sweetheart, 'cause I'm here, and you're not gettin' rid of me this time."

[knickynoo]

I'm glad you see how messed up summer of 82 is!! bc when I watched that for the first time I was so icked out like I can't believe that episode was greenlit

Ok. So, I'm glad you sent this because I've been angrily thinking about this episode since I answered that ask the other day and wanted to rant about it, and this gives me the go-ahead. After only ever seeing the episode once during my initial watch-through of the series, I just hate-watched it to refresh my memory of why I dislike it so intensely.

Going to put this under a read more due to the plot dealing with a sensitive subject matter. (Alex--a minor-- is psychologically manipulated and physically taken advantage of by a college senior. FOR LAUGHS.) Just a heads up to others who haven't seen it.

OK. So. Let's lay out the scene of this nightmare of an episode, shall we? Alex is 17--a junior in high school, I believe. He's just got his first job delivering groceries to people around town. One of those people is Stephanie, a college senior, which puts her at like 21/22 years old.

During his grocery drop off, Alex gets to chatting with Stephanie. Turns out she's into economics. Alex LOVES economics. He's very happy to have found someone who shares this interest, seeing as most of his friends and classmates don't really care for the subject.

At discovering how old he is, Stephanie is shocked. Because, as she says, Alex is so mature! He acts and looks so much older than a high school kid! (He does not, by the way. This is season 1. Alex is so baby-faced, he looks like he's 12) But ANYWAY. It is clear that Stephanie is showing interest in him, and it's also clear that Alex is completely unaware of this. To him, he's just found someone nice to talk with for a few minutes. Other than that, he isn't particularly interested and soon says goodbye and heads home.

Stephanie later calls Alex up and invites him to go see an economist give a speech. His mother is understandably concerned at this college senior calling up her son for a date, but Alex puts her mind at ease. There is nothing romantic to it at all. They're just going to see someone speak. Again, Alex literally just sees Stephanie as a nice, older friend. Cut to them getting back to her apartment after the event. Alex just wants to walk her to her door and then go home. He even nervously makes note of it being late (he thinks it's close to midnight--it's actually like 8:30 lol). Stephanie invites him in, and Alex is visibly hesitant. He just stands still in the doorway until she coaxes him in. *red flag alert*

Stephanie offers him wine. (Alex is 17. Legal drinking age in Ohio in '82 was 19) *red flag alert*

They get to talking, and Stephanie again goes on and on about how Alex seems much too mature for only 17, saying, "You seem to have come by so much so early. You must sense that about yourself, don't you?" To which Alex tries to tell her that no, he doesn't think of himself as more mature or worldly than his peers. Stephanie cuts him off with, "Admit it--you're really special." And. I don't think I need to explain why this scene is so awful and uncomfy to watch. Listening to Stephanie try so hard to convince Alex that he's so grown up! So mature and special! 🤢🤢🤢<- hope that comes through on all of your various devices. It's the barf emoji lol. So, yeah. *waving giant red flags around* Alex, run for it, bud.

Let me just be clear that our dear Alex is NOT picking up on any of these signals. Which is very par for the course if you're familiar with Alex and his social difficulties. He's been an outcast, for the most part, among his classmates from the time he started school. He was shunned for being smart and "weird". He legitimately struggles to read social cues and is often oblivious to the intentions/feelings of others (something that's very often played for laughs in the show). So he's just. Hanging out. Talking to this girl who likes economics and keeps telling him how wonderful and smart and special he is.

And Stephanie just keeps layering it on. Telling Alex that she can't even have these types of conversations with COLLEGE GUYS. He's not like the guys her own age. He's intelligent and sensitive. At this point, pretty much all Stephanie has done since meeting Alex is remind him every four seconds that even though he's 17, he's mentally so much older. It's horrible. It's horrriiiibllleee.

Then. AND THEN, she confesses her attraction to Alex and grabs his hand. And Alex is immediately flustered and is sitting there all anxious and breathing all heavily, and the audience is just laughing away. Hahaha, a grown woman is hitting on a high-schooler and he's uncomfortable--isn't that funny??! (It should be noted that Alex tries to bring up sports to divert the conversation and shift the focus. It doesn't work)

She then kisses him, and Alex AGAIN tries to redirect things. She ignores him. At no point does Stephanie pause at the very obvious signs that Alex is stressed and not enjoying her advances. Thus far, he has 1. initially tried to make an excuse to go home, but was persuaded to go into the apartment 2. attempted to tell Stephanie that he is not as mature as she keeps saying he is, but was interrupted 3. tried to put a stop to her holding his hand by changing the conversation topic and 4. tried again to divert her attention after she kissed him.

Stephanie ignores his second desperate attempt to talk about sports and asks him if he wants to stay the night. Alex says no, understanding full well what she's hinting at. Stephanie delivers one more emotionally manipulative statement regarding how well Alex did delivering the groceries even though that was his first time doing it, so this other "first time" will probably go well too, and then she kisses him again and the scene fades to black.

Pick back up the next day at the Keaton house. Things, ya know, happened, and now Alex has convinced himself that what he has with Stephanie is true love. He doesn't see how it can be anything BUT love, considering all that happened and how much she showers him with compliments. He's mature and smart and special. Surely, she wouldn't say those things if she didn't mean it. He ends up visiting her apartment all dressed up, intending to take her on a date, but SURPRISE! Stephanie has been seeing another guy (a college guy) and Alex was just a meaningless fling for one night. She took his virginity (despite his very apparent nervousness and multiple attempts to excuse himself/steer the evening in a different direction) and he's left absolutely heartbroken. Stephanie, meanwhile, doesn't get why Alex is so upset. It's not a big deal to her.

Alex feels like he's been used--which he has--and mentions that he feels cheap, and the audience giggles away. JUST A BARREL OF LAUGHS EVERYONE.

Alex goes home and is sad and confused and angry. He dramatically buries his head in his arms at the kitchen table, near tears, and the audience is getting such a kick out of this. It is so funny apparently to watch Alex in anguish after being taken advantage of and promptly tossed aside by someone nearly five years older than him!! HOW WAS THIS EPISODE MADE.

His dad sits down with him, and Alex tells him what happened. And while Steven is a little awkward because he wasn't expecting to be blindsided by having that conversation with his son, he's not really. Like. Concerned? He mostly just tells Alex that sometimes in life we get our feelings hurt when we open ourselves up to people??? But it shouldn't make Alex avoid future relationships? ANd. That's it?? Alex considers the advice and is like, hmm maybe you're right, dad, and then the episode ends?? Meanwhile, if the plot had been the same situation involving Mallory and a college guy, you know Steven would have run over to the apartment and pummeled the guy with his bare hands. But because it's Alex and he's a boy, it's. It's just a funny episode? A learning experience? A "Hey, sometimes these things happen" conversation and then bam, closing credits??

DO YOU SEE. WHY THIS EPISODE WAS INITIALLY A ONE-AND-DONE FOR ME. Why I watched it like 😬and then went "Huh, never want to see that one again." It is a bonkers episode, but not in the good way. And this has all been festering inside of me evidently for two years, but it was never something I wanted to post about unprompted since most of my FT posts are lighthearted and fun! And this episode is messed up. And yeah, it might just be that I'm seeing it through a 2022 lens and not a 1982 lens, but still?? I have to wonder if anyone watching the show during its initial run saw the episode and went, "Hmm...that was not a fun time."

Sorry, I took your ask and ran with it like this. For those of you who have seen me mention once or twice that this is my least fave episode but never elaborate on why: now you know, haha.

[clockworklozenges]

So, a good five or so years back, I played in one of the best worst DnD games I have ever been in. The DM had bought the Libris Mortis book, which, if you were unaware, was a 3.5 splatbook adding in a lot of undead stuff, including some monsters and undead player races and stuff. Wanting to try it out, me and my gaming group decided to play things from it, our then DM deciding to run a completely homebrewed session. This proved to be a...

Terrible Idea™

(for the uninitiated, never homebrew something you do not fully understand unless it's just cosmetic. If you want to make all elves worship the god of garlic bread, Ultimo-Metatron-Omega, go ahead, but unless you know how the game works, don't make mechanical changes). So we all picked stuff from the books-one player played a skeleton Sorcerer who in life was a tribal shaman, but an attempt at healing went wrong, turning him undead as his life energy was replaced with negative energy, explaining why most of his spells were necromancy and suchlike.

Another player played Krug, an antipaladin in very spiky full plate. He was a zombie made by a necromancer of a paladin who was fighting him, but his allies killed his would-be master before he could assert control, and not wanting to just off him, his allies just...yeeted his body into a portal and hoped it'd re-kill him. It did not kill him hard enough. It did, however, explain his stats which...oof. He had already got debuffs to some stats due to being a zombie, and rolled abysmally. Fortunately for the player, he played mostly to socialise, so didn't much care.

I played... Count Nox Feratu, the Campire. As in, a vampire with a very camp German accent, which I did not break for the whole time I was playing him. To the point where "ach, nein, I haf bin heet! Heal me, meine freunde!" was par for the course. My overly camp vamp was a wizard, but due to level adjustment was a bit of a shoddy one. For backstory, he'd been ousted from his clan for ineptitude, and had sworn revenge. I was going for a swordmage build but never got there. All his spells were utility or just necromancy spells.

Our last player played...sigh...Damien Bloodmoon, cleric of Nerull, God of murder and undeath. He was one of the clerics from the book's murder Domain, meaning that he got buffs to damage. He was a vicious arse both in character and out of it, and was so dripping with edge compared to the paladin with the same IQ as a horse after its trip to the glue factory, the shaman who thought killing fixed people and the Campire that if you gave him a pat on the back you'd have finely diced your hand into a red mist. Not going too outlandish with his backstory of wanting to dominate the world as his undead thralls, Damien F***ing Bloodmoon had only taken spells which either charmed live people, dealt negative energy damage or messed with ability drain and suchlike, which he used with aplomb on townsfolk on our way to our objective. He was also, importantly, playing an elf of some sort, I forget which kind. Meaning that of the party, only one was alive.

