#Façade Manufacturers

[nitsonamitsu]

Top Facade Contractors in Kolkata

Visit at: https://nitsonamitsu.in/services/facade/

[tezerenotameiki]

this shit broke my brain when i was 14

[shreyaexopic]

[rosiesmuts]

Muse

Le Serrafim Kazuha

4,000 Words

A/N: KazuhaSmuts?

Kazuha Nakamura. Fuck. The gorgeous idol your new muse, her beauty transcending what the camera can capture, able to take your breath away with those curves and bright smile. A consummate professional, striking poses without needing direction, a sense for it without experience, the pictures coming out flawless.

Even in basic jeans and a t-shirt, Kazuha exudes a beauty, a hotness that has nothing to do with being an idol. Her confidence is stunning and her sensuality is electrifying—not something manufactured for a photoshoot but inherent and undeniable. You're standing next to a goddess. Absolutely gorgeous face, captivating eyes, voluptuous curves, and a charm she's too comfortable with. There's no effort there, no faux coyness or intentional sultry look. Just the radiance of a stunning idol who seems almost oblivious to what she inspires, but you can tell from the heat in Kazuha's gaze and her naughty grin, a mischievous desire swirling around in her that she'll never speak out loud—she has you enthralled.

So fuck.

Fuck these lustful thoughts clouding your head and this heat building in your chest. This is supposed to be a job, but when Kazuha reaches for the hem of her shirt and the lines of muscles accentuating her abs as her t-shirt peels up, that desire inside you is more than unprofessional.

Focus.

Fuck.

This is part of the shoot, supposed to show off the 'Calvin Klein' on her sports bra, but the flexing of her body and the little curl on her smiling lips leaves the underwear an afterthought. You should've been used to this, there's been legitimate supermodels in even less clothing in these photoshoots. But there's something about Kazuha, her innocent smiles and demure laughter, this aura of untouchable and almost fragile femininity about her.

And she's fucking teasing you, those faint lip curls, the flash of teeth from her smirk. She knows her effect, she enjoys your lingering eyes and hungry looks. An arm folded up above her head, leaning against the wall as her other hand grips a rolled up shirt, an underwear ad waiting to happen. Everything about Kazuha screams confidence and sensuality, even her long toes, wiggling a bit for some reason as her smirk broadens, the look in her eyes daring you, almost like she's trying to say something she cannot voice.

Kazuha tilts her head, pulling her lower lip between her teeth, tugging on it, biting into it. Seducing with the barest hints, challenging and inciting with the slightest of moves. It feels almost too intimate and that makes it all the more intoxicating, making the breath hitch in your throat and your heart race in anticipation.

"Cut!"

You have to shout out, the sexual tension overbearing and suffocating. "Let's take an hour for lunch everyone. Good work today, we got a lot of good shots." Your voice is steady, hiding your tumultuous feelings as best as possible. Kazuha beams at the praise and your façade of control crumbles as she teases and tempts you even further, giving a flirtatious wink before slipping into her dressing room.

It's a bit of a walk for you to get to your office, but it gives you space to think about what's gotten into you. This is just a photoshoot, you've dealt with plenty of sexy and beautiful models in much more scandalous poses. Kazuha was in plain clothes! There shouldn't have been anything erotic there. And yet the way the fabric hugged her body, her eyes watching your every move, and that flirty edge to her smile, it was impossible to ignore. Even now your mind's lingering on the last image of Kazuha, staring you down.

One hour to gather yourself. That's what you need—to take your mind off of those...impurities. Kazuha, even her name in your head makes your heart quicken and breath shorten. Just get a hold of yourself. No one can read your mind, and as long as you don't go acting out any of those lurid desires then this'll all just blow over...

"Hey."

You didn't even hear your door open, Kazuha's sweet voice catching you off-guard. Your eyes snap towards her, the entire reason for your break now standing in the office, Kazuha's free hand runs through her hair, this act of playing shy a fascinating dichotomy with the sultry woman you just worked with this morning.

All that build-up and time spent thinking about her left you absolutely stunned by Kazuha's entrance. For the second time she managed to catch your heart in your mouth, freezing your tongue and leaving you speechless.

"Can we go over those pictures that you took? I'd like to see them if that's okay?"

Her request is innocent enough, but you can't help but notice she locks the door behind her. A simple, innocent click of the lock, but the implication was very clear.

Kazuha leans in a bit too closely, a subtle grin as she clicks through the pictures and you're not quite sure if this was real or all your dirty imagination playing tricks on you. Did she really just touch your wrist and give it a squeeze or was she just checking the time and brushed by you accidentally?

Kazuha sits in silence, taking a cursory look at every frame before getting to the next. The silence is more than suffocating. You can barely hear anything outside the pounding in your ears. She stops the slideshow on the most salacious photo: Kazuha lifting her top, the slightest hint of her sports bra, her perfect abs captured so wonderfully on film.

"This one is good! Don't you agree?" Kazuha asks, tilting her head at you and pulling her lip in between her teeth, letting her eyes drag languidly down your figure, devouring you in the most erotic manner with just her gaze alone.

"...yeah..." is all you manage to stammer out, voice stuck in your throat and thoughts wandering in places they really shouldn't.

"Don't think I didn't catch you staring..."

Kazuha steps back, reenacting the shot that got you so worked up—her fingers reach the hem of her shirt, inching the garment up, more and more of her perfect abdomen getting revealed, tight lines that curve and ripple in a tantalizing dance, begging for someone to run their tongue across the slopes and dips of her stomach.

Fuck.

This was supposed to be an hour to gather your thoughts and recompose yourself, not go further into disarray with Kazuha standing in front of you. You lick your lips, a futile attempt to bring some moisture back into a dry mouth as your hands instinctively go into your pockets to prevent anything from going out of place.

This time it's different, Kazuha takes her shirt completely off, the gray Calvin Klein sports bra fully visible, hiding her tiny tits from view. It's a feast for the eyes—the flexing of her abs, the dip of her waist, that sensual confidence in every twitch and curl of her muscles.

"Whoops." Kazuha playfully teases, acting like the removal of the t-shirt is accidental, a casual display of carelessness. Her bottom lip between her teeth, holding it hostage and pressing it between her pearl white teeth. That stare, dark brown and chocolate eyes swallowing you whole and consuming you.

It becomes clear as day, the flirting and lustful looks were no joke, an honest come-on from this hotter-than-hot idol. And you could lose everything right here and right now, the implications and consequences could be catastrophic, but when her hand lands on yours, giving you a gentle caress, it's hard not to succumb.

"It's impolite to stare, Mr. Photographer," Kazuha coos. Your hands find her sides, fingertips digging in, unable to hold back anymore. Years of ballet, and now dancing to her own music and choreography, there is nothing less than admirable in her sculpted body, each muscle firm but toned.

The pads of your thumbs feel the ridges, tracing the defined lines, slowly climbing higher and higher.

"Such a naughty man."

Kazuha gives her own belly a featherlight caress, your hands slip underneath the elastic of her bra. Hot flesh greets your palms and her tiny tits are barely enough for a squeeze, so smooth and soft and absolutely perfect. Her nipples harden immediately, small and sensitive, crying out for attention, pinched by your fingers.

This is beyond unprofessional, absolutely irresponsible, a blight on everything a photographer should be—to have their hands under their model's clothes and get so engrossed with someone they've only known for a day. But, fuck. You could always find another job. Just touching and playing with Kazuha though—a chance of this sort of happiness would be gone forever.

The choice becomes clear the moment Kazuha kisses you, hungrily swallowing any excuses and closing any chance of leaving. The way she claims you is exhilarating, overwhelmingly powerful in that seductive passion as she claims ownership with her tongue, overtaking every bit of hesitation and apprehension in your soul and planting a seed of raw, unfiltered lust in the empty void.

Your excitement is evident, something hard is pressed against her thigh.

"Is it just a big camera down there, Mr. Photographer?" A tsk-tsk leaves Kazuha's lips, those dirty, dirty, beautiful lips, and that haughty smile plastered on her face while her fingers nimbly undo your pants. "Naughty, naughty Mr. Photographer!" Kazuha hums the words into your ear, tickling you, making your skin shiver in delight and electrifying you from the tips of your toes to the top of your head.

Her lips are on your neck, her hand is wrapped around your cock. It's all too much—this sexy, gorgeous, brilliant, sensual woman, taking everything with the same enthusiasm and conviction that she'd do in a song and a dance.

Each kiss on your body feels like the brush of the lips of an angel, her hands roaming your body, a subtle hint of her sharp, immaculate nails, leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin.

She leaves you panting, a broken record of sighs and low moans until she releases your erection.

"Take off my pants for me Mr. Photographer."

Her words are quiet, her tone more husky than anything else, a hint of arrogance and self-indulgence. A direct command with no room for disobedience. Her back is against the wall, her hips jutted out for easy access— the baggy jeans easily fall off her legs, revealing her toned dancer's physique. Her thick thighs flexing in anticipation, the matching Calvin Klein panties the only obstacle standing in between you and heaven.

Her sexiness is something else, the shapely, sinful outline of her ass, the swell of her curves—that v-line is a mouthwatering treat, teasing with the prospect of a delight waiting to be explored. Everything on Kazuha is toned and breathtaking.

There is no thought, no plan. Pure primal instinct urges you forward, kneeling to run your tongue along that delicious path leading straight down to heaven and bliss and everything you could possibly desire. Your lips press against her stomach, her coy smile grows as you kneel before her, fingers in her elastic waistband, pulling and dragging it down.

Inch by inch, her lower half comes into view and you can't contain yourself any longer.

"Fuck..." the curse slips from you, involuntarily and inevitable, and the sight in front of you is breathtaking: her pussy is absolutely perfect, full and engorged, aching for touch, drooling in obvious desire.

Teasing kisses are planted on the inside of her thighs, inching closer and closer. She gives a slight groan. That sweet taste of victory. Lips upon lips. Tongue against slit. Kazuha is an impatient one, her hands cradling your head, locking you into position, the silky lips rubbing against yours. The roughness with which her hips move excites you, how desperately she pushes her crotch against your mouth. She's not shy at all, each and every movement bold and intentional, greedy and ravenous, entirely unlike her demure, innocent persona.

It's hard not to enjoy this, enjoying her unbridled desire—getting suffocated by her muscular thighs squeezing the sides of your face, her cunt grinding against you, leaving her delicious nectar all over your lips and chin. The more she pushes, the more she suffocates, the more excited and aroused you become, fingers sinking into the flesh of her thighs. It is as if your life depended on tasting her juices, that tart ambrosia from this sultry dancer and songstress, an aphrodisiac you'll never tire of.

Kazuha puts a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle those wanton sounds but failing to completely hide those telltale grunts and moans—her toes curling just another sign. The closer she gets, the tighter her thighs squeeze and... Fuck. If you're gonna die, this is probably the best way to go.

Kazuha shudders in ecstasy, a full body spasm while a cry of pleasure slips free from those luscious pink lips. It's too tempting not to explore her with your fingers as well, the little nub throbbing and aching for stimulation, eagerly twitching whenever your fingers circle it. There is a wild and untamed ferocity to the way Kazuha's legs instinctively curl and flex, writhing in unhindered bliss.

She leans back, pushing more weight into her back, holding herself up on shaking legs and heavy breaths. A sense of victory floods you. She was putty in your hands, her beautiful legs shaking and knees wobbling. Your pride swelled—to have the otherwise impeccably poised songstress a shivering mess.

"That... Was..." Kazuha struggles to talk, the red on her cheeks running down her chest and spreading down her heaving abs. "...Fucking amazing," she pants, her adorable smile permanently fixed on her beautiful face, lips parted just slightly.

Fuck.

Absolutely beautiful.

Her appearance is entrancing. Those warm, dark brown eyes with a sly, playful expression. Plush pink lips pulled into a sultry smirk, teasing, as her hair cascades behind her shoulders. Kazuha pulls you back up, staring you directly in the eye, full of sensual promise.

"I think you deserve a reward, Mr. Photographer," Kazuha says between languid strokes of your cock. Those talented fingers tease you, squeezing and pumping with precision, hitting every one of your buttons, a cocky, knowing glint in her eyes. You're not one to stand idly by, reaching for her sides, massaging her hips and brushing along her waist.

This is not a slow and drawn-out affair. Every touch between the two of you is desperate and fiery, full of passion and an intense need to feel more and more—needing to satisfy your hunger. Her arms reach above her head and you finally toss away that pesky sports bra. Perky nipples beg to be teased and kissed.

You give her pecs a light lick before blowing cool air onto her sensitive, pointed peak. She mewls in response. Each tug on her nipple accompanied by a sultry cry from Kazuha. She's trapped, sandwiched between the wall behind her and your body, held hostage by pleasure. But one simple phrase and she takes back all control.

"Fuck me."

Two simple words. The most beautiful ones. Commanding and fierce. Kazuha doesn't beg. Kazuha doesn't ask. There's no softness in her tone, she knows what she wants and there will be no deterring her. The tip of your hard, aching cock slides across Kazuha's slick folds, smearing her juices, gliding up and down as your shaft teases her clit.

It takes all your willpower to hold back, you want this to last forever. A huge part of you doesn't believe this is actually happening and that this is all just a fever dream. But when your tip first enters her wet, hot heat, nothing feels more real and certain. There's tight, and there's this—Kazuha a woman who spends hours working out her core and performing exhaustive dance routines every single day. There's nothing tighter or better than this goddess's cunt.

Every single movement is an explosion of sensations: her inner muscles flexing and squeezing, gripping, the sensual gyrations of her hips, the shallow thrusting—this is pure perfection. Your head spins, drunk from the desire, the high of fucking this diva, being enticed by every subtle thing about Kazuha and all of it's pure insanity, almost terrifying and too unreal. You lean in, pressing against her body and giving yourself up to her.

It's a paradise that no mortal should ever be worthy of entering. That is what her cunt feels like: Heaven's gates. Something out of this world. It's like all the blood is leaving your head. That carnal desire that's been built up is now set loose in this debauchery, your primal urges taking over.

Fuck the consequences.

Nothing matters right now but this.

Each thrust into Kazuha elicits a cute, soft moan, her tongue hanging loosely from her lips and her eyes fluttered shut in bliss. Her nails dig into your back, the painful searing feeling mixes perfectly with the sweet pleasure coursing through your body. There's no gentleness or love, nothing other than lust and passion. Flesh against flesh.

Kazuha pushes you back, a naughty expression painted all over her face, pupils wide and tongue licking her lips.

"Wanna see a trick?"

There's no time to respond, her leg lifted into the air, showing off her flexibility and resting on your shoulder. This angle is unreal. You have no idea how she manages to keep her balance, especially when it allows you to slide even deeper into her cunt. The change is striking and her hands clasp over her mouth, failing to stifle a long, loud moan.

It's as impressive as it is erotic, using her ballet skills as a sexual advantage. Each pump in is pure pleasure, so hot and wet, you're drowning in her. Her walls clench and squeeze around your cock, as if she can't bear to let it leave, unwilling to relinquish your presence from her cunt.

"You're making me-" her words are cut off, Kazuha biting down hard on your shoulder in her attempt to stop the cry of passion. A hand wraps around her ankle, gripping her leg, hoisting her a little higher for even deeper thrusts. Her thighs and legs flex, locking you into place, keeping you there as she throws her head back in pleasure.

Kazuha bursts. For the second time. Shivering. Gasping. Pulsating. As if her pussy can't decide what's the best way to please the cock inside of her, an infuriating tightness and gyration around you.

Her leg leaves your shoulder, her whole body leaning against you as Kazuha's tired, labored breathing fans the back of your ear.

"That was quite the trick." Kazuha giggles at your lame attempt at a joke, pressing her finger against your lips.

"Did I say I was finished?"

Of all the things you should have expected after all the salacious behavior she exhibited during her first two orgasms, you really don't know why you should have expected anything less than what she did next: wrapping her arms around your neck and her legs around your waist.

Her forehead leans against yours, your tandem breaths sync up, and the calmness lasts for maybe a second before Kazuha presses a small peck against your mouth. She grinds down and starts working against your lap, her pussy bobbing up and down the hardness of your cock. You're carrying her weight now, Kazuha lifting herself up, then letting gravity guide her hips downwards to fully seat your dick.

Your fingers sink into her tight ass. She rides you, no break, not pausing once in her movements, sheathing herself repeatedly onto your girth. She's fucking you—every pent up frustration in living an idol's life is now being released into that. It dawns on you that in no moment were you ever in control, Kazuha stole every bit of agency from you.

Even so, your hips are locked in place.

Even as the room smells of sex and you're completely ensnared in a tangle of limbs. The loud clapping of flesh on flesh ringing in your ears—every bit of this situation is screaming irresponsibility and wrong. To fuck an idol whose star is on the rise would spell an end for a promising career. And yet Kazuha never fails to get her way, it's undeniably clear the moment that devious smile spreads across her face and the heated sparkles light up in her eyes, this vixen is determined to have what she wants.

Everything is burning up—your loins are on fire, Kazuha's steamy hot insides are the match.

"How do I feel, Mr. Photographer?" The sweetest, honeyed voice but with the devil's timbre. Kazuha fucks the words out of you, and your mouth feels so dry—you can't find the will or ability to speak as Kazuha smiles triumphantly.

Your life flashes before your very eyes. The decisions, the events—everything leading up until this very moment where you found yourself impossibly entangled in a gorgeous superstar, unable to get free from this spell. Everything culminates. From the time you were told you'd be working with her. From her flirty looks during the shoot.

Your hour of recess turned into this wild, irresponsible, crazy scenario. A lustful mess, as evidenced by the slick sheen that's collected around Kazuha's tight hole, glistening in the pale light. The tiniest twitches of her face, the furrowing of her brow—she's getting close again.

A handful of violent bounces is all she needed. With a stilted, violent scream and her pussy choking and gushing all over your thick rod. Everything's too hot and your toes begin curling and you can't stop fucking her, holding her perfect round ass, you start thrusting upwards—into her oversensitive cunt.

Kazuha squeals and it's too late to stop now, the sound of her pitiful cries as her body jerks and trembles and shakes—you're cumming together, perfectly synced in this debauchery. Her cunt squeezes the orgasm out of you. All over her walls. Flooding her insides, the warmth spilling out and dripping down and marking the both of you in the naughtiness of this exchange.

She collapses in your embrace, slumping against your chest and struggling to hold herself up. Both her feet rest on the ground, and the exhaustion is evident on her face—heaving breathlessly with a bright, brilliant smile as her knees threaten to give out beneath her.

Kazuha doesn't say anything, not a word, but she's glowing—unable to wipe that gorgeous grin off her face. There's no sign of regret either, or any hint of shame or guilt. No trace of anything but unbridled happiness and pure, raw satisfaction. A mischievous, perverse happiness that a woman in her profession shouldn't exude, not with the career waiting ahead of her.

A knock on the door. Shit. It's already been an hour?! There's a short pause, and she's pressing her finger to her lips, giggling quietly while giving a cheeky wink and getting herself dressed.

"I'll be right out." You yell at the door, sounding a bit winded as the thoughts come to you. It's easy to zip up, put away, and readjust yourself but there is absolutely no way you can cover up the smell, an obvious pungent musk that'd have anyone wrinkling their nose, the smell of hot, sweaty sex.

Kazuha winks at you and struts towards the door. A deep inhale, and the moment the door opens a whoosh of cool air clears out the fog from the past hour's festivities. "Make me look good out there Mr. Photographer," and in the span of an eye-blink, the façade she's made her identity, Kazuha's the innocent, sweet idol once again, her perverted desires and lustful yearning hidden under a veil of composure and modesty...

[archatlas]

Jakob Factory Rollimarchini Architekten and G8A Archietcts

The Jakob Factory project offered the design partnership of Rollimarchini Architekten from Bern and Swiss-born G8A Architects the unique opportunity to propose a highly innovative and highly specific manufacturing space, set to become a design reference for tropical sustainable architecture.

The intelligent distribution of work spaces combined with the plantation façade and completely modular interior walls provide a comfortable working space, a pioneering initiative as Jakob Factory becomes the first project in Vietnam proposing completely naturally ventilated manufacturing halls.

[sugarsnappeases]

i need to know what u think about jily

hi....... the only way that jily interests me is A) when they try so so hard to make things work for years but ultimately decide they need to go their separate ways or B) when one or both of them dies, like in canon but also esp. when lily kills james and maybe harry too <33

in this essay, i will discuss option A but if you want there is MUCH to discuss for option B........

for me. jily is like. james who is in love with the idealised version of lily that he created when he was like eleven and decided that she was going to be the love of his life and they were going to have their happily ever after forever and ever amen. the lily he loves is one he made up over years of pining and one that ultimately does not exist. lily, similarly, isn't so much in love with james but with what he represents and what that means for her. he's what everyone expects, a good, well-off man who can provide and care for her and who has been loudly declaring his love for her for years. he's something solid and the inevitable next step in her life and their relationship is a kind of wartime whirlwind spurred on by the feeling that maybe they're running out of time (they are) and by the fact that as far as everyone is concerned, they're perfect for each other.

i think a lot about them during those long months in hiding, just them and baby harry and the realisation that maybe they don't actually know each other all that well or have anything to say to each other or all that much in common. they've never really spent a lot of time one-on-one before. i imagine those months as very quiet and very lonely and filled with a lot of revelations about their relationship that they tell themselves they'll deal w when the war is over. obvs in canon that never happens.

in a non-canon context, i think they're both incredibly stubborn, and convinced that they're right for each other and this is the life they want, and, without the isolation that arose from their specific war-time circumstances, it would take them a long time to realise that their marriage is built on the foundation of fundamentally failing to understand and see each other for who they are. and even when they do realise this, it takes a long time for either of them to do anything about it bc, like i said, stubborn, but also. terrified of what it means if the one thing that's always felt certain and inevitable, is falling to pieces around them. they're scared of those uncharted waters, and also a little embarrassed, and also entirely horrified at what's become of them. they're clinging to the broken pieces of the façade that was their relationship.

i think this is also a very internal thing, in terms of like each of them internally, but also mainly in terms of the breakdown of their marriage mostly taking place behind closed doors, in their house, where it's just the two of them (and baby harry) and there's no one to perform in front of. and they argue and they cry and they try to hold things together and eventually they both come to the realisation that they can't do it anymore, no matter how scary and unknown whatever comes next is, and quietly go through the process of a divorce. their relationship begins with bright swirling colours and loud glittering celebration and a kind of manufactured joy and ends with a messy kind of honesty, and closure even if i kinda think they'll never fully understand each other, and horror & guilt & anger & fear about the time wasted and the times to come...... so.........

[solarpunkbusiness]

Guggenheim Bilbao Museum fitted with hidden solar panels

Iberdrola, the company behind the installation, placed the panels on two of the building’s largest roofs in a position that means they are not visible from the street. 

The model selected was manufactured by Italian company FuturaSun and is chromatically compliant with the architecture. 

City councils around Europe have begun loosening restrictions so that swathes of rooftops can become sites for solar panels (nearly a quarter of buildings in the EU pre-date 1945).

While this may prompt concerns over heritage conservation, companies are simultaneously working to produce solar panels that blend more subtly with historic buildings. 

Called building integrated photovoltaics (BIPV), these do not sit on top of building surfaces but replace elements like the roof, skylights or façades.

They can take on the appearance of roof tiles, slate, glass and even stained glass meaning historic buildings can benefit from reduced energy costs and improved sustainability without sacrificing aesthetic integrity.

https://www.iberdrola.com/home

https://www.futurasun.com/en/

[jeanfrancoisrey]

Ancienne façade préservée de la manufacture de tabacs d’Ajaccio…

[cookie-nom-nom]

How to Kidnap Bruce Wayne in 6 Easy Steps

The Batfam decided to have a nice evening together. They had it all planned out. The Joker was JUST put into Arkam, Harley and Poison Ivy were having a date night, and they sent the Riddler a 5k puzzle piece, so they should have a few hours. Hopefully.

But then entered...the comedian. Not a knockoff Joker, mind, an actual comedian serving as the entertainment for the night. The kids were running a bet on the odds of Bruce laughing. Not actual laughter, naturally, but how many fake laughs Bruce would decide to manufacture. Dick maintained it would be 8 times at most, despite what the others thought.

And then a PowerPoint presentation started, with the words Bruce Wayne emblazoned behind the comedian. "Brucie Brucie Wayne. Local philanthropist, runner of jobs and charities and orphanages. Gotham's number one eligible bachelor if and only if you like kids. But Ladies and Gentlemen and Folks, I'm here to tell you otherwise. Because this right here? It's alllll a mask. I know the real Bruce Wayne, and I have the proof to reveal his secret identity."

Bruce was very carefully keeping his eyes on the performer, refusing to acknowledge the eyes latching onto him, or the occasional covert elbows.

The comedian dramatically flourished the remote and changed the slide. A stock photo of a man littering had Bruce's face crudely photoshopped over it popped up. "See! A menace to society! And I have an extremely reliable witness who swears that the recycling bin was three feet away. Tsk. Some people just want to watch the world burn. Which maybe I'd be okay with since we Matched on Tinder, and yet not a single spark despite how much chemistry we'd have!" A wall of unanswered Tinder messages of bad pick-up lines and far, far too many winky faces filled the screen, all sent to a profile claiming to be 'Bruce Waine'. "This MONSTER left me on read! Can you believe it? Ghosted. And that definitely isn't on me, because my Mom says I can make anyone swoon. Who do you trust between the two? Wayne? Some millionaire who could never relate to your everyday experience?" The slide flipped between Bruce suavely dealing with paparazzi and a sweet older woman. "Or Mom, who can make wonderful potlucks, whereas we all know the Wayne Manor has nearly burned down on three separate occasions thanks to Brucie trying to use a toaster!" Technically all villain attacks, but the public needn't know that.

The Wikipedia page's list of philanthropic acts and charities sponsored by Bruce Wayne scrawled across the screen, the comedian gesticulating wildly. "All this?? PROPAGANDA! This is what he WANTS you to think! When in reality, he's a two-faced, duplicitous, littering, puppy-kicking monster who REFUSES to answER MY TEXTS, IT'S NOT HARD! I'M FUNNY AND HOT AND--!" The comedian paused in frothing at the mouth, as if suddenly realizing the audience was there. They straightened, pointedly adjusting their collar. "We all know the true darkness that lies behind his friendly, ditzy, sexy façade. And so our goal is simple: we are going to kidnap this menace for the wellbeing of Gotham (and my love life)."