So, just as an aside, for those of you that haven't played 3.5e DnD or have only played 5e, in Libris Mortis, undeath was gone over in detail, and had a litany of pros and cons. For one thing, undead had only the HP they had-folks like Damien F***ing Bloodmoon could be 'dying', and had some time to be stabilised before meeting the reckoning of Papa John and dying proper. Undead did not, it was just how much you had and if you ran out, poof, you're dust, bones and fertiliser again. You were also harmed by positive energy, so healing spells hurt you, as did potions of healing. However, undead were kind of hardy - poison immunity, some had resistance to non-magical melee damage, stuff that drained your ability scores and levels didn't work on them, some crits wouldn't do extra damage, and the best part- negative energy healed undead. Meaning all the spells our party had which damaged others like the living Damien Bloodmoon were curative ones for us. Keep this in mind.

So, we began our quest, learning of a necromancer a nearby town was plagued by. After using our skills (to whit: Damien Bloodmoon charming and drawing the life force out of random villagers and the only potion seller in the town whilst we went shopping. Krug got a snazzy hat, which we put on top of his helmet, and we chatted to townsfolk as I looked alive enough to pass as human and the shaman had a fake beard and toupee that people were too awkward to point out was fake so went along with it) we learn that the necromancer has a base of operations in the cemetery. "Oh ja, zo original, dahlink. Ve vill need to educate zis guy on vhat is chic and vhat is just shabby!"

So we head there and the nightmare begins. Damien Leads the charge, using all of his knowledge to deduce that the shambling horde moving towards us were stronger-than-your-average-bear undead, and he was right. These were powerful armoured zombie mages of some sort, casting ability draining spells, negative energy ray spells and even having auras of negative energy that dealt damage on a failed Fortitude save. Even their punch and quarterstaves did negative energy damage as well as the usual bludgeoning or unarmed. However...only one of us was really in danger and the DM's face fell when the squishy casters walked up and began shanking their super-special homebrew zombie wizards, being healed by the damage of their attacks as we cut them down.

Like I said, one of the benefits of undeath is that negative energy actually heals you. So the strikes of the magic staves and punches that hit us did some basic damage. Which was then immediately healed by the negative energy their weapon strikes and spells were doing.

However, you'll recall that Damien Bloodmoon was an elf. And not dead. Being a Cleric of a death god doesn't mean that you have the abilities of an undead. That meant that even with the DM being merciful, by the end of the first fight he was covered in blood, mud and withered away to just above half his original strength and constitution. More were patrolling, so we had to run. But that posed a problem.

Remember Krug had heavy armour? And recall his awful stats? He in fact, hadn't got enough strength to wear the armour he'd been given for backstory. He didn't, according to the DM, have enough to remove his own armour. And we attempted to, but also failed our checks according to the DM. And Damien Bloodmoon refused to help, simply blaming Krug and his player. Krug's player thought it was hilarious, and Krug only had enough Intelligence and Wisdom to say his own name, so saw no problem. And Krug, Nox Feratu and Shaman realised that there really...wasn't a problem.

For us, at least.

We slogged through three combats dragging Krug and wading through the mud with him. His speed was so slow that for every step he took, we took about ten. The DM was confused and infuriated that his encounters weren't working, but refused to change them. So we had fun role-playing. Or at least three of us did.

Damien Bloodmoon refused to roleplay, and none of his ranged spells could affect the zombie mages. When he went into melee, he came out wounded as all hell. He went down twice, and it was only the healing supplies of the shaman that saved him.

All the while, he was... Let's say not best pleased. Damien Bloodmoon was getting increasingly wounded, exasperated and longing for the sweet embrace of death as reprieve from the humiliation. His player was getting increasingly redder and rage-filled as time passed. Each fight ended with our characters stronger than ever and his a bloody pulp on the floor, with poor in-character knowledge (and terrible rolls) preventing him from realising why.

Eventually, we reached the final boss, pausing only to paint Krug's armour in contact poison just in case, and to find a stick to help the now-partially-crippled Damien Bloodmoon, cleric of death and murder, walk after being beaten up by angry zombie wizards for hours. And it had, indeed, been hours. Among us, only Damien had a bonus to strength, and we had two swords, a mace and a staff between the four of us. Meaning it was re-death by a thousand cuts for the enemy and a slog and a half for us.

We reach the necromancer and, having taken so long due to dragging the oblivious Krug with us, his big ritual is complete- he raises a fist-sized black onyx egg aloft, crackles with arcane power and causes the bones around him to coalesce into one massive creature - an undead, giant-sized rust monster, radiating an Aura of pure negative energy. Krug opened his arms wide, eager for the metal-eating monster cockroach to free him from his poison-painted metal prison. It ignores him as he's still very far away. Me and the others have our weapons and armour devoured.

Our DM was very much a stickler for note-taking. So because Damien Bloodmoon hadn't written 'clothes' on his sheet, his armour being eaten by the monster left him naked and afraid.

It became clear that the DM had done another f***y-wucky. See, the Aura of negative energy healed me and the Sorcerer by more than its other attacks did. So whilst Damien Bloodmoon was naked, soaked in mud and bleeding to death almost crushed to a pulp in the fetal position, rocking backwards and forwards as his player seethed with hatred, the Shaman and the Campire set about beating the thing to death with our bear hands and a stick.

The session ended once we killed the necromancer, or rather when Krug walked up to him, closed his arms and just crushed the noodle-armed bad guy to death with the weight of his ridiculous armour and poisoned him with its paintwork.

We never revisited the game afterwards. We were told later on that the DM wanted us to use the non-undead races. But at no point had he said as much, even when we asked him about our characters and the restrictions on them. We also learned a valuable lesson. DM for the players who are there, not the ones who you have an idealised mental image of. Tailor your game, otherwise you'll get a sitcom featuring a camp nosferatu, a shaman with no healing, a paladin who could barely move and a Cleric of murder who was ironically the only one at risk of actually dying.

[itsagrimm]

Imperial!Tech 2

Is it even romantic without murder?

Imperial!Tech is a delight and I am worried why I have fun writing a murderous lost nerdy boi. will likely do a part 3.

about 2.000 words

part 1

Part 3

CN insults, violence, murder, discriminatory behaviour, very toxic behaviour, soldier life in a fascist state, tiny bit of fluff or Manipulation depends on your perspective, blood, pain, talk of injury. imperial!Tech is a bit of a tease but he will come around

Imperial!tech X they*them Y/N reader

“This will not suffice. Repeat.”, Commander Tech ordered.

His command was calm and detached, a contrast to the exhausted and heavily panting Elite Squad soldiers.

They looked at each other. None of them having the strength to continue their practice. But also none of them having the will to argue with their commander.

Y/N looked up to the observatory deck. Commander Tech was up there, his black armour contrasting with the white walls.

“Is there a problem, ONCE?”, the voice of the commander echoed in Y/N helmet, using the moniker the elite squad had given Y/N.

“No sir. Can we get a short break before a new try?”

The commander glanced down before looking at the holopad in his hands again.

“The elite squad endurance and recovery time is miserable as expected. I calculated your performance to be at least on par with regular clone troopers. I see now that it was a mistake, and I will have to lower my expectation further & readjust my strategies to your … lacking skill level.”

“I am sorry, sir.”

“It is not your mistake to be born inferior.”, the commander stated flattly, “Your next round will be in 5 minutes standard.”

The Elite Squad looked at each other. Their commander was in a mood. Since his injury on Bracca the Squad had not been in action and commander Tech worked them into the ground with his bone breaking practice runs.

“It is impossible.”, ES-02 said using a private chat without the commander, “Who is he comparing us to? The commanders’ expectations are inhuman. Only some kind of super squad could execute his mind-boggling plans in the time he gives us.”

They nodded in agreement.

“He expects us to be at least as good as the regular clone troopers.”, ES-04 stated.

ES-03 laughed: “Yeah we are better than thosemeat droids. And what does he mean with regular clones? Is there even fancier cannon fodder out there?”

“Commander Tech is noticeably different from other clones. Maybe there are more like him out there?”, Y/N pointed out.

“Oh maker, imagine more copies of that pretentious smart mouth up there.” ES-03 rolled his eyes.

“Get in position and execute plan 8C.3 .”, the commanders voice cut through their chatter. ONCE felt as if they got caught bad mouthing Tech.

“Yes sir.”, they replied and got into position.

A ping from a private channel ringed. It was ES-03.

“You are quiet protective of our commander Tech, my dear ONCE. Is there something I need to know?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, … it is always ‘yes sir’ and ‘of course sir’ and sometimes you are both gone in the night. And our dear commander got a lovely visit in the med bay when he was wounded. You even bring him caf somet-“

“ES-03, mind your business.”

“No need to get so aggressive. I am sure it is nothing. And I am sure it is just a coincidence that he leaves you out of punishments or giving you the safest positions in his strategies…”

ONCE said nothing.

Since that time in the hangar the commander had some allure and to admit that meant a defeat ONCE could not afford.

“Well my dearest ONCE, got nothing to say about that? I-“

Static cut through their transmission.

“ES-03, I must inform you that I am very disappointed by your unprofessional behaviour within the Elite Squad which I will not tolerate anymore.”

“Commander? Is that you?”

“Yes of course, who else did you expect?”

ES-03 turned around and looked up to the observatory deck.

Commander Tech’s expression was unreadable, his eyes hidden by the reflecting glasses.

For a moment none of them moved. Then ES-03 took of his helmet and started shouting.

“Are you spying on us? Are you listening to all our private conversations???”, he screamed with a red head.

The commanders lips moved but up there and without his helmet ES-03 could not hear the commanders answer.

“Calm down”, ES-04 tried to defuse her squad member’s anger.

“I am NOT calming down! The sick dirty clone listens to our private channels!”

“Mate, it is not worth it to start a fight like this now.”, ES-02 added, “put your weapon down and think about it.”

“Are you serious??? Do you think I am a threat with this crappy old DC-17? A danger to any of you?! No, it’s this meat bag of a clone who should be afraid of me!”

ONCE flinched at ES-03’s words and readied their weapon.

He was out.

An angry man was a dangerous man.

ONCE former life as a bounty hunter had taught them this lesson well.

Static cut through their helmet again before ONCE heard commander Techs voice.

“Tell ES-03 that the Empire has issued an order to all commanding officers to listen into all communication of their soldiers. It is also very much encouraged to record it.”

“Are you sure that will calm him down, sir?”

“I don’t care about that. He either learns how to live with imperial command or he does not.”

“You are testing him.”

Tech paused.

“Follow your orders, soldier.”

He cut the transmission.

ES-03 was still shouting. His spit landed on ONCE helmet when he turned toward them.

“What did that clone say, my dearONCE??? You two just talked, didn’t you?!”

He sounded furious. His eyes burning like laser blasts into ONCE body.

“He said, checking all communication between soldiers is the new imperial standard to which the commander simply has complied.”

“Fuck that!”

ES-03 stepped closer, his DC-17 blaster still in his hands.

“Fuck that! Fuck that clone! Fuck the Empire! Fuck YOU, you little imperial whore!”

He raised his blaster, aiming for ONCE.

ONCE got cold. Trained instincts kicking in. They rolled sideways behind one of the training blocks to avoid the shot.

A blue blast slightly grazed their helmet, but the adrenaline made it impossible to tell whether or not ONCE got hit.

“ES-03! Stand down!”, Tech’s voice commandeered from somewhere close. He must have left the observatory deck.

“HA! What are you going to do, little nerdy boi? Do you want to protect your little pet over there?! Don’t even try! You are not even a real man!”

Another blue blast shot through the air.

ONCE could hear the Tech and other Squad members taking cover.

“He really did go full rage.”

“Not everyone is cut out for the soldier life.”

“Not everyone is cut out for the Empire!”

“What do we do?”

“Cut the chatter, soldiers”, Tech commandeered, “Take ES-03 out. Shot to kill.”

“Sir?!”

“We can stun him!”

Instead of an answer Tech jumped over the training block he was couching behind and kicked ES-03. ONCE heard the blaster slide over the floor and the sound of fists colliding with skin.

Over and over again.

The sound got wetter.

ES-03’s screams turned into pleas before going silent.

XXXXXXX

Another rotation on Kamino. Another dark night in the bunk room of the Imperial Elite Squad. Another nightmare.

Y/N woke up and looked around. Everything was calm except for the rain knocking at the window and the slow breaths from their fellow soldiers. Commander Tech was missing as always.

Weeks since the Commander had been hurt on Bracca. Days since ES-03 s death. Hours since he – since Tech – had looked at y/n. Why was that such a painful thought? He was a horrible man, a murderer!

He is just a good soldier, he follows orders. Just like you.

Y/N closed their eyes. Pictures of Tech beating ES-03 to death flashed before their eyes and with them the realization that whatever crimes and murders Tech committed, Y/N committed them alongside him. Two monstrous beings in service of a monstrous Empire.

The door to the bunkroom opened silently, only a light draft giving away the silhouette in the door frame. Y/N glanced to the door. It was the commander. He looked at the sleeping elite squad members and through the room as if he was searching for something.

Y/N got up on their elbows and looked at the commander.

Their eyes met.

“ONCE”, he whispered, “Come with me.”

Y/N got into their boots and followed the commander. The long white halls of Tipoca, the kaminoan capital, were empty and quiet. Tech lead the way but surprisingly they passed the hangar and soon arrived at his little office.

He turned around.

“I require your assistance, ONCE.”, he explained in a calm voice, using the moniker the elite squad had given Y/N.

“Now?”, ONCE answered.

“Yes, now.”

They looked at each other. Tech looked horrible. He had dark circles under his eyes so prominent, that even his glasses couldn’t hide them. His head wound from Bracca had left severe, still bloody scars and his hair was unkept and in patches from the burn he survived.

“What is it, commander?”

Instead of an answer he opened the door to his office. It was a little room, full of unfinished projects and gadgets, a wall scribbled with complex formulars ONCE was not in the mood to fathom and a littered table with various unfinished reports.

The workspace of the commander surprised ONCE. It was a stark contrast to the thoroughly planning and executing commander they knew.

“Can you cut my hair?”

“Sorry, sir?”

ONCE turned away from the room and faced the commander. His face was reserved but his voice had a telling neediness in it. The commander, Tech, he needed help.

“Well, I cut my own hair. I can try cutting yours. But I am no professional.”

He nodded.

“I noticed.”, he paused and smiled apologetically for his ambiguous phrasing, “That you cut your own hair, I mean.”

ONCE was speechless. He had smiled.

“I have my personal reservations towards the imperial service corps and their droid hairdressers. And the other option is to ask another trooper since I do not have the skill to cut my hair. But quite frankly the thought of trained regular soldiers having blades near my throat and more importantly my still healing wounds being opened up by some well meaning yet bad practising self-learned barber, is distressing which is why I require you to cut my hair.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“I was not aware of the need for sunlight in order to cut hair. Can you elaborate?”

ONCE suppressed a smile.

“I am sorry, sir. The circumstances are just a bit unusual. But I can try cutting your hair. And I do not plan on cutting your throat.”

“Good to know.”

He nodded casually, satisfied with ONCE’s answer, and produced a hair clipper from somewhere before seating himself on a chair with his back towards them. It was a captivating moment. ONCE looked at the hair clipper in their hand with its tiny blades and the commanders turned back to them. He had defined yet narrow shoulders for a soldier and a muscular back, visible through the thigh blacks. His bare neck was visible, and his occipital moved under his skin when he turned and looked at ONCE.

“It is alright. Feel free to give me whatever hair cut you choose to be fitting. As long as it is functional, I am content.”

ONCE breathed in. That was the commander. And they were about to cut his hair like they were good ol’pals or family. Like they were more. It was a sign of trust so unusual on Kamino, yet he had asked for it.

“You will need to take your glasses of.”

He complied and waited.

ONCE touched his hair to feel its texture before cutting. It was soft. Like a child’s.

They started cutting both sides to even out the burned parts and help with the sensitive skin around his scars before shortening the rest. Burned curls after curls fell on his shoulders and he brushed them away with his hands.

His hands. His murderous hands. They were large and had long fingers with little cuts from tinkering around. How did it feel being touched by them?

ONCE finished cutting, walked around Tech to look at the commander and squatted to see him from an even perspective. He looked good.

“This will work, sir.”

Instead of an answer he stretched his arm out and grabbed ONCE’s jaw.

“Thank you, Y/N.”

He got up and turned away.

Part 3

[omniswords]

Little Cat on the Roof [Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng]

Adrien's been having nightmares about something he never did. Knows for sure he never did. But it feels like it happened, and it won't leave him alone. And there's only one place he can go to fix it. And there's only one person he can be.

[Spoilers for Chat Blanc; proceed with caution!]

[AO3 Link]     [Buy me a Ko-Fi?]

Adrien supposes it doesn’t matter which rooftop he’s sitting on. He’ll always languish without his lady.

He doesn’t know when he decided on this little tune, about a little cat sitting on a little roof. Honestly, he’d say it came to him first. No matter where it came from, he finds himself humming the melody, sometimes singing these simply lyrics under his breath when he hops from rooftop to rooftop on his weekend patrols, when Ladybug is out of sight.

If there are other words, they’ve never come to him, and he gets the feeling they never will. And he’s not quite sure if it’s something he should be used to.

He’s had this feeling of losing things he’s not sure he ever fully had for a while now.

And it’s probably because of the dreams.

They came after the beret; that’s all he remembers. He can’t make the connection, doesn’t even know if there is one. He only knows that they crept in at all hours of the night, from every angle of his mind, and left him awake and shaking with the image of himself—Chat Noir, no some… some other creature, him and not him—at the end of the world. Watching the moon. Admiring the still high seas, the closest he might ever get to the ocean again. Humming. Singing. Alone.

It isn’t as though he isn’t used to the loneliness, what with his father rarely around, his mother missing, and Nathalie and his bodyguard never quite being the people he ever wanted them to be. It isn’t even as though he’s never had dreams about being alone before; the thought of closed doors echoing through empty halls is more than easy to conjure up. This, though… this leaves him with a hollow sensation in his chest, like something—someone, everyone who’s ever been some kind of someone to him—was ripped from him, from the inside out. This leaves him crying at ungodly hours of the night, sobbing with his head in his hands, begging to be saved without ever knowing why, racking his brain and asking what it is he destroyed, craving the touch of Ladybug’s thumb as it dries away his tears and knowing full well he’s never, ever cried in front of her.

Plagg doesn’t know anything about it. Or if he does, he’s remarkably, uncharacteristically good at keeping quiet. The kindest thing he’s done this whole time is looked the other way. He’s never commented on the growing circles under Adrien’s eyes, even when his classmates have commented on them out of concern. Never once said a thing about Marinette watching more closely from one seat behind. Never even cracked a joke about thinking of cheese to dispel all those heavy, terrifying thoughts.

Adrien has to wonder, every so often, how many more of Plagg’s past holders have ever felt like this. If total destruction and self-isolation are just par of the course with carrying the Black Cat.

If any of them had mothers to hold them, coddle them, comfort them through the night when they were afraid to go to sleep themselves. If any of them even remembered their mothers once they weren’t children anymore.

The words—her words—are somewhere in his head somehow. It’s just been so long that they’re all garbled together, and he can’t piece any of them together for them to make the right kind of sense. It just might be the only thing that’s scarier than the dreams.

He has to get out for a while, he decides one night, long before he lets himself even think about getting into bed (and for what? to stay up for hours on end, singing to himself, because he’s afraid of the inevitable?). There’s only one way to do it, he knows, and there’s only one place to go.