Step 1: Become an orphan.

"Alright, the first step of Plan 1 is simple. Now that you're an orphan..." the slide changed with a silly transition animation.

Step 2: Irreversible and extensive surgery.

"Now this step is a bit expensive but-" they feigned a surprised face at the protests in the audience. Planted, no doubt. "I'm sorry, what's the hold-up? We don't have all night! This is literally the first step and you already have questions?" The comedian gestured wildly in the direction of the Batfam. Bruce narrowly avoided recognition thanks to his fondness for sitting menacingly in the shadowy corner of the room. "Seriously! There're KIDS in the audience! They're far too young to know how easy it is to get tragically orphaned at a young age and left with no stability and an empty hole in your life to be filled with grief, rage, and fear!

"Sheesh. Some people have no consideration for the faint of heart. Think of the children! Literally, think of the children you will be infiltrating." A flick of the remote and Step 3: Infiltrate an orphanage popped up. "We all know the easiest way into the Wayne household is adoption. Now that you've gotten extensive surgery to appear like a child, the hard part begins.

"Little is known about the entity known as children. I have put together research to aid in your mission. You need to know how to walk, how to dress, how to speak. Do you know what rizz is? Can you dab on command? One mistake and you're dead. You can fool the hearts of men, but children will rip a poor performance to shreds. I should know, I was bullied severely on the playground every time I tried to bring up the question of what the deal with airplane food is..."

The comedian went on, detailing the absurd plan to trick Bruce Wayne into adopting them. It hinged entirely on the fact he was a well-known moron. The Batkids found great glee in piling on the jabs as the comedy bit went on. Step 4: Marketability analyzed the various personalities and attributes of the Batkids to extrapolate how to lure Bruce into adopting the infiltrator, highlighting key traits like 'small' 'looks like a drowned cat' and 'a glare that is really terrifying for a baby to have'. Bruce found that portion almost tolerable, given some of the kids turned upon one another in something akin to a feeding frenzy. But it wasn't long before the full brunt of their teasing returned upon him as Plan 1 concluded with Step 5: Buying rope and duck tape while not looking suspicious and Step 6: Using flower language to apologize (for the abduction).

"...Alright. So, maybe you don't have the funds to shorten the length of your leg bones. Or maybe you don't have black hair and blue eyes. I get it, re-dyeing is messy. If Plan 1 is infeasible for your budget or lifestyle, then I've kindly considered a second revenue of attack."

A massive picture of Batman filled the screen. The crowd descended into mayhem. "Oh don't tell me the entire audience believes the butts match! We're conspiracy theorists here, but I thought you had STANDARDS!" It was possible Bruce's face was going to freeze in that perpetual rictus. Dick waved a hand in front of him, not sure when he last blinked. "Come on people! They're clearly different people. Which is why I'm going to recruit Killer Moth to do a little crime. All the funds that would've gone to child surgery can now be injected directly into the criminal underworld. It's basically the same thing our taxes do but faster! I've thought this through. Killer Moth will do anything for a price and you won't like actually be in danger. I mean, can you imagine dying to some D-tier villain? Cringe. Anyway, this is your 'in' with Batman. He saves you and it's all very heroic. And then you start chatting, maybe get his number; it's going great. It's been a few months of him rescuing you over and over again, and hopefully you haven't died or whatever. At that point you bring up Bruce Wayne. I mean he's getting kidnapped all the time! It has to be incredibly inconvenient for Batman, and he deserves a break for all his hard work. So the next step of this plan is to convince Batman to kidnap Bruce Wayne..."

.....................................................

The comedian paced backstage during intermission, rehearsing the next segment. It seemed to be going well, a good-sized audience. There was one group in the back that was particularly uproarious, save for one adult in the center. But then, the comedian was suddenly surrounded by children who seemingly melted out of the shadows. "I don't think you are supposed to be back here. Are you lost? Do you need help finding your parents? ....wait, shouldn't there have been guards...?"

"Didn't see any," Tim shrugged. Hard to, when they were strung thirty feet up in the rafters of the auditorium. "Anyway, we've just been adoring your act. Our Dad? Not so much, though."

"Eh, can't please them all. Some people just put celebrities on the craziest of pedestals."

"More like he's listening to someone ramble about trying to kidnap him." Beneath a mask a mile thick, Dad was writhing in mortification.

The way the stages of grief so clearly filtered through the comedian's face was fascinating to watch. "..........Bruce Wayne is in the audience?" they asked weakly. "Like. Right now? Watching? Waiting to ambush me with lawyers?"

"Dad's in the bathroom." Batman was desperately out on patrol to avoid his family's heckling.

"Actually, I don't think he's caught on that you're talking about him yet." Jason grinned evilly.

"Man, I heard he was a bimbo but I didn't know it was that severe. My condolences, truly. Thank god the second half of the interview is about trying to plan a dinner date that doesn't get ruined by supervillains. I do NOT need him coming after me for slander. Uh. You aren't offended, right...?" They could not afford any type of lawsuit. Or controversy. The comedian stuck to petty Twitter bait, not actual problems.

The hoard of children beamed. Suddenly, the comedian realized the exits were cut off. A teen's arm looped around theirs, another surprisingly firm grip across their shoulders. "Nah. Actually, we had some suggestions. How'd you like to do a live interview...?"

.....................................................

"Alright folks, you're never going to believe this, but during the intermission I was cornered by children. It was terrible, I was having flashbacks to second grade..." an artistic shudder. "But thankfully, these ones just wanted to harass me after listening to me ramble about trying to seduce and/or kidnap their dad for the last half hour. Can we get a big welcome for the Wayne kids! I'd introduce them but they all look identical to me!" A fantastic roar of applause at the sudden special guest segment. "Luckily, these kids have graciously elected to let me interview them so that I have better data to act on when trying to kidnap their dad. And is he in the audience still...?"

"Nope! Still in the bathroom. Has been for thirty one minutes."

"Either he needs to see a doctor or he's locked himself in again. How often does that happen?"

"At least twice a month," Jason grinned. It wasn't an infrequent excuse to explain disappearances.

"One wonders how he survives. I like that in a man. Now, quick question. Which of you is the cutest?"

"Damian!" the hoard chorused. The youngest one snarled at once, rounding upon the others. The comedian scrambled away in what was unfortunately not a particularly exaggerated fashion. There was pure murder in the twerp's eyes.

Luckily, three brothers restraining him appeared to be enough. "Don't worry he has his rabies shot yearly," one smirked.

With cautious steps, the comedian approached where Damian was being dangled like a baby kitten. A few moments of examination, and they delivered the verdict that Damian was, in fact, a precious baby boy. The child hissed nastily. "Look at his beautiful eyes! Adorable. You could just get lost in them. Which is why I plan to print out approximately 30k pictures of this child and plaster Bruce's entire room with them. He'd never be able to leave, absorbed in his adorable adoptee."

"I'm his only biological offspring!" Damian snapped, literally. Dick had to jerk out of the way to avoid losing his fingers to the chomping child. "And that would never work!"

"Really? Doesn't he keep little picture rolls of you and corner near strangers into cooing over them?" The comedian is passed Bruce's wallet by Stephanie. "Wait, how'd you get this?"

"I took it from Dick, who stole it from Jason who stole it from Tim, who took it to reprimand Damian for stealing it from Dad."

"Wow, he is not observant in the slightest! I feel even better about my odds now. Oh, would you look at that, countless pictures..." They pulled out a roll. And then kept pulling, and kept pulling, the camera roll beginning to puddle at their feet. It was almost like a clown's handkerchief, save the fact the string of photos was sturdy enough to be used as a rope if needed. More than one of Gotham's rogues had been captured under the guise of Bruce rambling about his children.

"How much can he fit in one wallet?!" Something metallic clanged to the floor of the stage, and the comedian held up a pair of expanding handcuffs for the audience to gawk at. "Well well well, looks like I have excellent taste in men. Wait, there's also some pepper spray. When in Gotham, I suppose. Wow that's a concerning number of pocket knives...and approximately 2k in 100 dollar bills-- well isn't this scarily similar to the list of supplies I recommended in step 5! What, did he just hold someone ransom? Wait. Oh my god, that's how he made all his money. It's guilt that makes him a philanthropist! And all this time we thought he was perpetually haunted by his dead parents! WAIT." The comedian let the crowd howl, periodically interjecting as they paced the stage with grandiose graveness. "I have had an epiphany!" The laughter finally petered out, the comedian allowing the silence to linger. "Guys," they said, deadly serious. "If he made his millions kidnapping people, and I kidnap him....does that make ME Bruce Wayne???"

Batman had to dodge jokes from his kids for weeks afterward.

[staycalmandhugaclone]

Identity Pt 3

Part (3) of Identity, the next arc of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!

Well, guess I decided to make up for the last two chapters being on the small side. I admit, I was super intimidated by this one. It's a bit of a change from how my chapters usually go, though the next one will fall back into more familiar territory 😉 Also, @captainrex89, sorry! I absolutely didn't mean to leave you out of my previous tags, and thank you for bringing it to my attention! ❤️

Warnings: Brotherly bullying, varying degrees of dread, unwanted advances (between two women, though I want to be clear: the 'unwanted' aspect is not due to gender), profanity, brief descriptions of gore and burns, needles, brief description of dead bodies

WC: 5,953

Sleep refused to return to me after the conversation with Wolffe, thoughts conflicted between betrayal and guilt. I would never be able to bring myself to regret joining Hunter and his brothers, but the knowledge that Wolffe let me go so easily hurt in a way that left my heart writhing in my chest. It was almost a relief when the time came to begin mission prep despite the lingering anxiety in every terrifying unknown that entailed.

I’d had no say in the elaborate gown chosen for me, nor had I ever had to adorn such pretentious attire during my years as a medic, a thing for which I instantly found myself profoundly grateful as I fought against the urge to scratch at the elegant lacework adorning my arms and neck or to readjust the layers of heavy silks draped about my chest and hips. While the garment was a stunning example of Separatist finery, the life it represented held no attraction to me, and I found myself loathing the way it clung to my figure just enough to impede my movement.

After wasting several minutes trying to secure the clasps at my back without stretching or tearing anything, I finally accepted defeat with a sigh and headed toward the chorus of voices in the neighboring room and had to swallow back the flare of self-consciousness at how quickly they fell silent the instant I tread through the door.

“Yeah, yeah; quit gawking. Who’s going to help me button this thing up?” I drawled, rolling my eyes as though my cheeks weren’t heated beneath a violent blush. Boost instantly shot up, beaming smile on his face, but Warthog slid his foot forward just enough to catch his brother’s ankle, sending the man crashing down with a sharp curse. I was laughing too hard to notice Sinker until he stood mere feet before me, waiting impatiently for me to turn my back to him. Flashing him a toothy grin, I spun around.

“Anything broken?” I called back upon hearing Boost’s deep groan.

“Just my pride…” He replied morosely, earning a fresh bout of chuckles as I pointedly ignored the careful movements of Sinker’s fingers gradually working up my spine.

“Any questions about your cover story?” The Sergent asked.

“I’d be a bit embarrassed if I did.” I answered, brow hitching as I glanced over my shoulder at him. “It’s almost too close to the truth for comfort.”

“Easier to make it believable that way.” He said dismissively. I knew he was right, and being able to call on actual memory to support my manufactured cover of being the daughter of a senator from Agamar admittedly lessened my anxiety of the façade. I didn’t doubt how quickly that anxiety would return upon reaching the gala, however; how alone I’d be as soon as I stepped off the platform and listened to the engines fade as Wolffe and his men acted their part of chauffer before circling around to infiltrate the grand structure elsewhere. I glanced down at the slim band about my wrist, noting how brilliantly the twined metals gleamed under the fluorescents.

“You sure this thing isn’t going to set off any sensors?” I asked, twisting my arm to begrudgingly admire the elegant jewelry.

“Getting nervous, civi?” I could hear the smirk in Sinker’s voice, and instantly shot him an unamused glare.

“As long as you don’t activate it until after you’re inside, you’ll be fine.” Boost reassured me as he finally pushed himself to his feet. “We’ll hear you loud and clear the whole time.” I forced my lips into a smile at his approach, though I found little comfort in his words. Once they were clear, they’d send a signal to the bracelet, causing it to buzz twice granting me permission to take my leave, and I knew I’d be painfully aware of its delicate weight the entire time, second guessing if I’d missed the subtle alert or worrying that someone else might notice it if it went off at an inopportune moment…

“I swear, if you just jinxed me, Boost…” I warned jokingly, earning a cheeky grin.

“That other squad has you all jumpy.” Warthog accused, stretching his legs out atop the now vacant couch. “I don’t remember you being so nervous with us.”

“You’re clearly forgetting that mission on Nal Hutta.” Sinker retorted, drawing an affronted scoff from me.

“You mean when you sold me to the karking hutts?!” Before I’d finished speaking, both Warthog and Sinker were laughing shamelessly. Only Boost had the good sense to look at least partially chastised.

“We got you back.” He reminded me, voice lilting between apology and compromise. Before I could more than twist my lips in reply, the door hissed open as Comet joined us.

“Hey! You clean up nicely, med’ika!” He greeted happily, utterly oblivious to the ire warming my blood. I gave a mock curtsy before letting out a small sigh.

“How close are we to leaving hyperspace?”