Chat Noir can never stay at the mansion for too long once he’s transformed; there are too many risks, too many unanswered questions. So he sets up a mannequin in his bed, the way he always does when he’s out for the night, and he leaps out his bedroom window, and he’s free. He’s himself. He’s alone, somehow, but not lonely, and not for long. All he has to do is run, jump, fly his way across down with the help of his baton, and he’s there.

On Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s balcony.

He wouldn’t say his relationship with her is unlikely. Unlikely has this never-going-to-happen element to it, and, well, he can’t say he doesn’t believe in the impossible. (He kind of still does, even if he won’t admit to it.) But Marinette wasn’t exactly falling at his feet the first time they met—that afternoon when he kissed her hand and flexed for her and called himself her knight. In fact, she was probably rolling her eyes the whole time, completely different from the inexplicably stuttering, blushing girl who still sits behind him in class.

And for some reason, he’s kind of come to like it that way. That they started the way they did because Ladybug tasked him with her, and because he grew from simply not minding her to… really, really liking her. That when he comes to her like this, she pulls no punches and sees through to the kind of person he actually is, as much as he’s able to let her without actually taking off the mask.

It’s nice to let someone see the boy who’s just looking for some company and freedom in the middle of the night. It’s nice that that someone is Marinette.

Being a fool for irony isn’t so nice—the fact that she sees the truest version of himself when he’s hiding in this suit—but it’s something he’ll have to live with.

The melody is starting to seep into his mind again—a little cat on a roof—and it feels like the only way he can get it out of his head, like most things, is to go along with it—languishes without his lady. He hums to himself at first, lonely in the early evening, until the words make their way to his lips, a little cat on a roof, until they buzz in his chest and drift up to the full moon, languishes without his lady.

Until the hatch door opens—

A little cat—

—and there is Marinette, standing on her balcony in her pajamas with a blanket draped over her shoulders and a mildly horrified expression on her face, when he swivels around on his perch.

He’s never seen her look so scared. So speechless.

He’s never seen her look scared at all.

Eventually, she sinks to her knees, still staring at him, and wraps the blanket more tightly around herself. “You know what that sounds like?” she says. “Something out of a horror movie.” It sounds like she’s trying to crack a joke, to keep things light and familiar between them, but it doesn’t sound so funny to him. It almost makes him feel sorry for her, but Marinette isn’t the sort of person who wants or needs to be pitied.

Chat Noir cocks his head by way of greeting. “Nice to see you, too, Princess. I didn’t even know you liked horror movies.”

Marinette wrinkles her nose. “I hate them.” And then, when her eyes glitter with the light show of the Eiffel Tower in the distance, when she fumbles with the latch on her door, “Come on, get in. It’s cold out here.”

“Just like that, huh?” He smiles in spite of himself. “You should know better than to let strange boys into your room at night.”

“Yeah, well.” Marinette shivers. “You’re no stranger.”

Something seems… off about her tonight. He can’t quite place it. But she’s disappeared back into her room before he can bring it up, and he finds himself numbly following after her, into the dark, into the warmth.

He’s only been in Marinette’s room a couple of times, but never as Chat Noir. He came over once to train for the Mecha Strike III Tournament with her, and once when he agreed to model some of her clothes back when she started up her fashion design website. He hasn’t been back since then, but he remembers the little things. Mostly he remembers the taste of her parents’ spinach-and-salmon pie and her father’s homemade cookies, but also the decorations and sticky notes on her bulletin board, the miniature flower designs on the backs of her desk chairs, the red paper umbrella adorning her chaise longue and the organized clutter of her workspace.

It’s all still here, surrounding her as she huddles up on the chaise with her blanket and a stuffed animal. It’s so her. It’s… adorable.

“Some things never change,” he muses to himself, forgoing the cat pun for now. There’ll be other opportunities. There are always other opportunities. He nods to the blanket. He can finally get a better look at it now that she’s turned on her desk lamp, though he shouldn’t be surprised by the design. It’s knitted—or maybe crocheted, he can never tell the difference—with a rose-colored yarn, a few handmade flowers decorating one of the corners. It looks warm, a comfortable weight.

“Did your grandma make that for you?” he asks. He’s always wondered what it would be like to have a handmade thing from a grandmother. Or to have a grandmother who visited regularly. He barely has a cousin and an aunt.

Marinette shakes her head. She’s practically hugging the thing by now, the way a sick person might cling to a comfort object, even though she’s managing pretty decently in a hoodie and some sweats. Maybe even overheating. “I made it. It was kinda hard, but it didn’t turn out too bad.”

Chat Noir smiles from his place at her desk, his tail swishing and swiping at the floor. “’S nice.”

She pauses, looks between him and the blanket, and then gets to her feet. (What the hell—even her slippers are cute.) Without a word, she shuffles over to him, unravels the blanket from her body, and lets it ripple in his lap.

His brow furrows. “You’re lending it to me?”

Awkwardly, Marinette rubs the back of her neck and apparently makes it a point not to look at him. “I’m giving it to you.”

“Hey, you don’t have to—”

“Unless pink isn’t your color or something.” She shrugs. “I can always make another one. Who knows? Maybe it’ll come out even better the second time around.”

Chat Noir thumbs the material, wishes he could feel it for real in his hands, and hopes Marinette won’t laugh or make fun on him when he presses the blanket to his cheek. “Pink could be my color.”

For the first time tonight, Marinette smiles. It’s faint, and it’s fleeting, but it’s there. “Let’s just say it’s the least I could do.”

“Well,” he says, “you can’t just say that and not expect me to ask what that’s supposed to mean.” He winks. “You know what they say about curiosity and cats, don’t you?”

He thinks he might be seeing things, but there’s a flicker of a second where Marinette looks… hurt. No, not hurt. Devastated.

He never… never wants to see that look on her face again.

He tries to apologize for it, but she’s already waving it away, shuffling behind him to turn the lights down lower and to fiddle with the music player on her phone. Soon enough, there’s soft, easy rock music drifting around and between them, and she’s rummaging around for another blanket (God, how many does she have?). She curls up on the chaise again, and it’s not long before she’s bouncing her feet. She doesn’t quite follow the rhythm—it’s more like she’s looking for something to keep her busy—but Marinette’s always been like that. Following the pleasant tune of her own song.

He hums in thought, and it kind of sounds more like a purr, but Marinette doesn’t seem to mind it. In fact, it almost looks like she likes it. Like maybe it sounds like home, even though he’s pretty sure she’s never mentioned having a cat before. “I didn’t know this kind of music was your vibe.”

She’s got her chin in her hand and a meaningful look in her eyes—that’s the benefit of the suit; he doesn’t need her lamp to see that. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Chat,” she murmurs, and it would sound more fun and light and teasing if not for the way her eyes flutter away after.

He doesn’t exactly know what to say to that, so he sits with it, with her. Two people alone in the almost dark, barely connected. He could reach out for her hand if he wanted to, but he doesn’t see the point if he can’t actually feel her, warm and alive. So he flexes his own, tries to push the urge out through skin and muscle so he doesn’t have to feel it anymore.

It doesn’t work.

“So what’s it for?” he finally asks, daring to cut through the music.

Marinette fidgets in place before she answers, seemingly embarrassed to admit it. “For that night you took me out on the town.” She wraps her new blanket around herself, slithering to the floor. “With the candles and the rose petals and stuff. And when you carried me.” There’s an extra weight to her words, something that says, please tell me you know what I’m talking about, because I don’t think I can stand the shame if you don’t.

How could he not? “It meant something to you? Even if it was for—for…” He pauses. “…Somebody else?”

After a moment’s thought, she nods, slow but sure of herself, and her gaze drops to the blanket in his lap. “It wasn’t meant for me,” she says, “but it got to be mine.”

They stew in that following silence for a while, Marinette idly tapping her feet to some hard-to-follow rhythm. They have these moments sometimes, where they either don’t know what to say, or do know exactly what to say and are just trying to find the right time to say it. Where they look around each other instead of at each other, and stew in each other’s comfort because they’re allowed to. They’re able to.

Eventually, Marinette speaks. She’s usually the one to break the quiet between them, but it’s hard to tell which of them is more anxious about letting it go on for too long without whatever flame they have dying away. But it’s what she says that cocks itself like a gun and barrels down any comeback he might have been loading up. “I’ve been… thinking about you more often, lately.”

It stuns him. In costume, it shouldn’t, but it does anyway, and he’s hoping thats her sight isn’t so keen that she can see him gawking on the inside.

She folds her arms, tries to curl up as tightly as possible. “Don’t make it weird, okay?”

“I’m not trying to,” he admits. He just doesn’t know whether to play up how flattered he is, or to scoop her up and feel how alive she is. How many times does her heart beat in a minute? How many beats does she think of him? And why does he want to know so badly? “But… why?”

Marinette narrows her eyes. “’Why?’”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong”—there’s the usual playfulness, bleeding back in, welcomed home—”anyone and everyone should think of one of Paris’s greatest heroes. Celebrate them, even.” He flicks his tail in her direction, the buckle jingling around his waist. “But you’ve never been the type for all that fanfare. You don’t go falling at my feet all the time.” Even though you should. Even though maybe I wish you would.

She raises a brow. “Does that upset you?”

“Nah.” Another swish, and his eyes go wide in the dark to let more of her in. “Actually, it’s kinda comforting.”

He doesn’t have heat vision, but he almost wishes he did. He just might be a little too curious to know if Marinette is blushing now. “I just have been,” she finally says, with all that hidden meaning of there’s something else, but I can’t let you know. There seems to be a lot of that with her. “I’ve just been thinking that… that I owe you better, I guess. I want to do right by you, because I—”

She pauses—freezes, actually, like the words are caught in her throat—and almost immediately quiets down. And for those few seconds, Marinette looks as lonely as he’s felt in all those dreams.