“Any second. Wolffe sent me to grab Warthog.” He answered, looking past me to where his brother lounged contently. The pilot let out a reluctant grumble but offered no further argument before grabbing his helmet and starting toward the cockpit as the ship shuttered slightly. This was the most dangerous moment; waiting to see if our clearance codes were accepted planet-side or if we’d be shot down before ever nearing atmo. The four of us waited in tense silence as the engines stalled, surely marking the beginnings of Warthog’s attempts to grant us access to land. Mere seconds later, everyone in the room let out a small breath of relief as the ship roared back to life.

“You ready?” Comet asked in a fond whisper.

“I’m just going into a room filled with people I’m trying to overturn without so much as a dagger to protect myself. Why wouldn’t I be ready?” Even that growing anxiety couldn’t quell the flood of affection at his gentle laugh, cheeks warming as he slipped his hand through my hair to touch his forehead softly against mine.

“You’ll do great.” How could I not believe him when he spoke with such unfettered quiet, that subtle smile granting each word an effortless confidence that swept the tension from my frame absent even the memory of doubt.

“Remember, we’ll be able to hear you the entire time. You just need to meet the contact, monitor security details, and get out when we tell you to.” Sinker’s attempt at crisp professionalism nearly hid the hint of his own worry from bleeding through, and I offered him a comforting smile as he lightly bumped his head to mine as well before he and Comet started toward the back rooms lest they be seen upon landing.

“Be careful, med’ika.” Boost murmured, shamelessly forgoing the routine keldabe kiss to lightly press his lips to my forehead.

The silence that fell around me after he joined his brothers was deafening; the fleeting calm granted by Comet’s innate quiet fading away beneath the impending reality of how many ways this mission could go wrong.

Just as the telltale shuttering of atmosphere jostling the ship began, the cockpit door slid open, instantly drawing my attention. Wolffe stood with his arms locked about his chest, head tilted down ever so slightly as he studied me with those unflinching, intense eyes. I felt my body still beneath his gaze, all thought toward sobbed apologies and shouted accusation abandoned in favor of the desire to simply remember every night I’d sought him out for the wisdom gained by the loss of too many brothers, for the unwavering conviction of his carefully metered responses in the face of every moment of crippling doubt and regret and fear that had haunted me in those first months after abandoning my home world.

I still felt the desperate need to know why he’d let me go, but some unspoken warning forbade me from asking, and my shoulders sank with a forfeited sigh.

“Don’t get yourself killed, kid.” It was such a rare thing for him to whisper like that, like there was so much more hanging on every word, painstakingly stifled into silence, allowed existence only in the way his jaw clenched in that forced stillness. My lips parted, chest swelling with a breath I knew I couldn’t risk releasing in anything other than a sharp exhale.

“You too, Wolffe.” I replied in that same, unsatisfied quiet. We both seemed to pause, almost pleading the other to break, to find some means of washing away the shadows cast by lips loosened beneath too much heartbreak and confusion in the hushed hours of night, but there wasn’t time for it. There never would be, and that was an agony I knew we’d simply have to live with.

The acceptance that softened those eyes drew a weary smile to my lips. With a small nod, he stepped back, allowing the door to close once more between us, and was again, I stood painfully alone, though that solitude felt somewhat lighter. I think I’d found myself expecting him to avoid me in the wake of my outburst, but I should have known better. Wolffe had never been one to hide regardless the weight of whatever decision or confrontation awaited him. It was simultaneously intimidating and envying, but my relief in not having to tread into the gala with that uncertainty cloying my thoughts was a blessing I was too eager to accept.

-

Music dominated the center hall, brass resonating through domed ceilings as strings sang of unknown sorrows and lost loves. What unearthly vocals accompanied the masterful orchestra lingered in subtle reverie rather than making any attempt to monopolize the attention of the dizzying number of senators and dictators and generals garbed in finery worth more than their citizens could hope to ever earn in their lifetimes floating about the grand ballroom careful only to avoid the disastrous social scandal of treading across the center stage absent a partner to mimic them in some pre-choreographed dance that had long since sacrificed all memory of passion in favor of empty symbolism that none cared to even pretend to remember.

I’d purposefully avoided all but the fringes of the room, save for a handful of forced conversations for the sake of my cover, head tilted up in silent judgement of those around me as I pretended to sip whatever pale liquid filled the crystal flute I’d been offered upon entering. B2 droids stood frozen in precise formation within enclaves built elegantly into the walls, almost more a decoration than true security. Their armor gleamed brilliantly beneath the enhanced candlelight flickering throughout the chandeliers floating overhead, void of scuffs or dirt or any signs that they’d ever seen battle. Still, I didn’t doubt how quickly they’d snap to attention at the faintest show of danger.

The droids weren’t my primary focus, however. Hidden within the higher echelon lingered just as many organic guards as those made of cold metals lining the gala. Each time I drew the glass to my lips, I counted off another half dozen, noting their clothes and species and any other details that might identify them. Years spent in the GAR left certain habits painfully obvious despite how the Separatist soldiers tried to blend in; shoulders held just so, the way their eyes scanned the room, the practiced tempo of their strides that only decades of intention could ever hope to unlearn.

My attention kept wandering back to those brave enough or bold enough or bored enough to find themselves gliding around one another in that antiqued dance, my lips just hinting at a smile as thoughts drifted far from this façade of self-importance. It was so easy to imagine Tech embodying the exact precision of those movements, tall form granting each stride an elegance lost to so many of those fumbling through the motions. I wondered how long Wrecker would humor the uninspiring steps before yielding beneath his desire to simply enjoy the moment; how his innate glee for life might grant new meaning to the music through a dance all his own. Hunter, surely, would find no joy in the act itself, but would amuse the both of us with whispered comments on those around us, noting groundless confidence in a nearby couple as one believed themselves far more accomplished than their clearly unimpressed partner, how he might create tales of how certain persons found themselves here when, in truth, they would prefer a stale beer in a raucous bar, while Echo would embody the perfect partner, matching movement for movement with a gentle conversation to free me of all thought toward where we were and who we were with; and Crosshair… I doubted any combination of pleas or promises would succeed in dragging him amidst the countless dancers yet found myself wishing for the chance to try all the same.

“That bracelet wouldn’t happen to be of Dal-Shay make, would it?” My gaze instantly snapped to the rugged voice, heart jilting at the codeword meant to reveal the contact I’d been sent to meet, and I froze, ice shooting through my veins and blistering beneath my skin. I knew those eyes. I knew those hands, and though his hair had thinned with age, I held no doubt toward who stood before me.

“I… I must be mistaken. Apologies.” He quickly murmured, head ducking politely as he began to step away.

“Uh; not at all.” I stammered, cheeks warming from the brief misstep, and stretched my arm toward him to reveal the telltale ornament. “You have a good eye.” Relief clearly shown in that eerily familiar face as I tried to convince myself that my initial assumption had to be some trick of the mind even as I found myself longing to ask if he remembered how his children laughed as he tried to teach them the very dance playing out before us.

“I understand we’re in for a treat with the gala’s speaker tonight.” He said warmly, attention turning to absently follow the orchestrated performance alongside me, shoulder just near enough to brush mine. I dropped my hand near his, shifting to block the brief contact of him slipping the tiny datachip between my fingers.

“I thought that was meant to be a surprise.” The feigned reprimand in my voice was enough to draw a chuckle from the older man, and I took the opportunity to appear mockingly insulted, arms crossing my chest that I might tuck the chip away through the lacework binding my neck.

“Whoever it is, I’m sure we’ll all be regaled with inspirational goals and haughty assurances primed to loosen ample credits to feed the war effort.” I continued in an uninterested sigh. He released a hum of agreement but let a moment of silence settle between us.

“May I ask you something?” I asked quietly. His attention flicked only briefly to me, lips pulling into the heartbreaking ruination of a smile.

“Of course.” There was a weary warmth to his voice that spoke toward a broken hope he couldn’t let go of.

“How did you come to find yourself here?” I offered no forged smile as I looked toward him, reflecting the solemn heaviness clear in his eyes as he drew a slow, deep breath.

“I lost my wife to the war.” I’d almost expected him to offer some pre-conceived dismissal, but there was no reservation in his reply; no effort to hide the way his words haunted him still. “Then I lost myself to the grief, and because of that, I lost my daughter, too. By then, it was too late to save my son, but I realized something. I could either continue drinking myself into a grave that wasn’t coming near quick enough, or I could try to do something.” He gave a small shrug, and I had to lock my cheek between my teeth to stem the threat of tears.

“���Something?’” I echoed, brow hitching slightly, and the flare of mischief that lit those eyes reminded me of endless afternoons filled with laughter and a love I hadn’t felt in far too long.

“Not gonna say my motives are entirely altruistic,” he admitted with a half-concealed smirk, “but it’s a hell of a lot better than lying around feeling sorry for myself.” Maker, I wanted to tell him… I wanted to make him look at my eyes and beg him to recognize me, but how could I? He’d found something to live for, and I couldn’t begin to guess how he’d react upon learning what had happened to me when I suddenly vanished… what happened to my brother…

“I think that’s amazing.” I murmured instead, voice just hinting at the tension coiling up my throat. He flashed me that smile once more, and I could feel every ounce of guilt and exhaustion weighing on him, but then he let out a small sigh.

“Probably best I see myself out right about now.” There was a gratitude in his words as he bowed his head. “It was a pleasure talking with you… Good luck.” My lips parted, and I only just managed to bite back the words screaming for breath.

“Take care.” The quiet whisper left in something just shy of a sob as I watched him start toward the main entrance, and I wondered how he’d made it past the iris scanners and blood tests that had taken the powerhouse of the Republic to see me through when I first entered those grandiose doors. I wondered if he’d found himself a part of some thriving network working against the Separatists from within, if he’d made new friends and new lovers that helped see him through the long nights and hopeless days. I wanted that for him. I wanted to find him when the war ended and tell him everything; to apologize for blaming him when I had no concept of how effortlessly loss could drown a person, and beg his forgiveness for my contribution to that loss, but, again, I found myself bound to a silence I loathed by the extraordinary circumstances we’d somehow placed ourselves in.

The pale liquid swirling within my glass suddenly looked far too tempting. Shoulders swelling beneath a carefully metered breath, I brought the chilled cup to my lips.

“Package acquired. Continuing patrol.”

-

Another half hour saw me through several more loops around the elaborate ballroom, with another dozen or so undercover soldiers identified and a final count on the displayed droids. I hated not knowing how Wolffe and the others were doing, if they’d reached their target or if they’d been captured… killed… I hated how my dread grew with each passing minute of hoping that damned bracelet would grant me some sign that they were alive, that we could leave, but I’d seen those men survive far more treacherous assignments than this. It would be foolish to doubt them now, nor was there anything I could do to quiet my fears either way.

“You seem frightfully alone tonight.” My attention snapped toward the crisp, well-spoken greeting to find a tall woman drifting to an easy stance a few feet from me.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I retorted coyly despite the nervous trill dancing beneath my skin. She looked so nearly human; pronounced cheekbones emphasizing the powerful build of her jawline, jett-black hair falling midway down her neck, not a strand out of place beneath the carefully applied product slicking it back, but there was a subtle blue tint to her skin that left me feeling a chill despite the climate-controlled air filling the room.

“I suppose that depends on your preference toward the available company.” She yielded with a good-natured bow, pale lips just hinting at a smirk. I knew well enough to judge the broad width of her shoulders for the earnest strength and skill they represented rather than some consequence of mere vanity.

“It would seem rather bold to dismiss a building full of the most wealthy members of the Separatist Alliance.” I shot back, brow hitching slightly.

“And yet…” She motioned toward me with a knowing grin, and I found myself letting out a quiet chuckle.

“And yet.” I repeated, offering no argument to the implication.

“I think we might be each other’s solution to the monotony of tonight’s obligatory attendance.” My heart dropped at the implication in her words, the eagerness in hazel eyes garnished with streaks of crimson, mind already racing for some way to excuse myself. “Is there any way I might convince you to join me for a dance?” Kriff…. kriff, kriff, kriff… It took every ounce of self-control to school my expression into some façade of curiosity vailed beneath feigned disinterest.

“I’m afraid you’ll not find me nearly so capable as the partners already waiting near the stage.” I replied with a pointedly insincere apology, glancing toward eager faces standing at the edge of the dance floor silently hoping for someone to join them.

“Ah, but I’ve never been fond of accepting what is so effortless to take.” My jaw tensed at how fondly she mimicked my attempted dismissal. “You strike me as a challenge, and that is far more tempting than the promise of performing thoughtlessly repeated steps with equally thoughtlessly repeated conversation.” The thin chain suddenly felt impossibly heavy, attention desperately pleading for it to vibrate, for it to flutter with that quick signal that I might flee this place.

“I’m here neither to act as temptation nor cure for your boredom.” I retorted with no small hue of offense. The woman responded with a huff of abashed laughter.

“Of course.” She hummed ruefully. “And yet…?” I nearly rolled my eyes at the charming smile as she held her hand toward me, cursing the impossibility of my position. If I declined, would her wounded pride see her to one of the guards with questions none could answer? Would it be safer to humor her, if only to serve as distraction lest her curiosity reveal the fallacy of my identity? Could I even recall enough to mimic those swaying to music that deserved far grander celebration than the subdued series of near-touches and attentive gazes?

“And yet…” I sighed with an almost reluctant defeat as I lightly set my hand atop hers, and I wanted to sneer at the victory that lit her eyes. “I warn you, however; I haven’t partaken in this archaic dance since I was a child.”

“Shall I offer promises not to let you fall, nor laugh should you stumble?” I did roll my eyes at that, but she only chuckled gleefully, strides unfaltering as she led me to the edge of the dance floor, thumb resting so gently against my fingers that I barely felt it.

“You haven’t told me your name.” I noted without drawing my gaze from the closing flurries of motion in the encroaching finale of the song, desperately trying to recall how to perform those movements myself.

“And doesn’t that just make it all the more interesting?” She teased. I merely scoffed, fighting back the threat of panic upon watching the dancers offer their partners a low bow before taking their leave that the next batch might take their place.

“What’s it like on your planet?” She asked as we stepped forward. My chest ached from how violently my heart thrashed within me, barely able to keep the nervous tremble from legs hesitantly assuming the appropriate beginning pose.

“Cold.” I answered with a small shrug, as though I couldn’t be bothered to explain further. “I suppose the springtime is pretty enough – when the farmlands are in bloom.” The music began in a gentle, lilting murmur, guiding us through those first few steps absent embarrassment. I tried not to show how I struggled to offer even simple conversation in the midst of straining to fall back into some semblance of muscle-memory from lessons taken decades prior. “And you? What are your homelands like?”

“I wouldn’t know.” That drew my attention more pointedly to the woman effortlessly striding around me in careful rhythm to the growingly pronounced bass. “I was turned over to the state as an infant – grew up in various military schools until I was old enough to enlist.” There was neither grief nor shame in her voice, and I couldn’t help but respect her for that.

“Then you have both my condolences and my congratulations.” I said quietly with a respectful nod. “I suppose there must be something special about you to have seen you from such tragedy to where you now stand.” Her lips twitched with a prideful grin before she could fully suppress it.

“I should like to think so.” She answered, shoulders drawing back slightly as she stood just a hair’s breadth taller.

“Did you ever try to find them?” I asked, forgoing the social normalcy forbidding such potentially unpleasant topics. “Your parents?”

“Why would I?” She so nearly hid it, but I could hear the faintest note of contempt in that airy question. “They saw no reason to be in my life, so I’ve no reason to strive to be in theirs.” Freed of overthinking each movement, my body flowed naturally in time with hers, and I tried not to draw my own attention to that revelation lest I break whatever trance guided my limbs.

“There’s no weakness in seeking to understand why.” I paused as I spun away from her, glancing back to just catch her gaze over my shoulder until the next beat saw me facing her once more. “Nor is there weakness is mourning what their absence robbed from you.” A somber quiet eased the earlier glee from her eyes, though she made no effort to look away from me.

“I’ve had time to mourn.” She stepped just inches closer than she should have, and my heart balked at the sudden intimacy in those near-touches. “I’ve let myself feel anger at their abandonment, curiosity toward their motives, and I find myself in the same state of mind after each burst of emotion: gratitude.” My brow hitched at that, silently inviting her to explain. “Had they not surrendered me to the Alliance, I may never have committed myself so fully to its cause.” Oh. “As I am, there’s nothing to distract me from my mission,” Oh no. “And that freedom for absolute devotion is a boon few understand.” This woman was dangerous in ways I had no means of protecting myself against. I needed to run. Now.

“Nothing distracts you?” I pressed, fighting the way my eyes wanted to dart toward the main doors and forcing some taste of flirtation in my voice, expression carefully drawn into something resembling a teasing grin which she happily returned.

“There’s a difference between enjoying certain… pleasantries and allowing those pleasantries to become a hindrance.” I let out a quite scoff.

“Maker forbid anything of the sort.” The taunt barely caused the woman to narrow her eyes. “Still… the results speak for themselves.” I offered, pointedly letting my gaze travel down her meticulously kept form, drawing a haughty smirk to her lips.

She’d just drawn breath to reply when the music faded to an unexpected halt, notes hanging in the air just long enough to draw our attention away from each other, and I vaguely noticed the odd looks several of the other dancers kept shooting us before a man began to speak at the podium overlooking the ballroom from the second story, flanked by an ensemble of stern looking military commanders.

“Esteemed guests and colleagues, now that you’ve had time to partake in conversation, arts, and libations – enough, I hope, to loosen premeditated budgets – it’s time to announce our guest speaker!” A gentle laughter rolled through the crowd, some out of politeness, others clearly encouraged by too much drink.

“I’ve always found this part to be over played.” The woman murmured, leaning down enough for the warmth of her breath to trail over my ear, sending an unpleasant shiver down my spine, but I responded with a knowing glance.

“What? You don’t enjoy hearing various members of the ruling class pretend to fawn over each other out of civic duty?” Her shoulders shook with a quiet chuckle.

“Nor do I enjoy the painfully inadequate attempt at humility that follows.” She added, nearly groaning.

“But we shall clap when appropriate and cheer when it ends all the same.” I sighed, happily paying no attention to the introductory speech of whatever over-glorified parliament member had been chosen to parade before the others. It wasn’t until feeling the woman’s hand tug softly against my arm that I noticed her turn toward one of the grand staircases as the rest of the audience had just begun to applaud.

“Come with me.” She murmured, voice rich with what would, to most any other in the room, have been an intoxicating mixture of danger and confidence.

“What?” I couldn’t silence the depth of confusion, nor could I still those first few steps as she guided me forward. “You… uh-” Her eyes lit at my stammered attempts at speech, thrilling as my mind struggled to make sense of unspoken implications, and by then it was too late.

“You’re…” She merely answered my final attempt to grasp some understanding of what was happening with a broad smile, and it was all I could do to keep from breaking into a cold sweat as that earlier panic returned in force, but she’d already tread up that first step. There was no way I could escape this without causing a scene, though I didn’t doubt that some manner of a scene was precisely what she wanted. I’d shared empty words with enough of those around us to quickly be known as the unimpressive daughter of a senator from an unimpressive world, and what better way to stir some sense of self-entitled rivalry than to find oneself overlooked in favor of such an unimportant person as me? Those individuals were sure to go far beyond reasonable contributions in hopes of gaining the favor of the methodical woman leading me toward the focal point of this grand theater of insincerity.

With a smile far too charming for the charade she was clearly playing, the woman paused mere meters from the podium to offer me a final bow, warm hand slipping around mine to bring my fingers to her lips for a parting kiss, and I didn’t doubt how profoundly my cheeks darkened in a violent blush as she turned to the face the rest of the room. There was no way to escape amidst the countless eyes gazing and glaring and sneering up at me from below. I could risk no wrong move like this. I had no choice but to embody the smug aristocrat I’d striven all night to portray, at least until the speech ended and I might find myself overlooked in favor of those known to harbor far more wealth than one of my standing.

“My deepest gratitude to our lovely host!” She started, rich voice booming clearly through the room. “Both for his kind words and for the use of this gorgeous estate!” She took a half step back to look toward the man whose earlier speech I’d all but completely ignored, drawing her hands together to lead the crowd in another round of applause. “And, of course, to you!” She continued, arms sweeping out to motion to all those standing before her. “Friends, business partners, many a bit of both, and all irreplaceable to the overall success of this Alliance.” Another raucous cheer boomed within the towering walls.

“Let’s waste no time stepping around the reason for this albeit enjoyable party. I handpicked each and every one of you for one reason.” My heart dropped, body going painfully still as my eyes darted to the woman standing mere feet away from me. “I know you all to harbor the same profound loyalty as I do, and that loyalty calls on us to do all we can to put an end to this farce of a war!” I didn’t hear the roar of approval as ice danced beneath my skin in waves of frenzied dread. “We know that is a feat that cannot be bought with empty wishes and vague dreams.” ‘Handpicked’… That’s why she approached me…

“If you want a thing done, you must pay for it, be that with credits or time or blood – we all must sacrifice to lead our people to victory.” She knew I didn’t belong here and merely sought not to let me out of her sight as she gleaned what knowledge she could from me. “Many of you know my story, but for those that don’t, you may find yourself asking what I know of sacrifice to find myself justified in demanding it from all of you.”

There wasn’t time for her to say more, nor for me to fall further into that consuming panic of prey freshly caught in the jowls of some great beast. Before her voice faded from the far corners of the room, the world erupted in white. I couldn’t understand why I was no longer staring at the woman’s back; why distant screams sounded so strangely muted while my own breaths rang clearly beneath a deafening ringing; why I could feel the vibration of rushed footsteps reverberating against my cheek even as I watched my own hand struggling to push against the floor beneath me that I might force myself back to my feet.

That confusion lingered even as a shock-induced acceptance left those unknowns feeling far less important than they deserved, flittering awareness straining instead to merely react; to survive. My vision blurred as I fought to take in what was happening around me, broken thoughts reaching for some hint as to what I should do.

Smoke billowed from behind us, remnants of the shattered wall strewn over the floor in smoldering shards. Another might have balked at the bodies cast about the platform that once lined the speaker in some grand show of empowerment, many of which lay lifeless, illustrating the power of the blast in the form of ruined and lost limbs, blackened cloth atop blackened flesh burned too deeply to bleed, while others were far from still, motions just as desperate as their choked cries as they scrambled to haul themselves clear of the flames.

My hand slipped just as it had nearly gained purchase, dropping me harshly back to the hardwood beneath me. There was no thought beyond acknowledging that blood slickened the time-worn surface, nor was there any hope of discerning if it was my own blood or someone else’s. I merely felt the need to try once more to stand, muscles trembling in that vain, driving instinct to flee absent any hope for logic.

Vaguely, I watched several people rush the podium, recognized the orderly shouting so ingrained in medics and soldiers roaring orders between each other as they tended the orphan-turned-war leader who’d so easily ensnared me in her trap. I think one turned toward me but couldn’t make out their voices as reality flickered around me with a dizzying delay despite how I strained to drag myself back toward consciousness.

I barely noted the medic or soldier or whoever it was quickly tread away from mob, steps oddly booming and distant all at once even after he stopped to kneel beside me. If he spoke, I couldn’t make out his voice among the discordant chorus of confusion and panic, but I felt the sharp stab of needles piercing my neck before my mind sank away from that unapologetic chaos into a far more frightening darkness.

Next Chapter

Click here or message me if you'd like to be added to a taglist!

Click here for my Masterlist.

Taglist: @arctrooper69 @eclec-tech @kixs-husband @jennrosefx @echos-girlfriend @starqueensthings @manofworm @merkitty49 @idoubleswearimawriter @abigfanofstarwars @chopper-base @daftdarling222 @pb-jellybeans @bacta-the-future @rosechi @legalpadawan @drummergirl1701 @6oceansofmoons @dangraccoon @ji5hine @dathomiri-mudpuppy @mooncommlink @isthereanechoinhere96 @inneedoffanfics @totally-not-your-babe @delialeigh @blondie-bluue @ray-rook @iabrokengirl @arcsimper5 @rndmpeep @amorfista @wanderneverlost @flawsandgoodintent @passionofthesith @followthepurrgil @roam-rs @foodmoneyandcats @savebytheodoresnonjosestuff @9902sgirl @captainrex89

[theolivebranchreview]

Two Sides of the Same Damaged Coin

by @regisacosta

*Spoiler Warning for Mad Men and The Sopranos*

The beautiful thing about staring at a train wreck, especially when you get the feeling that you can’t look away, is that you get to do it from a distance.

If there are two characters that embody a broken, yet captivating, pathetic, yet arrogant charm, it’s the television antiheroes Don Draper and Tony Soprano. Not only do they stand above as towering figures of deep-seated dysfunction but it is their misguided ideals of charisma and antiquated masculinity that make them a fascinating character study in why we love to return to these shows years after they have left the airwaves. 

Beneath the stained veneers of success and power, we find two profoundly broken individuals, scarred by deeply buried wounds and an ongoing fear of rejection. Their charm, a flimsy mask for their pain, a desperate attempt to fill the void left by the women who were supposed to love them most. As we follow their journeys, we are confronted not just with the compelling drama of their lives, but also with the uncomfortable truth of their fundamental flaws and the pity they inspire. 

Draper and Soprano, for all their machismo and charisma, are ultimately pathetic figures, trapped in a cycle of dysfunction and are unable to escape the shadows of their past. Through their stories, we are forced to grapple with the complex nature of masculinity, the rippling effects that the events of the past can have on the present, and the ways in which society’s expectations can both elevate and diminish the human experience. It’s a testament to the power of these characters that we find ourselves drawn back to their stories, even as we recognize the tragedy of their lives.

It All Has to Start Somewhere

The rejection from their mothers serves as a foundational undercurrent in both Don’s and Tony’s lives, influencing their actions and relationships in profound ways. For Don Draper, the absence of maternal warmth is rooted in his biological mother’s early death during childbirth – confounded by what Don imagines to be an almost comically tragic and vitriolic greeting into this planet by her – and his upbringing by a cold, abusive stepmother, Abigail. This profound lack of motherly affection is foundational to understanding Don’s detachment and difficulty in forming genuine, enduring relationships. If Don’s maternal relationships were defined by absence, Tony’s, in contrast, were defined by presence. An ever-present and domineering figure, even after her lifetime, Livia Soprano’s impact and influence on both Tony’s personal and professional life reverberated throughout the series. Tony not only invites chaos into his life but seems to crave it, mirroring the tumultuous nature of Livia’s ‘love.'”