“Never mind,” she mumbles, and if he strains his ears it sounds like everything she must have wanted to say is sinking back down into the pit of her stomach. “Just. Know I want to be better to you. I’m going to be. If anyone deserves it, it’s you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I just do,” Marinette says, and there’s that hidden meaning again: please, please don’t ask. “If… if you’ll let me, I mean. Because… well, I’d like to think you like my company, if you keep on stopping by to see me—”

“I do,” he reassures her, and if he says it too fast, he doesn’t care. “More than you know, Princess.” More than you ever will.

For a split second, Marinette wrinkles her nose, then kills her expression, as if afraid he might have seen it. (Of course he did, but he doesn’t mind. There’s something sort of welcoming about those little things—like how she rolls her eyes or gives him a playfully judgmental up-and-down.) “Well.” She sighs, perhaps letting go of every attachment and every inhibition with the way she draws it out. “Okay. Just know—”

“I know,” he says, tenderly, but he throws in a wink for good measure. “I heard you loud and clear.”

It’s… honestly a bit baffling, how determined she looks—well, more so than usual—in the dim light. All this, just to tell him she wanted to be good to him? Is that really something he—

He wants to end that thought with deserves, but the way Marinette is folding her arms tight and bouncing her leg makes it, and every thought that follows, disappear. Makes him think back to the dreams, and twists his gut, just the same as it feels when he bolts awake and tries to tremble and cry it all out. And God, the last thing Marinette deserves to feel is alone and anxious. And maybe… maybe she thinks it’s the last thing he deserves, too.

If it’ll ease her conscience, then… well, he’s not going to complain.

“C’mere,” Chat Noir says, even though he’s the one going to her. There might something cold and unfeeling about the suit he’s in, but he makes do as he wraps his arm around her shoulders, tries to imagine what her blanket must feel like, what kind of comfort it’ll give him once he’s home. She feels stiff at first, which doesn’t really surprise him, but eventually she relaxes, even nestling into his side and laying her head on his shoulder.

If he listens, he swears he can hear her whisper, “You did it.” Breathe it like she’s talking to herself. But he’s not about to read too much into it. It seems like something only she’s allowed to hear.

It feels… comfortable. And right. And safe. He wonders how often something like this happens for her. She wonders if she gets to feel this way, too. If she does right now.

“You ever consider wearing your hair down more often?” It’s the only thing he says to break the silence as she lays his cheek against the crown of her head. It’s soft, and it smells good—which he’ll never, ever say out loud if he wants to keep his hide—and he finds himself playing with the ends of it more than he meant to. “Looks nice on you.”

There she goes, stiff again. Does she really hate it that much? It takes her longer to come back, and even then, he swears he can sense something—fear, or discomfort—lingering under her skin. Maybe even in her bones. “It’s just for bed,” she says, bumping his hand away, and for a moment he lets himself thinking about what it might feel like. What she’d do if he caught it, and held onto it, just for a while. What she’d do if she knew who he really was. But then she pats the back of his hand, as if in apology, and little by little she sinks against his body again. Like, maybe, she’s thinking about that night again.

“That song you sang really does freak me out,” she admits, just barely a whisper over her own music. “Something about a cat on a roof?”

Chat Noir laughs nervously. “I didn’t even know you were still awake.”

“It’s a Friday night. Of course I was still awake. I was just…” Marinette pauses; she doesn’t need to finish her sentence. “Did you not want me to be, or something?”

“No, I… I’m glad you were.” He follows her silence, gives her shoulder a light squeeze. “Do you know any better songs?”

“I guess. Some.”

The song on her playlist turns over to something a little different; she must have it on shuffle. Instead of Jagged Stone or anything of his genre, this piece is purely instrumental and not too upbeat. It’s got that one instrument that sounds like glitter spilling from the sky, and an accordion—or maybe it’s a bandoneon; he can’t really tell, and he doesn’t care to right now. It must be familiar to her, something she’s listened to hundreds of times for hours on end, because she relaxes instantly, and it isn’t long before she’s humming along with the tune.

He didn’t know Marinette could sing. Not that she belts out the notes or sounds like a fairy tale princess—it’s more like her voice holds that peaceful, up-and-down cadence of someone putting her baby or her lover to sleep. But it sounds right, like this is what her voice is made for, and maybe… if she kept at it just a bit longer, he wouldn’t mind falling asleep for a while. And maybe… if he kept on listening, he could hum along, too. For those lonely Paris nights. If he closes his eyes, he can even see and feel those high, end-of-the-world waters receding, every building slowly righting itself, people gaining life in their limbs and warmth in their flesh, walking around like chaos never happened. His suit morphing from white to grey to black, and the bell falling off and rolling away, useless to him. The cold twists in his heart, gone.

From her place on the floor, Marinette turns the music off, still humming that melody, over and over. Within moments, Chat Noir’s eyes flutter shut, and it isn’t until she wraps her blanket around them both and presses her ear to his chest that he realizes he’s purring.

“You were singing about your lady,” she pauses to say. “So… where is she?”

And then the waters are gone altogether, as though none of those horrors ever existed, and his mind takes him to that sunset moment—the same roof, the same old song on his lips—that moment when Ladybug laid her head on his shoulder and watched the day end with him. The day she said…

“Oh,” he says with a smile only he knows. He holds Marinette closer, pulls her in toward the slowing, languid thud-thud-thud of his heart. “She’s somewhere.”

[bookshelf-imagines]

Cult Jackassery #5

Pairings/Fandom: None/THE CULT

Summary: The cult plays Among Us

Warnings: V...violence? And cursing, but you know, Tai is in it so that’s par for the course

“Y’all, hurry up and getcho asses in here.” Slyth urged. Being the main gamer in the household, she was, you know, respected. (I wish bro)

“I will bite you.” Tai replied, typing in the code.

“No biting.” Paula warned. She also typed in the code.

Michie, Zarie, Mari, Mati, Bear, Iva and Drago also joined.

“Okay. Let’s play.” Drago said.

The game started.

Everyone was in different rooms but in the same discord call. For example, Michie and Zarie were in their room, Mari and Slyth in theirs, Tai and Paula in theirs, and the rest were spread out...somewhere. It’s a huge house. It’s fiction, dude, of course it’s huge. We probably even have a pool. IF TAI CAN HAVE HIS BASEMENT, I GET MY POOL.

There are 2 Impostors Among Us.

“Hey, babe.” Slyth said with her mic off. “I’m gonna stick with you so we’re safe.”

Mari hummed in response.

A sharp inhale echoed through the voice chat before being muted. 

“I’VE BEEN MURDERED.” Echoed throughout the house.

“There goes Michie.” Iva snickered.

“Oh no, Michie :(.” Drago said.

Another sigh was heard on discord before “FUCK” echoed through the house.

“And there’s Drago.” Slyth laughed.

Mati hummed as she slid the card in Admin. Slyth was doing wires in there and so was her wife.

Wait, no, fuck.

Mari just killed Mati.

Slyth flipped her mic up and sent a sideward glance at the woman next to her.

“I love you too much to kill you. You’re safe.”

“Isn’t that cheating-”

“Shhh.”

“Fuck, fuck, shit-” Slyth mumbled before continuing playing.

DEAD BODY REPORTED.

“Where?” A few people asked.

“Admin. I saw Slyth and Mari coming out.” Zarie informed. “That’s kind of s-”

“Mari watched me scan. We didn’t go into Admin, we just did wires. I saw Tai coming out as we went thoug-”

“I was in electrical.” Tai replied quickly.

“The impostors usually stalk electrical.” Paula spoke up.

“Are you seriously teaming up on me? So much for love.”

10 seconds to vote left.

“Alright, I’m skipping. Not worth it.” Slyth said.

Agreement hummed.

There are 2 Impostors Among Us.

Everyone split off. However, within a minute, EM was called.

Emergency Meeting.

“What?” 

“Iva slaughtered my girlfriend in cold blood and if we don’t vote her off I am running to her room and strangling her.” Tai calmly threatened.

“Iva?” Slyth asked.

“I didn’t know Paula was in here.” Iva shrugged.

Michie knew. Slyth knew. God dammit, why do they always get Impostor?

“Alright, fine.” Slyth said.

Three votes for Tai and two for Iva. One to skip.

Tai was not The Impostor.

Stomping was heard but the next round began.

Iva followed Zarie whilst Mari tailed Bear. Slyth sat in the cafeteria, waiting. Did she just help her wife win? Maybe. Was Tai going to strangle Iva and call Slyth a simp? Most definitely. To which? Who knows.

Impostors Win.

“SLYTH, YOU MOTHERFUCKING SIMP-” Tai yelled. A door slammed.

“IT’S NOT MY FAULT I LOVE MY WIFE.”

“Guys, please-”

“We can’t have shit in this house.” Bear says over comms.

“Agreed.” Mati and Michie agree.

God, this place is a fucking nightmare. Can’t even play a game without someone being threatened, stoned, or yeeted.

Tags: @maritasdump @your-neighbor-bear @callmemichie @zarieslayer @lilithclawthrone @retroqueen29 @adoras-jacket @maskedman06

[thechildofstark]

bleep blorp

Okie dokie,  I just saw some brilliant Eddie-with-jewellery fanart on twitter and I had a thought: Eddie with earrings. He got his ears pierced as the result of a (probably drunk, Richie induced) dare. These days, he pretty much only wears pure gold, hypoallergenic, regularly sanitised sleepers. Maybe a nice, understated stud for formal occasions. 

And then.....................after............it takes Richie a little while to properly notice. Frankly, there are more important things to discuss than jewellery. And anyway, Eddie probably had earrings in high school (see above: drunken dare). 

But then one day, Eddie goes to the tray on his dresser and sees two small new boxes. In one, is a pretty set of studs. Understated, professional, set with soft grey crystals, perfect to offset his eyes and match with the suits he favours for work. The other box has a pair of multicoloured, flowing, feathered monstrosities that probably contain about a kilogram of silicone and enough nitrates to damage all of the known worlds. Eddie sighs, smiles, puts on the new work-appropriate earrings, kisses Richie goodbye, and goes in to the office.