Don’s pursuit of shallow connections is further manifested through his string of affairs, where each relationship serves more as a distraction from his inner turmoil rather than anything really meaningful. His carefully curated persona of Don Draper, the epitome of 20th Century American success, masks his true identity—Dick Whitman—a man he is continually at odds with. Don Draper is calm, clean and collected. He lives in Ossining. Dick Whitman is tormented, messy and emotional. He gets blackout drunk and punches pastors. Don Draper, despite his professional triumphs, is haunted by an internal emptiness—a void that no amount of acclaim or wealth can ever fill. In fact, at times he even seems to resent it – hiding behind his love for the creative aspect of advertising, earnest as that may be. As he drifts further away from his manufactured ideal of what Donald Draper should be, his façade begins to crumble, revealing the fractures within his persona. One of the reasons Don is so easy to crack is because he’s not built on anything of substance.

Similarly, Tony Soprano’s experiences are indelibly marked by his mother Livia’s incessant coldness and the contradictory ways in which he perceives and interacts with her. Tony often describes Livia as both a large and imposing figure, frequently dropping whatever he’s doing to tend to her needs and engaging with her in the way a child might, with his tone of voice shifting to a more submissive cadence when speaking to her. Yet, in the same breath, he also refers to her as “this little old lady,” revealing the complex and conflicting nature of their relationship. It is with a similar sense of uncertainty and self-doubt that Tony approaches most other aspects of this life – with one both foot in and one foot out. He’s a dedicated family man that can never be a devoted husband. He swore an oath of secrecy but opens up to a complete stranger in an office building every week. He’s a hardened criminal that loses sleep over ducks.

The Impact on Their Worlds

The maternal shadows that loom over Don and Tony color their relationships, particularly with women, and dictate their engagements with society at large. Don, living a dual life as a con man and an ad executive, utilizes his charm as a strategic tool against true intimacy.

His engagements often follow a pattern: a compelling attraction, followed by a calculated emotional withdrawal once the relationship deepens, exemplified in his turbulent relationships with women like Rachel Menken and Sylvia Rosen.

He only likes the beginning of things.

This pattern underscores his deep-seated fear of genuine connection, rooted in the abandonment ,the neglect, and the rejection that he experienced in his youth.

Tony Soprano, inhabiting a more overtly brutal realm, wields his charm within the confines of his OC ties. His environment not only allows but often rewards emotional volatility. His raw, unfiltered emotional outbursts, from explosive anger to profound vulnerability, significantly impact his leadership within the DiMeo crime family and his domestic life. Episodes like “Whitecaps,” where Tony’s rage culminates in a destructive altercation with Carmela, highlight how his emotional instability, fostered by maternal manipulation, permeates and dictates his closest relationships. The things that make him a god-awful husband make him an (arguably) competent mob boss.

Both men are actors on their respective stages, performing roles that demand a disconnection from their true selves, a protective mechanism instilled by early maternal rejections. This constant role-playing extends beyond personal interactions, affecting their broader societal engagements. For Don, his crafted persona of a successful ad man both critiques and perpetuates the idealized post-war American masculinity—a facade that often leads to personal turmoil and self-loathing, as seen in moments of introspection throughout the series.

The psychological realism of these characters adds a layer of complexity to their narratives. Both Don and Tony grapple with their identities, the dissonance between their public facades and private fears creating a psychological burden that is palpable in their moments of solitude and distress. Tony’s panic attacks and Don’s frequent flashbacks to his troubled childhood are manifestations of this ongoing inner conflict, a battle between the men they present to the world and the broken boys they hide within.

Moreover, the impact of their behaviors on others forms a crucial part of their stories. Their children, in particular, absorb the lessons of their fathers’ duplicities. Coincidentally, both men, as a consequence of their harsh upbringing, possess an aversion to violence within their child rearing practices – though Don more vocally (and in practice) than Tony. For instance, AJ and Meadow Soprano navigate their father’s criminal life and emotional unpredictability, shaping their worldview and moral compass. Similarly, Sally Draper grows increasingly aware and critical of Don’s inconsistencies and indiscretions, which influence her burgeoning sense of identity and ethics, a poignant reminder of the far-reaching consequences of parental dysfunction. And Bobby…well Bobby is going to grow up will all types of identity crises.

Shifting Power Dynamics and Elusive Control

The relationships between Don Draper and Peggy Olson and Tony Soprano and Christopher Moltisanti offer compelling explorations of mentorship, power dynamics, and the challenges of navigating the gray areas of personal and professional boundaries. What begins as indifference evolves into a mentor-mentee relationship, morphing into a complex father-daughter bond, with Don serving as both a guiding force and a source of emotional support – at least within the scope of what he is able to provide…a heavy pour of Canadian Club and a daytime trip to the movies. However, as their co-dependency and emotional entanglement evolved, so did their sentiments of hostility and resentment, particularly when Peggy felt as though Don’s ego was getting in the way of both her professional and romantic advancements (by way of Ted Chaough).

Throughout the series, Peggy’s deliberate naiveté, a narrative choice by the writers to withhold information from her, adds an additional layer of complexity to their relationship. As the series progresses, their bond oscillates between periods of estrangement and reconciliation, with Peggy alternating between taking on the role of child in need of guidance, adversary in need of some distance, and responsible adult daughter caring for her troubled father. It is only in their final scene together that the true depth of their connection is fully revealed, as Peggy’s naiveté falls away and she sees Don for who he truly is – a broken man in need of redemption. However, even during that painfully expensive transcontinental phone call, much like a father talking to his child, Don is still fairly withholding while trying to be forthcoming. Don, the master of his craft, gives the client just enough of a taste to want more. He doesn’t uncharacteristically tell her “I’m Dick Whitman and I feel unfulfilled with the choices I’ve made”. He gives her the eerie half-truth: I took a man’s name and made nothing of it.

But why does he do this? An inability to get all of these complex emotions out to arguably one of the last people in his life who will listen? Was this an attempt to protect her from fully knowing that ugly truth about his true identity? Was he just protecting himself? Well, that is the mastery of not only that final episode but also the dynamic between Don and Peggy. It could be all of those reasons and more importantly, it doesn’t really matter.

In “The Sopranos,” the relationship between Tony Soprano and Christopher Moltisanti is a multifaceted exploration of the complexities of family ties, professional ambition, and personal identity within the context of the DiMeo crime family. As Tony’s nephew and protégé, Christopher is caught in a constant struggle between his desire for recognition and advancement within the organization and his resentment of Tony’s control over his life and career.

On one hand, Christopher’s familial connection to Tony provides him with opportunities and privileges that other members of the crime family do not have. He is given high-profile assignments and is often protected by Tony’s influence, allowing him to rise through the ranks more quickly than his peers. However, this favoritism also breeds resentment among other members of the organization, who view Christopher as undeserving of his status and see his success as a result of nepotism rather than merit.

Simultaneously, Christopher’s relationship with Tony is marked by a deep-seated desire for approval and validation that is often marred by an undercurrent of resentment and frustration. Throughout the series, Christopher will occasionally have a difficult time reconciling whether he wants to model his life after his Uncle Tony or rebel against it. Having grown up without a strong father figure, Christopher looks to Tony as a surrogate parent and seeks his praise and acceptance. However, even this dynamic is poorly defined for them, as they will casually alternate between a father/son, mentor/mentee, older cousin/younger cousin, and even sexual rival dynamic. This loosely defined emotional dependency creates a power imbalance in their relationship, with Christopher often compromising his own desires and values in order to please Tony and maintain his favor.

On some level, Tony is cognizant of the fluidity of their relationship and is often able to manipulate that. That is also another point where the dynamics between Tony/Christopher and Don/Peggy intersect. The points in both shows where each respective relationships comes to a head are moments when the domineering figures feel their control slipping. For Don, it was when he quite literally loses his power over Peggy when she chooses to leave the agency. For Tony, we see this theme throughout the series by way of Christopher’s love affair with the film industry (which is highly allegorical to the wave of wiseguys flipping in the 80’s and 90’s), as well as his drug addiction. In fact, it will be Christopher’s battle with substance abuse that will be the ultimate death knell for their relationship.

The tragic conclusion of their relationship – with Tony choosing to end Christopher’s life after a devastating car accident – stands in stark contrast to the more hopeful resolution of Don and Peggy’s relationship in “Mad Men.” While Don is able to once again protect himself in the way that he knows best, Tony too is forced to use the only card he had left in his deck when realizing that he truly had lost control over his nephew. He did not kill Christopher out of anger or out of mercy. He killed him because he realized that no matter what he did, there was going to be something that was going to have more control over Christopher’s life than he would so in one final attempt to reclaim that power, he quite literally took it back with his own hands.

Wrapping Things Up

In the end, the stories of Don Draper and Tony Soprano serve as powerful reminders of the enduring impact of that our core relationships -or the lack thereof- can have on us, the complexities of the human psyche, and the masks we wear to navigate the world. Through their journeys, we are forced to confront the uncomfortable truths about the human condition, the fragility of our identities, and the ways in which our past shapes our present.

While their paths diverge in their final moments – Don finding a glimmer of hope in his connection with Peggy, and Tony truly letting go of his last shred of humanity– both characters leave an undeniable mark on our cultural landscape. They embody the antihero narrative that defined nearly twenty years of television, inviting us to grapple with the moral ambiguities, the shades of gray, and the unresolved questions that define our own lives.

The enduring legacy of “Mad Men” and “The Sopranos” lies not only in their groundbreaking storytelling and unforgettable performances but in the way they hold a mirror up to society, reflecting back to us the hopes, fears, and contradictions that reside within us all. Sure, you or I probably won’t kill our nephews or steal another man’s name but those are things that happen so obviously someone’s out there doing it.

In the end, their stories are not just entertainment, but invitations to empathy, self-reflection, and a deeper understanding of the human condition. They remind us that, even in the face of profound suffering and darkness, there is always the potential for growth, for change, and for redemption. But maybe sometimes the screen just cuts to a Coke commercial.

And sometimes it just cuts to black altogether.

[shewasverynice]

Fandoms: 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Manga)呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Anime)  MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS

Rating: Explicit 

Major Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con 

Content Warnings: Dubious Consent, Prostitution, Drug Use, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood and Violence

Categories: F/M, Multi, F/F 

Relationships: Gojo Satoru/Original Female Character(s), Nanami Kento/Original Female Character(s), Getou Suguru/Original Female Character(s), Ieiri Shoko & Iori Utahime 

Major Characters: Original Characters, Gojo Satoru, Getou Suguru, Nanami Kento, Okkotsu Yuuta, Toudou Aoi, Zenin Naobito, Zenin Jinichi, Zenin, Zenin Ougi, Fushiguro Megumi, Kamo Clan, Nitta Akari, Inumaki Toge, Ieiri Shoko, Iori Utahime, Kusakabe Atsuya, Muta Kokichi, Itadori Yuuji, Hakari Kinji

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　Chapter 11　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Rin Morishita sat in the passenger seat of a sleek black sports car, her long dark brown hair loose and cascading in waves down her back. The vehicle hummed smoothly as it sped along the highway from Tokyo to Niigata, the city skyline gradually giving way to rolling hills and distant mountains. Beside her, Kento Nanami maintained a firm grip on the wheel, his usual stoic demeanor softened by the casual conversation they shared.

Rin’s caramel brown eyes flicked occasionally to Nanami. She kept her posture dignified, her hands resting gracefully on her lap, fingers occasionally brushing the hem of her elegant, dark-colored dress. Despite her composed exterior, there was a sense of readiness in her, a hint of the wild ferocity she displayed in battle lurking beneath the surface. The stress of recent events had her on edge.

In the backseat, Yuta Okkotsu and Yuji Itadori chatted animatedly, their youthful energy filling the car with a lively buzz. Okkotsu, with his serious yet gentle nature, balanced out Itadori’s exuberance. Their conversation occasionally drew a soft smile from Rin, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she listened to their banter.

Turning her attention back to Nanami, Rin broke the comfortable silence between them, "Nanami-san, if you don’t mind me asking, why did you choose to bring Itadori specifically on this mission?"

Nanami's lips curled into a slight, almost imperceptible smile as he continued to focus on the road. "I think Itadori has been spending too much time with Gojo lately," he replied, his tone polite but firm, "Gojo can be a bad influence, and I believe it’s important for Itadori to learn from different perspectives. Especially in this type of investigation."

Rin nodded thoughtfully, her eyes lingering on Nanami's profile, "That makes sense. It’s good for him to have varied experiences and guidance."

The scenery outside the car window changed from urban to rural, the lush greenery and open fields of the countryside providing a serene backdrop to their journey. The sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the road ahead, creating a tranquil ambiance within the car.

"We're about an hour out," Rin said, glancing back at the young men in the back seat. Okkotsu and Itadori, sensing the shift in mood, quieted down, their expressions mirroring the seriousness of the task ahead.

As the sleek black sports car approached Niigata, the atmosphere inside grew tense with anticipation. The city's skyline loomed closer, a mix of modern structures and historical buildings reflecting the complexity of their mission. Nanami's focus sharpened, and he began outlining their plan for the investigation.

"We're heading to the drug manufacturing facility first," Nanami said, his voice steady and authoritative, "It's managed by the Kamo clan, so we need to be prepared. They have a reputation for appearing cooperative but hiding crucial information beneath that façade."

Rin nodded, her eyes locked onto Nanami's, "Their courtesy can be deceiving. We'll need to be vigilant."

Nanami glanced briefly at the rearview mirror, catching Yuji Itadori’s eyes. "Itadori, Morishita and I will handle the official side of things, speaking with the leaders of the facility. Your task will be to sneak in and see what you can find beneath the surface. The Kamo clan might be eager to show us certain areas while keeping the real operation hidden."

Itadori nodded, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced by a serious expression, "Understood, Nanami-san."

Rin turned in her seat to face Yuta Okkotsu, "Okkotsu, you'll join Itadori, please. Use your skills to help him uncover whatever they're hiding. Stay alert and watch each other's backs."

Yuta nodded firmly, "Got it. If needed, may I use Rika?"

Rin’s gaze softened slightly, understanding the gravity of releasing Rika, "Yes, you have my permission. Only if the situation demands it."

Yuta gave a determined nod, his resolve evident, "Thank you, ma'am."

As they entered Niigata, the car navigated through the bustling streets, drawing closer to the Kamo clan’s facility. The building stood imposing and guarded, its exterior blending seamlessly with the surrounding architecture but exuding an air of secrecy and danger. The distinct presence of curses was thick in the air surrounding the building.

Nanami parked the car a short distance away, in a spot concealed from direct view of the facility. "Remember, we need to maintain our cover. Morishita and I will present ourselves as we are, inquiring about the drug operations and the incident with Gojo. They'll be expecting us. Itadori, Okkotsu, wait for our signal before making your move," Nanami explained.

Rin adjusted her long dark brown hair, ensuring it was neat and composed, "We’ll handle the leaders. Keep in touch through the comms, and be careful."

Itadori and Okkotsu nodded, their expressions a mix of determination and readiness. The two young sorcerers exited the car and slipped into the shadows, moving with practiced stealth towards the facility.

Nanami paused, waiting for the two of them to disappear from sight before he turned to Rin. "Are you ready?" He asked.

"Yes," she answered with a nod, "Let's go."

Nanami and Rin stepped out, their demeanor poised and professional as they straightened their attire. As they approached the entrance, the guards eyed them warily.

"Good afternoon," Nanami said with a polite bow, "We've come to investigate the operations of this facility under the suggestion of Masamichi Yaga. A recent incident with Satoru Gojo has us interested in what exactly you're manufacturing here."

The guard glanced at his partner then back at Nanami. "Yes, sir. Please give me a moment while I contact the representative in charge today."

The interior of the facility was meticulously clean, with an air of clinical precision that belied its true purpose. They were greeted by a representative of the Kamo clan, who welcomed them with a courteous smile. The man wore a comfortable looking Yukata and his mask was pure white with splotches of red paint. "Welcome, esteemed guests. How can we assist you today?" He said, though the smile never reached his eyes.

Nanami responded with equal politeness, masking his suspicion, "We’re here to discuss your operations and ensure compliance with the regulations regarding cursed energy. The incident with Gojo caused quite the commotion and we are curious as to what exactly you've created here."

The representative nodded eagerly, gesturing for them to follow, "Of course, please, come this way. We’re always happy to share our methods and ensure transparency between the groups."

Meanwhile, Yuji and Yuta had slipped into the facility through a less guarded entrance, moving swiftly and quietly through the corridors. They exchanged quick, silent signals, covering each other as they navigated the maze-like interior. The many doors often lead to rooms that housed restrained cursed spirits or more horrifically held jars of unknown substances and cold storage with harvested curse blood or organs.

Itadori quietly closed a door behind him and waved his hand to get Okkotsu's attention as the latter did the same across the hall. Okkotsu held up his cellphone with photos of the inside of the room and Itadori pointed at him with a grin before he pulled out his own phone to begin taking photos. As they navigated deeper, the guards became more present and the two took to the shadows once again.

In the main part of the facility, Rin and Nanami continued their conversation with the Kamo clan representative, their polite façade masking the underlying tension. They probed gently, seeking to uncover inconsistencies in the information being presented.

"Are you certain the side effects of this substance aren't dangerous?" Rin asked, barely masking the grimace as she held the glass dish with a sample of the congealed black liquid, "Gojo and one of his companions who ingested it immediately lost control of themselves."

"Ah, yes but they were likely already on something else," the representative suggested, "We haven't tested it in combination with other illegal substances yet."

"Don't you think that's irresponsible?" Nanami asked, his eyes carefully watching Rin as she set the dish back down on the table.

"We need to offset the deficit from the manufacturing process," the man offered, "But we have taken those findings into consideration."

"And what of the curses that are expelled from the non-sorcerers who consume it?" Nanami asked, his eyes meeting the representative's gaze.

The man's expression darkened, but his smile never faded. He sat up straighter in his seat and placed his hands on his knees. "So you've seen that, have you?"

Back in the shadows, Itadori and Okkotsu stumbled upon a heavily secured door, its presence indicating something significant lay beyond. Okkotsu signaled to Itadori, who nodded in understanding. The guards posted by the door were armed, both of them wearing sorcerer masks as well. The masks were unfortunately plain black, leaving no hint of what kind of technique they may possess. Okkotsu caught Itadori’s eye and subtly pointed to his phone, then gestured for Itadori to check his own.

Itadori glanced at his phone and saw a message from Okkotsu: "I'll distract them, you go for the door and see what kind of security we need to bypass."

Itadori nodded in agreement, his expression serious. Okkotsu moved off silently, slipping into the shadows to create a distraction. Itadori waited, his muscles tensed and ready to spring into action. A moment later, a loud bang echoed through the facility, the sound of a steel pipe hitting the ground reverberating off the walls.

The two guards stationed by the door immediately reacted, rushing towards the source of the noise. Itadori took advantage of the distraction, darting to the now unguarded door. He inspected it quickly, noting the electronic passcode panel and the faint glow of a cursed technique barrier protecting it.

He pulled out his phone and snapped a few photos of the door, capturing the details of both the passcode system and the cursed barrier. His mind raced with potential ways to bypass the security, but he knew he needed more information and possibly assistance from the others.

Just as he finished taking the photos, he heard the guards returning, their footsteps echoing ominously in the corridor. Itadori quickly retreated to his hiding spot, blending into the shadows as he awaited Okkotsu's return.

Moments later, Okkotsu reappeared, his eyes scanning the area before he joined Itadori in their concealed spot. "What did you find?" he typed into his phone.

Itadori showed Okkotsu the photos on his phone and then typed, "The door has a passcode and a cursed technique barrier. We'll need to figure out how to bypass both."

Okkotsu studied the images, his brow furrowing in concentration. Okkotsu suggested the retreat for now and regroup and Yuji nodded. They moved silently back through the facility, their steps careful and deliberate. The atmosphere was tense, the weight of their mission pressing heavily upon them. Reaching a safe distance from the secured door, they found a discreet spot to contact Rin and Nanami.

Meanwhile, in the main part of the facility, Rin and Nanami continued their conversation with the Kamo clan representative.

"The cursed spirits being born of the substance is... Troubling. But we have taken steps to keep it out of non-sorcerer hands." The representative said, the tension in his voice was unmistakable.

"Yes, but how can you be sure?" Rin asked, "The incident with Gojo, for example, happened when a younger member gave it to him. The dealer didn't know it would be passed along. This kind of thing could easily end up in a non-sorcerer's hands this way."

"Yes, well, we would gladly take responsibility for such occurrences but it's unlikely to happen. After the incident with Gojo-san we have taken more precautions." The representative said dismissively.

Nanami’s phone vibrated softly in his pocket, and he excused himself briefly, stepping away to check the message from Yuta. His eyes flickered with understanding as he read the details, then he returned to Rin, whispering discreetly to her about the situation. Rin’s expression remained composed, though a flicker of concern passed through her caramel eyes. She nodded slightly.

"If you wouldn't mind," Nanami said calmly, "We will discuss this further with Yaga-san before we continue. Expect us to visit once again."

The representative nodded, standing up with Rin. He spouted some meaningless and polite words as he led them both to the exit. All exchanged goodbyes before Nanami and Rin returned to the car where Okkotsu and Itadori were waiting.

"Are we in the clear?" Nanami asked.

"Yes, sir. No one noticed us and we were careful to leave doors locked and closed." Itadori answered.

"Excellent work," Nanami said with a nod, "Now, about this door."

"Yes, sir," Itadori pulled out his phone and let Nanami look through the photos, "The passcode is likely around six digits and the curse on the door wasn't something I couldn't figure out. Sorry. I tried but it wasn't something I've seen before."

"Not a problem," Nanami said with a nod as he returned the phone, "It's not something you are proficient in anyway."

"Us either, unfortunately," Rin interjected, handing Okkotsu his phone back after taking her own look at the photos, "We'll need to come back, it seems."

"Let's get to the hotel for now," Nanami suggested, "We need to dress for the auction tonight."

━─┉┈◈❖◈┈┉─━

After a long day of investigation, the group returned to their hotel to prepare for the evening's event. In her room, Rin stood before a full-length mirror, her long dark brown hair slightly damp still from the shower around her shoulders. With practiced ease, she twisted her hair up into an elegant bun, securing it with a few pins. She then slipped into a stunning phthalo green dress that accentuated her graceful figure, the rich color bringing out the caramel tones of her eyes. Satisfied with her appearance, she allowed herself a moment to take a deep breath and center herself.

In his own room, Nanami was meticulously getting ready. He chose a black turtleneck that highlighted his broad shoulders and paired it with a tan blazer that gave him a sophisticated, yet approachable look. His outfit was completed with dark slacks and polished shoes, embodying his usual sense of understated elegance.

Meanwhile, Itadori and Okkotsu were in their shared room, struggling slightly with their attire. They wore button-up shirts and slacks, trying to achieve a level of formality they were not entirely accustomed to. Okkotsu adjusted his collar for what felt like the hundredth time, while Itadori fumbled with his tie, eventually opting to go without it.

Nanami knocked on their door and entered, taking a moment to assess their appearance. His keen eye for detail noted the minor imperfections in their outfits. "Stand still," he instructed, stepping forward to straighten Okkotsu’s collar and smooth out the wrinkles in Itadori's shirt.

"You both look presentable now," Nanami said with a nod of approval, "Remember, appearances matter tonight. We are representing the Yaga group as well as Tenjiku."

Itadori and Okkotsu nodded in understanding, and they followed him out into the hallway where they met Rin. Nanami’s eyes briefly lingered on her, appreciating the elegance and poise she radiated in her phthalo green dress. Rin’s calm demeanor and poised confidence were palpable, and Nanami felt a surge of quiet admiration for her.

"Shall we?" Rin asked, her voice steady and composed.

The group made their way to the auction venue, a lavish building adorned with opulent decor that masked the illicit activities taking place within its walls. Upon entering, they were greeted by the sight of elegantly dressed patrons mingling amidst "priceless" works of art. The soft murmur of conversation and the clinking of glasses created an atmosphere of refined elegance.

Nanami and Rin moved seamlessly through the crowd, their demeanor polished and unassuming. They exchanged pleasantries with other guests, subtly gathering information and observing the dynamics of the room. Itadori and Okkotsu, slightly less comfortable in such a setting, followed their lead, trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible.

Rin’s presence drew attention, her striking and recognizable appearance catching the eyes of several attendees. Yet, her composed demeanor and polite interactions kept any undue interest at bay.

"Ah, Miss Morishita," a well dressed foreign man in a gray tailored suit said as he approached her, "Long time no see." He was built strong and his dark wavy hair was slicked back. His thick mustache was carefully groomed and sported a few streaks of gray.

"Oh! My goodness, is that you Mr. Castillo?" Rin said with a gentle and pleasant laugh, "It has been quite some time."

"Yes! Not since me and the family came to visit two years ago!" Castillo chuckled, "My sons were quite taken with Tenjiku, as was I." He winked at her before taking a sip of his champagne. His eyes drifted to Nanami, his dark eyes narrowing slightly and lips pulling into a smirk.

"Kento Nanami," Nanami introduced himself, holding out his hand which Castillo took in a firm handshake.

"You're one of Yaga's boys, aren't you?" Castillo asked, "Last time I saw him I'd only met the long haired fellow. Aren't there three of you under him?"

"Geto, yes. He's very dependable," Nanami said politely, "Gojo is more free spirited, but the three of us work well together and keep everyone out of trouble."

"Speaking of trouble, messy business with that King of Curses," Castillo said, "What was that about?"

"Sukuna was a very old and dangerous sorcerer," Rin explained, "He'd discovered a way to reach us but he was quickly restrained and is currently sealed away safely."

"Elegant dodge of my question as usual," Castillo chuckled at Rin's wry smile, "But I understand. We all have our secrets." He paused for a moment before he asked, "I am aware though that one of your business partners was injured quite severely. How is she doing?"

"She's recovering quite well actually," Rin answered, "Though she will be affected for the rest of her life, she still lives and that's enough for now."

Nanami suddenly noticed something as it was going on. A loose strand of Rin's hair had grown and branched across to be held in Castillo's hand. He carefully watched the almost imperceptible tapping of Castillo's fingers and recognized Morse code. He couldn't catch the letters, not wanting to stare more than necessary and catch unwanted attention.

After short time, Castillo stepped back and Rin's hair slipped back and retracted. Nanami watched as Rin smiled at him and the two exchanged a few final pleasantries before she hooked her arm with his and led him to another art piece.