 At first, nobody notices.

 At work, the general collective is aware that the adorable-yet-terrifying Mr. Kaspbrak is on the tail end of a very messy divorce, but despite that has probably been more relaxed and productive than, well - ever. Mr. Kaspbrak has always worn earrings. Small, muted, 18 carat. It’s just a simple fact. After all this time nobody really notices. Until a brand new baby intern plucks up the courage to ask about the bosses custom magenta turtle studs. The entire office is floored. And when they think back, over the last couple of months Mr. Kaspbrak has looked a little.........different. They had all chalked it up to the divorce, and the series of alleged near death experiences, but looking back they had all noticed a subtle evolution to his accessories. After that everyone becomes aware that the boss seems to have a new pair almost every day. 

Behind the scenes, Richie is continuously gifting a steady stream of slowly more fancy “work appropriate” earrings, and exponentially more ridiculous gag earrings. There is now a well organised file system for the collection of stylish and unobtrusive ornaments.

 He has a cardboard box for the other ones.

No one at work has mentioned anything, and Richie seems pleased at being able to have a way to both buy attractive functional presents and annoy the hell out of Eddie at the same time.

 Then, about seven months after the whole debacle began, Mr. Kaspbrak comes into the office. This, in itself, is not unusual. Mr. Kaspbrak is also wearing earrings. This too, is par for the course. What is decidedly not so is the fact that said earrings are glowing, dangling starfish, that look like they were made in a sweatshop. Nobody comments (nobody knows how), but just after lunch break enough people have found reason to “stop by” and check in with Mr Kaspbrak that he summons a junior assistant and sends her of with an important departmental message (aka. gossip). Within 90 seconds, it is understood by the entire office that the sartorial nightmares were a joke gift from Mr Kaspbrak’s boyfriend whose birthday it is today. 

The workplace grinds to a halt. A great deal of new and important information has come to light, and it must be discussed at great length. But in the end, everyone calmly analyses the risks associated with being caught chatting about that bosses personal life on the clock, and they all decide it really isn’t worth it. It is, however, the topic of many Friday night pub visits.  (Eddie tells Richie. He thinks it’s brilliant). 

The next day, Mr. Kasprak’s earrings are small handcrafted custom ceramic elephant studs. Nobody mentions it.   

[maddie-the-princess]

If you love me, Let me go Part 1

Fandom: Sanders Sides

AU: High School 

Pairing(s): LAMP

Summary: Virgil and his family are new to the neighborhood. He starts a new school where he learns to love himself, and maybe, love his new friends. 

Warnings: None so far 

Thank you to @kuroyurishion for helping me with this chapter. Please enjoy the story. 

Chapter One: Moving In

Virgil’s Pov

We were moving again! Great! I could see the trees and scenery flash past the car window as we made our way to the new house. My parents were chatting idly about what new experiences we would have once we moved to our new place. I tuned them out. Staring out the window not really focusing on anything as Hurricane by Panic! At the disco (of course) blasted from my headphones. My mom stopped talking to my dad and looked in the rearview mirror, smiling brightly. 

“Are you excited for our new adventure honey?” she asked me excitedly. I shrugged in response. I really wasn’t because this wasn’t the first time we’ve moved houses. So, I’m kinda tired of having these so-called ‘adventures’ as she puts them. As we pulled up to the house I smiled a little, the house wasn’t so bad, and looked okay to me. I opened the car door and stepped out grabbing my black backpack covered in pins, I pulled out my headphones following my parents to the door. My mom and dad heaved boxes through the open door as I did a sweep of the house. You could never be too careful when moving into a new place.

The house was a decent size. There were three bedrooms in the house: a master for my parents, one for me, and one for any guests that come around. I, of course, took the bigger of the two other rooms. It was spacious, with a balcony window overlooking the backyard. The closet was big enough to fit all of my hoodies and the dressers were brought in before we officially moved. And there was enough wall space for my posters. All in all, not bad. I set my backpack down on the bed and sat down trying to think what to do next, should I like, go find things to decorate with? Maybe.

I heard one of my parents drop off something heavy in front of my door. Opening it slightly, I see that they dropped off my boxes, all either filled with clothes or some other trinkets. A plastic bag was beside them that held all of my posters. Dragging them into my room, I opened them up and stared at the contents inside I began to decorate, starting with the bed. 

Taking out my bedsheets, I placed them on my queen-sized bed. They were purple with black spider web designs and had matching pillowcases to complete the set. I also placed a black comforter on my bed. Beside the bed was a nightstand, so I plugged in my purple lamp and charger into the outlet behind it and opened the drawer to place my keys and other personal stuff in it.. With my bed done, I moved to put my clothes in my closet and dresser. My attire consists of either black or purple clothing, or black with another color. My hoodies and coats go in my closet while the rest of my clothes go in the dresser drawer beside it. Beside the dresser drawer was my bookshelf, and I quickly placed my books there. 

Fishing out the purple curtains with black spiderweb designs, I hung them by my window. Moving on the vanity dresser on one side of the room, I placed my makeup, brushes, nail polish, and other makeup things in its drawers, placed my jewelry box on its counter and cleaned the mirror. I looked in the mirror attachment, and wow that trip must've done some things to me. My eyeshadow was a little smudged and I looked tired. I fixed my eyeshadow and brushed my hair out a little. Finally, my favorite part of decorating. From the plastic bag that was sitting next to my bed, I pulled out a few band posters, there was Panic! At the Disco, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, and a Twenty One Pilots one. I also pulled out a few Tim Burton posters and a few of my really good spider drawings and began hanging them on various places on the wall. Once all hung up the room was starting to feel a bit more like home. I stepped back and admired my handiwork. My room was a prep’s worst nightmare, but it was an emo’s best daydream. It was perfect. I walked back over to my nightstand and smiled, setting down a picture. It was my older sister and I and our par- well I sort of burned off the corner. My sister was away at college in a different state. I miss her a lot.

Suddenly, my door opens, snapping me out of my reverie. In storms in my mom and dad, all smiles. They take one look at my room, and their smiles falter. My dad turns and looks at me.

“I see you’re done decorating.” he says tightly. I roll my eyes at their attempt to hide their apprehension of my room. My dad continues, “I like the spider curtains son. Are they new?” I hum in response. I didn’t feel like answering them. I knew they didn’t like my room. They didn’t like anything that I did. They’re all optimistic and peppy, and I’m just a ‘negative nancy’ as my mom would say. 

My mom takes a deep breath. “Are you excited for school tomorrow, honey?” she asks kindly. “I heard your new school has lots of people, so you’ll be able to make some friends!” 

I hummed again in response. Friends, huh? I thought back to my old school where bullies would constantly harass me because I was different. In fact, every school that I was in was the same for me. I couldn’t express myself in a way I wanted because I was always being shut down. Making friends has always filled me with anxiety, a sinking feeling in my stomach started as I thought about it more. My mom continues.

“And who knows dear,” she said, turning to my dad with wide eyes, “maybe our little Virge here will find a nice special girl just for him.” she said teasingly. My dad nodded in agreement.

I felt another violent lurch in my stomach. I didn’t even like girls. My parents were always pushing me to find the right girl, but I didn’t want a girl. But I couldn’t say that to them. They wouldn’t understand. I wanted them to stop talking about it. I spoke up before they could continue talking as if they knew me.

“I’m kinda hungry. What’s for dinner?” I asked awkwardly. My parents yanked me out of my room and placed me in the dining room, already set up for dinner. They continued talking about how exciting it will be to meet new people and work at their new jobs, and how exciting it is that I’m starting a new school. I quickly finished my dinner so I didn’t have to listen to them anymore. Hurrying upstairs, I washed off my makeup and dressed into a comfortable pair of pajamas. I threw myself on my bed, trying to calm my nerves. I scrolled through Tumblr, listened to music, anything to get my mind off of what’s to come tomorrow. At about midnight, I set my alarm on my phone and plugged it in so it can charge. I fell asleep with worry. What exactly will happen to me tomorrow

Anyone wanna be in my taglist? Let me know!

[keldae]

Ships Passing

Reanden had always been trained to keep an ear open to his surroundings. And this visit to Dromund Kaas was no exception. Even while tracking down the dissidents plotting against the Empire (and good for them, he thought, even if he couldn’t actually help them without getting himself killed), he was listening. Darth Baras plotting things that weren’t half as much of a secret from Imperial Intelligence as he thought -- that was par for the course. The Great Hunt over in the Mandalorian enclave was well underway -- so far, there seemed to be a couple of Mandos vying for the top rank. Lord Zash, up to her scheming ways again, and this time with a new apprentice she’d plucked off of Korriban -- one from the first batch of Force Sensitive slaves to be sent for training, reportedly.

About as normal as one could expect for Kaas City, he supposed.

The old spy typically tried to keep clear of Kaas City’s shenanigans, especially where the Sith were concerned -- and yet, still was unlucky enough to somehow attract Darth Jadus’ attention. As he was making his way out of the Dark Lord’s chambers in the Citadel and trying to not obviously limp (one day, he would learn to not snark off to touchy Sith Lords. He’d been telling himself that for years now, eventually one day it would kick in.), he caught sight of a hulking mass lumbering into the Sith sanctum behind Lord Zash and her newest pet apprentice. His first thought was of a Houk… but a Houk didn’t have sharp teeth he could see at twenty paces off, and a Houk didn’t make the typical haughty Sith Lord back away with a horrified expression (well, not often). Honestly, he was kind of impressed that Zash and her apprentice seemed rather nonchalant about it.

“The fuck is that thing?!” Kaliyo hissed, sounding startled for perhaps the first time that Reanden could recall.

“Some sort of ancient Sith monster,” he muttered, wracking his brain for the research he’d done on Sith history over the years. It was a lot harder to focus with his head still pounding in protest at his insistence on snarking off at a member of the Dark Council. “Looks like a Dashade, but I thought those went the way of the Rakata eons ago.”

“... Which means what?”

“Extinct.”

“Yeah, well, guess not.” Kaliyo edged around until she was on Reanden’s other side from the Sith and their pet monster, all but using the agent as a human shield. “Can we get out of here before that thing decides it’s hungry?”

“What, didn’t want to stick around and admire the Sith aesthetic?” Reanden muttered distractedly as he looked back at Zash and her apprentice. The new Sith student was tall and humanoid, but had a hood up that covered their face. Yet something kept drawing his eyes back to the student (a male, if he had to guess by the stance and height, depending on what species they were). Something about that stride hinted at familiarity, nagging at his memory. While he wasn’t a stranger to slave trade circles, he hardly had any familiarity with any slaves -- or former slaves, if the rumours about this Sith apprentice were true.

Your son wound up a slave, whispered a voice in the back of his mind cruelly -- one that made him scowl to hide his despair and grief. He’d failed to rescue Sorand, and now Force only knew where the boy had wound up while his father had floated in a kolto tank after being shot. If the slavers hadn’t killed him outright, they would have unloaded him onto the first prospective buyer, and this time Reanden had no chance of finding a lead as to where his youngest son was now. Sorand was gone, as untraceable now as Korin was, and none of his extensive contacts in Imperial Intelligence, or the SIS, or the criminal underworld, could turn up any sign of two missing teenage boys. Hells, if anything happened to his secret daughter, hidden away with the Jedi, he wasn’t sure what he would do…

“Nine?” He was brought out of his despairing thoughts by Kaliyo nudging his arm, looking confused, and perhaps a bit concerned. “You high on something? You ain’t the type to zone out like that…”

“... It’s nothing,” Reanden quietly said, sharply turning his head away from Zash, and the Sith monstrosity, and the quiet hooded student behind their master. “Let’s get moving -- that insurgent plan isn’t going to foil itself.”

“Damn,” Kaliyo muttered as she followed the spy out of the Citadel, glancing over her shoulder once as if to see what had gotten Cipher Nine’s attention so fully. She finally shrugged, chalked up her boss’s distraction to the creepy monster behind the Sith, and hurried after him. Really better to make sure she was far away when the beast eventually decided it was hungry. If nothing else, Sith could find weirder and creepier pets than any Hutt she’d ever worked for. Right now, she wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

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

Something in the Force flickered. With a quick glance to see if Zash was watching him (she wasn’t, her attention given to chatting with another Sith Lord), Sorand slowly turned his head, as though idly surveying his surroundings. Khem Val growled behind him, but seemingly had nothing of value to say right now, letting his master look around.

For any other Sith, the human man walking out of the Citadel with the Rattataki woman beside him wouldn’t have so much as raised an eyebrow, unless perhaps questioning why a Force-blind man was in the Sith sanctum, or cautiously wondering what Cipher Nine’s business here was. Sorand hadn’t been a respectable Imperial citizen long enough to have heard the exploits of the legendary Intelligence asset, but still found his eyes drawn to the older human, completely ignoring the Rattataki woman.

His heart skipped a beat, and he had to fight to not cry out for a second -- he still made a soft little gasp that almost went completely unheard, unconsciously taking a step toward the stranger. In the dim lighting of the sanctum, from several metres away, the man looked like his father, enough that Sorand desperately wanted to call out to him. Dad! If only that man were to turn his head, so Sorand could see more than just the profile of his face --

What good would that do? asked the bitter little voice of reason in the back of his mind, one that shattered Sorand’s hope as much as his heart. Dad’s dead. You saw them shoot him. There’s no way it’s him. If his mother, a fully trained Jedi and strong in the Force, couldn’t keep herself alive in the final duel that had claimed her life, there was no way in the Nine Hells that his Force-blind father could have survived that shot. Force knew he still had nightmares where all he could see was that smoking hole from a blaster in his father’s chest. If only Sorand had been a Sith sooner, perhaps he could have kept both of his parents alive…

But he hadn’t been, and his parents were both dead, and he was pretty sure that at this point, his older brother had to be dead too. The Force wasn’t the benevolent, saving power like his mother had told him. It was cold, and cruel, and wouldn’t cut him a break by miraculously giving him one of his parents back. Would you even have been able to save them?

“Apprentice?” Zash had wrapped up her conversation and was frowning at him. “What is it?”

“... It’s nothing, my lord,” Sorand quietly said, turning away as the man who couldn’t be his father vanished into the shadows. He’d learned over the years in the slave pens how to keep his face still and emotions hidden, and he was pretty sure this was his greatest test, to keep his freshly-renewed grief for his father pushed down to where it couldn’t be felt. Sith didn’t cry. Sith absolutely did not cry, not for their murdered parents and siblings, and certainly not in front of their masters. “I thought I saw someone I knew.”

“Hmm. A former associate from Korriban, or your life before, perhaps? This won’t be a distraction, I trust?” Zash’s dark eyes glinted in the dim light -- calculating, analyzing, seeking a weakness.

“No, my lord.”

“Good.” Seemingly satisfied with her apprentice’s answer, Zash nodded and turned back around, resuming her stroll to her chambers. “Come along -- we still have to discuss your strategy for dealing with Skotia.”

Swallowing down the knot in his throat, Sorand fell into step behind his latest master, trying to forget the man he’d seen, and the wild, desperate hope that made the grief hurt all the worse. If he threw himself into Zash’s scheme to kill Darth Skotia, perhaps he could keep himself distracted enough to get through the pain. 

He still found himself looking at every older human man who even vaguely resembled Reanden Taerich for the remainder of his time on Dromund Kaas, searching for the one who looked too much like his father.

[thebrothershardy]

post-mid thoughts

okay let’s get right into this. LET’S CHAT. i just finished the game and i’m itching to talk about it. 

(i’ll try to keep spoilers to a minimum.)

PROS

the vibe this game gives is shockingly nice. much fall. very autumn. it’s very much what i want from a game that focuses on witches in salem during halloween.

frank and joe’s presence (SPOOK SQUAD), which honestly felt like a purposeful strategic move to tie something familiar (same with deirdre tbh) into a game that changed so much from its predecessors.

still, i genuinely loved those convos in which they petition nancy to join their detective agency. WHY nancy was so reluctant, NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW

that moment when ned called at the beginning and it blatantly sounded like he was cheating on nancy. honestly after all those unceremoniously cancelled dates he deserves this

having so many characters! this game made the one-suspect horror of ransom of the seven ships feel like a far-off nightmare.

that bangin’ song that kept playing? midnight city by m83 vibes anybody?

and of course the gem in the crown: motherfucking DEIRDRE (is anybody even remotely surprised to hear me say this). DEIRDRE!!!! deirdre. what a gal. she felt very much like herself. sassy bitchy smart bossy INCREDIBLE. the GOAT. also, the deirdre/nancy was like someone peered into my soul and gave me exactly what i wanted from those two. name a more iconic duo. crime-fighting partners for life, i take no other options.

meanwhile! CONS

this game’s graphics were great! .............back in 2005. who called, and want their cgi back. the worst offense of this is arguably the UNNATURALLY TWITCHY PEOPLE. 

(double the trouble for all those times when someone continues moving long after they’re done speaking. WHO APPROVED THIS)

i feel like joe and deirdre were especially bad in this regard. there were times when deirdre looked like a badly handled marionette puppet. and joe looked like he constantly needed to go to the bathroom. so. much. shifting.

(the only exception to these horrific graphics were the nature shots, which were decent. it felt almost like the entire focus was on that. and just that.)

(also, why was everything in the background always so BLURRY. why.)

(has anybody out there played sherlock holmes nemesis? cause the graphics feel pretty much perfectly on par with that game and it came out IN 2007. 2007, PEOPLE)

WHY WAS NED’S SIDE OF THAT PHONE CONVO AT THE END COMPLETELY SILENT

there were moments in this storyline that felt so unbearably soap-opera. the moment [REDACTED’S] criminal record is published in the paper (brenda carlton moved to salem, i guess???), and [REDACTED] starts taking blame for the fire, and [REDACTED] starts yelling at [REDACTED] about starting the fire, and then [REDACTED] starts taking blame for the other fire, everything sort of fell apart for me.

(arson really runs in that family, huh)

although was anything as bad as the ending when nancy confronts the bad guy and it just goes on and on and on? and bad guy even admits to all this in front of a judge of the law (even if said judge’s spirit is well and truly crushed and has been the entire game)? and nancy also takes this opportunity to lecture any adult in sight like she’s some kind of paragon of True Justice?

okay. can’t avoid this one. nancy’s voice. fuck, i couldn’t get past it. it was so emotionless. it was so not nancy. i really went into this with a somewhat open mind but no. (anybody been subjecting themselves to the christmas prince netflix movies? cause nancy sounds exactly like the protag. minus some emotion.)

ALSO, DID THAT TRUTH SERUM EVER PLAY A ROLE. DID I MISS SOMETHING. (it’s also fucking hilarious that nancy won’t believe in ghosts but will put a modicum of trust into a  t r u t h  s e r u m)

[mobius-prime]

126. Knuckles the Echidna #25

Childhood's End

Writer: Ken Penders Pencils: Manny Galan Colors: Mark Bernardo

It's finally time for a reunion a long time in the making - the reunion, of course, between Knuckles and Locke! Due to this being the 25th issue, it's not part of a larger arc, it's standalone. Knuckles is helping Julie-Su clean up the mess left behind by the fight against the Legion in the base where they were both held captive a couple issues ago, when upon picking up Benedict's robotic skull, he spots a reflection on its side that stuns him. He drops the skull as Julie-Su calls after him, racing after the figure he saw reflected and ending up on the streets of the city.

There's a lot of things Knuckles could do here. I'm sure many people expected him to be angry, yell at his father for leaving him and keeping secrets, act on any feelings of betrayal he may have. But in the end, this is a teenager who, according to the intro page, hasn't seen his father in six whole years, ever since he jumped into the wall of fire in front of him, and so he begins to cry and embraces Locke, saying how happy he is to see him. They just stand there hugging for a moment, and then Knuckles begins to boil over with questions, wanting to know everything. Locke leads him away so they can talk more privately, and they head out jut as Julie-Su emerges onto the street as well, looking for him.

Ooh boy, I sense a conflict coming up. Locke and Knuckles get into a shuttle and Locke pilots them to Haven, which Knuckles asks for more information on, seeing as he didn't spend very long there before and thus didn't get many answers about it. And so Locke begins a flashback-laden history lesson, pretty much par for the course for anything Kenders gets his hands on. Haven was originally built by the fire ants to be a base for the current Guardian, Steppenwolf (remember him? Son of Edmund), to carry out his duties. Eventually Steppenwolf had a son, Moonwatcher, and trained him to be a Guardian as well. However, soon enough, Steppenwolf realized that there might be more danger to the Floating Island than just that from within.

Man, why are the Overlanders always so evil in these earlier issues? It's like the entire species is constantly plotting to take over everything and kill Mobians just because they can. Then again, the ones up there are led by a Kintobor, so I guess the Kintobors have always just been a crappy family. Steppenwolf senses their insincerity, and proceeds to mind-torture them with extreme pain until they agree to never set foot on the island again. Geez, man, I get they were traitorous, but did you really have to go that far? Turns out it was the fire ants with their telepathic powers that were able to warn him of the Overlanders' intentions. Steppenwolf had a chat with his fire ant mentor Christopheles, and together they agreed that there would always be more people trying to invade the island, so they should take extra security measures to ensure it would be properly protected.

As Locke tells this story, they land in Haven, and Knuckles begins to ask about it again, prompting Locke to reveal that it wasn't always kept a secret from the current Guardian. He continues his story - originally, Steppenwolf decided that there should be more than one Guardian always at the ready to protect the island, so he brought Moonwatcher to Haven, and they began to trade off duties. One would explore the surface of whatever landmass they were flying over, while the other would remain on the island and look after everyone on it.

I like how Harlan looks like a totally normal Knuckles clone while Rembrandt looks like this crazy hippie who decided to only dress himself in articles of clothing he found at grandpa's garage sale. The family line continued up to Rembrandt's son, Aaron, which is probably the most normal name for any echidna we've seen so far. Aaron was on the surface of the planet one day when he encountered a squad of Overlanders roaming around with, to his shock, some Dark Legionnaires, who, upon seeing him and recognizing him as a Guardian, tried to capture him. Aaron tried to run away but ran straight into Menniker himself (who was still alive because of the slower passing of time in the Twilight Zone, if you'll recall Kragok mentioning before), next to a giant missile. Apparently the Dark Legion was conspiring with the Overlanders to just straight up explode the Floating Island, and, panicking, one of the Overlanders fired the missile prematurely, to Menniker's fury. Aaron jumped up and managed to land on it, and was doing a fine job of disarming it midair until Menniker landed on it as well to stop him.

Both Aaron and Menniker were vaporized in the explosion, and Rembrandt and the rest of the Guardians were distraught at the loss. However, the family line didn't end there, as Aaron's younger brother Jordan offered himself up to become the next Guardian in his late brother's place.

Thus began the tradition of a father training his son in isolation on the island, then disappearing to Haven when the time was right to allow their offspring to take over their duties alone, this time never leaving the island's surface. Knuckles is somewhat relieved to hear that his father never abandoned him all those years ago, though he perhaps may have been slightly less relieved if he'd known that he was spying on him all that time, including all his private conversations with friends and Julie-Su, but I digress. When Locke mentions something about Knuckles' training being more important than any other Guardian before, Knuckles presses him on the issue, insisting he's ready to hear the answer when Locke hesitates. Locke explains how one night after being married to Lara-Le for a while, he had a nightmare of a strange series of events, which included a giant robot looking kind of like Robotnik destroying a city while his future son faced it down. He awoke in a cold sweat, but had this dream again and again, which prompted him to go to Athair of all people for advice, who told him it was a dream of the future that he must prepare for.

Yes, that's right. Locke altered his own genetic material so that he could shoot mutant super-sperm into his wife to create a superpowered baby, without telling her any of what he was doing, of course. But then he wasn't even satisfied with that! As soon as his wife laid Knuckles' egg, he took it and stuck it in the Chaos Chamber where he blasted it with radiation from the emerald in front of the rest of the Brotherhood. This is the true backstory of Knuckles' birth, and his apparent destiny. I've heard it summarized before as "had a bad dream, better microwave the baby," which, yeah, that's basically exactly what happened. Locke could have, with his foreknowledge of things to come, simply worked on training his son adequately for the future he saw, ensuring as well that he had the full backing of the rest of the Brotherhood for his entire life. But no, instead he did… well, this. (Ironically, the vision as seen in his nightmare depicted above never even slightly came to pass over the course of the comic, due to things like changing storylines and new head writers. Perhaps Locke's actions averted that future, or perhaps he really did just have a bad dream and microwave the baby as a result - there's no way to know for sure.)

And did it work? Did Locke's son, in fact, come out of the egg as a superpowered savior of echidnakind?

Oh, did you think those were just part of his gloves installed there to help him punch better? Nah, out of all the echidnas, only Knuckles has actual echidna knuckles. Somehow, this one tiny detail was enough to convince Locke that his genetic alterations worked and that Knuckles would be the ultra-powerful savior of the echidna people, even though it could also have been, I dunno, a genetic defect caused by all the mutant sperm and radiation that went into making this child. Of course, Knuckles is intimidated by all this - I don't think anyone has ever had a positive reaction to hearing they're a genetically-engineered destined hero - but Locke retorts that he had similar misgivings when he was still a Guardian trainee, and that his decision to microwave his baby was also really hard for him, calling it a decision between "sacrificing the world or siring a son to save it." I'm still not buying it, Locke, but Knuckles seems placated for now, and Locke suggests that, for the time being, they just spend some long-overdue time together as father and son. Knuckles happily agrees, exchanging "I love you"s with his father for the first time in who knows how many years.

So my opinion on all this? Well, I've already given some of it above, but honestly, I think that Locke far overreacted to his whole nightmare situation. He's been awful to Lara-Le both through their entire marriage and after as a result, constantly lying to her, keeping secrets, and interfering with her attempts to be a part of her son's life. He put his son through a lot of emotionally traumatizing experiences, allowing him to believe his own father had incinerated himself just to try to teach him self-reliance, and then spying on his every private moment from afar. The thing is, every bad guy sees themselves as the hero. And while I don't necessarily categorize Locke as an out-and-out villain, I do believe that, in almost every decision he ever made, he was in the wrong. You can even see it in the way the other members of the Brotherhood treat him, where even though most of them went through the same training regimen with being left behind by their fathers and all, nearly everyone in Haven, especially his own father, thinks Locke is too distant from his son and should reveal himself to him. Locke waited this long - Knuckles is almost sixteen, as we'll see in more detail next KtE arc - and almost every one of his plans went awry somewhere along the line, causing a lot of strife, bad feelings, and chaos for Knuckles throughout the course of the comic. Locke had the best of intentions, and the worst of executions.

Here's the thing. Kenders has said before that he based Locke on his own father, with whom he'd had a difficult relationship when he was younger. I see nothing wrong with basing a character on someone that one knows in real life, but one must also take into account the ramifications of such a thing, seeing as you wouldn't want to portray someone you care about as a bad guy. As it is, I feel that Locke would make a much better villain than… well, than whatever he currently is. If some plot points, character attitudes, etc. were changed, Locke could end up as this mastermind behind a plot that Knuckles would have to uncover, only to heartbreakingly discover his own father behind everything he'd been through. If Knuckles then rejected his father's path to instead carve his own, Locke would become angry, and there would be a lot of strife, a lot of fighting that could come of such a thing. But he wouldn't be a pure villain, either - he'd have a redemption arc, where he'd begin to understand just how badly he'd messed everything up. Then there would be more conflict concerning whether his self-awareness came too late to repair any kind of relationship with his son, let alone achieve forgiveness, or indeed forgive himself. Kenders is trying so hard to portray his own father-insert in a sympathetic light that there's this weird disconnect between how his selfish actions are portrayed by the writing in the comic, and how they come across to anyone looking critically at the plot. I understand his intention in writing everything this way, I really do, but ultimately, he was unwilling to put good storytelling first, and now we've ended up with this muddled mess.

That said, I know I've talked about this before, but I'm far less… I don't know, hateful of Kenders' work than many people in the Archie Sonic fandom. I think he's put together a truly fascinating world here, with many varied characters and a lot of potential for conflict to arise out of any situation naturally - true character-driven conflict, where the mores and values of different people clash dramatically causing strife, which I've always seen as the most interesting kind of conflict. The problem with his work, in the end, usually comes down to execution, and to, well, his own limitations as a writer of dialogue in particular. Seriously, not to insult him too harshly, but his dialogue is so often stilted and awkward that I really think he'd be better off as creative director of any project he worked on, coming up with characters and plots and worldbuilding and the like, while leaving the actual writing to someone else. In addition, quite frankly, he needs an editor that's willing to tell him "no" sometimes, but I've also heard that he's quite hard to work with, always wanting his own ideas to go exactly the way he wants them. And while as a writer myself I understand to a point being protective about one's own ideas, if you're working on a comic like this, dude, you have to be willing to work with others.

But anyway, I've rambled on far too long about this. One textbox aside next to the panels of Locke's nightmare promise us an epic upcoming "Knuckles Twenty Years Later" story in a future Sonic Super Special. As anyone who's read the comics already knows, that whole shebang is kind of infamous for being… well, boring, uninspired, and ultimately unimportant to the plot of the rest of the comic. It's one of the few parts of Kenders' work that I'm wholly uninterested in, not really even a little bit, but I'm still going to cover it once we come to it (which isn't for quite a long while, actually), as there's a lot of criticism to be had there, and what's a comic review without a healthy dose of criticism, eh?