"Castillo is one of our larger donors," Rin explained softly, "I asked him for information about who is leading this auction. Get this: it's a medical group based in Malaysia."

"Really?" Nanami asked, "Then that certainly would explain the experimentation. Did he have any names maybe?"

"No, but he will send me their address. It's a long standing group that practices homeopathic cures only," Rin said, "Which, as awful as this sounds, means they're definitely up to no good. Nothing homeopathic only is able to stand on its own these days."

"Any mention of Q.N.?" Nanami asked, and as if on cue both Itadori and Okkotsu came by sporting a lovely flower on their shirt pocket.

"Oh!" Rin cooed, gently touching the white petals on the flower on Okkotsu's shirt, "How beautiful!"

Okkotsu beamed, "We helped a nice old woman who was going to her car. She gave them to us."

"Did she say what it was called?" Nanami asked, eyeing Rin as she admired the flower.

"Oh, something like... Night blooming something..." Itadori said, rubbing his chin, "Oh! The Queen of the Night she said."

Both Rin and Nanami stopped and immediately turned to each other.

"You don't suppose..." Rin's voice trailed off, waiting for Nanami to continue.

"Huh," Nanami pushed up his glasses, "Interesting. I suppose I've always wanted to visit Malaysia."

━─┉┈◈❖◈┈┉─━

Suguru Geto exhaled slowly, watching as the police officer he had been speaking with finally walked away, satisfied with Geto's assurances. The scene had been chaotic, a scuffle involving younger sorcerers that had spilled into local businesses, causing significant damage. Geto had arrived promptly, smoothing over the situation with practiced ease, offering compensation to the affected business owners and promising the police that he would handle the matter internally.

Hakari, Panda, and Inumaki stood nearby, their expressions a mix of guilt and defiance. As the officer disappeared from view, Geto turned his sharp gaze towards them, his eyes narrowing with barely contained anger.

"Follow me," he commanded, his voice cold and authoritative.

He led them into a nearby alley, the shadows providing a semblance of privacy. The moment they were alone, Geto's demeanor shifted dramatically. He moved with startling speed, grabbing Hakari by the collar and slamming him against the wall. The impact reverberated through the narrow space, and Hakari winced, but did not resist.

"What were you thinking?" Geto hissed, his face inches from Hakari's, "Why did you take it upon yourself to instigate fights with the Zen'in again?"

Hakari swallowed hard, trying to muster a response. "I... I'm sorry, Geto-san. It was a mistake," he managed.

Geto’s grip tightened, his knuckles white. "Sorry isn't good enough. This isn't the first time, Hakari. Why do you keep doing this?" He growled.

Hakari's eyes flickered with a mix of frustration and sadness, "It's because of Fumiya... I can't just let it go."

Geto’s expression darkened, a scowl forming on his face. He released Hakari abruptly, letting him slump against the wall. The mention of Fumiya’s death stirred a deep, unresolved frustration within him, but he couldn't allow that to excuse Hakari's reckless behavior.

"That’s not a reason to jeopardize everything we’re working for," Geto said, his voice low and harsh. "You need to think before you act, Hakari. Your actions have consequences, not just for you, but for everyone."

Hakari nodded, his head bowed in shame, "I understand. It won’t happen again."

Geto stepped back, his anger simmering but controlled. He glanced at Panda and Inumaki, who had remained silent but watchful throughout the confrontation. "The same goes for both of you. We need to stay focused and united. No more unnecessary fights, understood?" He snapped.

Panda and Inumaki nodded in unison, their expressions serious.

"Good," Geto said, his tone softening slightly. "Now let's get out of here before we attract any more attention."

As they left the alley, Geto’s thoughts lingered on Fumiya, the loss still clearly a raw wound for the younger sorcerers. Then of course there was the issue with Gojo still as well. The white haired man hadn't been stepping in to keep the peace with the boys as he promised to do, especially when he'd insisted he'd take up the mantle of mentor for the younger sorcerers in the group.

He walked away from the alley, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. The younger sorcerers had been acting increasingly rashly, and he knew he needed to address it with Gojo. Pulling out his phone, he dialed Gojo’s number, only to be met with the sound of endless ringing. No answer.

Geto sighed, a frown deepening the lines on his face. He had a strong suspicion about where Gojo was and who he was with. He dialed another number, this time calling Shimizu. The phone rang twice before it was answered, the background noise a clear indication of a lively and chaotic atmosphere.

“Hello?” Shimizu’s voice came through, slightly slurred.

“Shimizu, where are you and Gojo?” Geto asked, his tone edged with irritation.

There was a pause, then a breathy giggle from Shimizu, “We’re at Tenjiku. Why? What’s up?”

Geto pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling heavily, “I need to talk to Gojo. I’ll be there soon.”

“Sure, sure. We’ll be here,” Shimizu replied, clearly drunk and amused by the situation.

Geto ended the call and headed towards Tenjiku, his frustration mounting with each step. Upon arrival, he was greeted by the sight of revelry and indulgence. He pushed through the crowd, searching for Gojo and Shimizu.

Finally, he spotted them. Gojo was sprawled out on a plush couch, his head resting on a woman's lap. She was pouring alcohol from a bottle, letting it trickle through her exposed breasts as Gojo squeezed them together, laughing drunkenly. Shimizu sat nearby, equally intoxicated and watching the scene with a dopey grin.

Geto’s eyes narrowed in disapproval. He approached the group, his presence immediately drawing their attention. The woman looked up, startled, while Gojo’s laughter trailed off as he registered Geto’s stern expression.

“Suguru! Join the party!” Gojo slurred, raising his glass in a mock toast.

“We need to talk, Gojo,” Geto said, his voice firm. “Now.”

Gojo’s playful demeanor faltered slightly under Geto’s serious gaze and pointed use of his last name. He sat up, albeit unsteadily, and waved the woman away. “Alright, alright. What’s so urgent?” he slurred, blinking his eyes and trying to focus.

Geto gestured for Gojo to follow him, and Shimizu stumbled to his feet, joining them. They moved to a quieter corner of the establishment, away from prying eyes and ears.

“The younger sorcerers have still been acting recklessly,” Geto began, his tone calm but edged with frustration. “Hakari, Panda, and Inumaki got into a fight with the Zen'in again, causing a scene and damaging property. I had to smooth things over with the police and pay off business owners.”

Gojo’s expression turned serious, though the alcohol still dulled his features, “Why didn’t you just call me?”

“I did,” Geto replied, his voice tight. “You didn’t answer. I guessed you were with Shimizu, so I called him instead.”

Gojo winced slightly, the reality of the situation cutting through his inebriation, “Alright, alright. I’ll talk to them. It’s just... things have been intense lately. Everyone’s on edge.”

“That’s no excuse,” Geto said sharply, “We need to set an example. If we don’t, this kind of behavior will continue, and the consequences will only get worse.”

Gojo nodded, finally grasping the seriousness of the situation, “Yeah, yeah. You’re right. I’ll handle it.”

Geto’s expression softened slightly, “Just... be there for them, Gojo. They look up to you and things are dangerous right now.”

Gojo sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, “Yeah, I know. I get it. I’ll do better.”

Satisfied, Geto stepped back, “Alright. Let’s get you both out of here.”

He helped Shimizu to his feet and guided the two of them out of the establishment, their footsteps unsteady but moving in the right direction. Geto’s mind was already turning to the next steps when he glanced back and quickly realized Gojo's true intentions.

He noticed Gojo’s gaze drifting. Following his line of sight, Geto saw a group of high-ranking Zen'in  members at a table across the room with a group of women, their presence exuding power and arrogance. Gojo’s eyes lingered on them, a hard, calculating look in his usually carefree eyes.

Geto didn't comment immediately, choosing instead to keep that observation in mind. He knew Gojo’s tendencies, his protective nature towards the younger sorcerers, and his disdain for the Zen'in's elitism. If those Zen'in members turned up dead, Geto would have a strong case to make about who was responsible.

The walk back to their safe house was a quiet one, with Shimizu stumbling occasionally and Gojo lost in his thoughts. Geto kept a steady pace, ensuring they didn’t attract unwanted attention. Once they arrived, Geto helped Shimizu to a couch and turned his attention to Gojo, who seemed to have sobered up slightly.

“Satoru,” Geto began, choosing his words carefully, “I noticed you watching those Zen'in men back at Tenjiku. What’s going on?”

Gojo’s expression hardened briefly before he sighed, running a hand through his white hair, “I don’t trust them. I know we're sayin' what happened with Fumiya was an accident, but it's just not sitting right with me.”

Geto nodded, his suspicions confirmed, “I understand. But as I've said we can’t afford to act rashly. The repercussions could be severe. We're on the cusp of a gang war, and no one wants that.”

Gojo looked up, his blue eyes serious, “Yeah, I know. But I just need to know if they did it on purpose. Because there will be consequences if I find out.”

“I understand that,” Geto said, placing a hand on Gojo’s shoulder, “But we need to be strategic. We can’t let emotions dictate our actions. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

Gojo held Geto’s gaze for a long moment before nodding, “I promise. But I won’t let them hurt our own again.”

Geto gave a small, understanding nod, “Neither will I. We’ll handle this together.”

With that, Geto moved to check on Shimizu, who had dozed off on the couch. He covered him with a blanket, then turned back to Gojo, “Go sleep off that alcohol. I'll keep an eye on things.”

Gojo nodded again, his expression weary, “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Suguru.”

As Geto retreated to his own room, he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that this was just the beginning. The tension with the Zen'in group was slowly escalating, and he knew they would need to tread carefully to protect their own while navigating the dangerous politics.

The idea of another gang war made him nervous. The first time he'd been through one had been so awful and they were all so young. Yaga had done his best to protect the younger sorcerers back then and was only a lieutenant himself, but there was only so much he could do.

Losing Haibara and Koharu had been hard for all of them, so he knew how the young ones felt. But more worrying was how Gojo was reacting. It was almost like he wanted to let it happen. But, as long as Geto remained on his case he was sure that Gojo would behave. At least that's what he'd hoped for.

⤶ Prev Main Next ↪

[aronarchy]

[CW: transphobia]

Transmisogyny is misogyny, transphobia is patriarchy.

The only main difference is that trans people are more oppressed than cis women so while cis women have gotten relative progress from feminism trans people are often left behind by cis feminists, and “progressive” transphobes will even naturalize patriarchal gender roles and definitions and manufactured constrictions, specifically bringing them out or bringing them back when it comes to defending transphobia.

This dynamic is especially exacerbated by racism, colonialism, Orientalism; the cultural imperialist Western gaze targets racialized trans people and even cis women and queers to naturalize or essentialize the patriarchal oppression they experience, treating it as an arbitrary cultural quirk occurring because of happenstance which must and/or can only be preserved, rather than a historically contingent form of oppression with specific material causes and consequences which can and should be overthrown. The relativist authoritarian often chastises consistent anti-authoritarians for supposedly being racist, white-privileged, disseminating “Western” viewpoints, etc. (erasing the non-white/Western intersectionally marginalized people who are the most harmed by such discourse, of course), but don’t be fooled: they’re the ones leveraging structures and ideologies originating in Western imperialism (the notion that The East and The West are ontologically different in grand historical ways, that nothing “Western” can be related to anything “Eastern” and vice versa, that The East is static and unchanging and underdeveloped, that The East’s cultures, values, practices, etc. are mysterious, exotic, inscrutable by The West, and so on), and when we expose this we peel away their façade (an important step that they always struggle to prevent by any means possible). (I don’t just say this in a vague abstract online discourse way; these dynamics also pop up in day-to-day personal political contexts, often the mechanism of violence/abuse; they are behind a great deal of material oppression in the real world today and have left a great deal of trauma upon marginalized people.)

It doesn’t occur to relativist transphobes that if someone doesn’t consider themself a woman / man because they feel they aren’t allowed to identify as or be one because they don’t fit the cissexist standard of having to be able to give birth (and fulfill the hegemonically defined (subordinate) wife role) / impregnate (and fulfill the hegemonically defined husband (patriarch) role), then that might possibly be a result of internalized patriarchy/misogyny/(cis)sexism and not an ideal state, and their mental health and self-image might improve and they might be living lives more closely in alignment with their internal selves if some friend went up and told them it could be an option. This is liberal choice “feminism” but specifically a version targeting trans people and transphobic oppression under patriarchy.

If a (white) infertile cis woman / cis man vented about feeling like they’re a failed Other rather than a real woman or real man because they can’t give birth / impregnate and the society around them says Real Women / Men are people who can give birth / impregnate (respectively), would people like this say as readily that it’s true they really are an ungendered unwomanly / unmanly Other, despite their own desire to be a woman / man and feelings which align with that? Or likewise for other forms of gendered nonconformity among cis people. (Much less likely, I think.)

Would they say, “cis women without children” is a whole separate gender from “cis women with children,” a third gender after “cis women with children” and “cis men with children”? Then “cis men without children” as a fourth gender. What about married with children versus married without? Then split the above into eight. Some trans people do get married, either while closeted, as an attempt at conversion or punishment by family or society, while passing for their correct gender (if they have a gender from the binary), or with updated laws which have assimilated trans people more. Trans people can have children too, even if not in the same patriarchal way which secures intergenerational patrilineal inheritance. More gender-categories for them then? (It’s obvious where this leads: there are in fact as many ways to be women and men as there are women and men, and different gender roles and social gender locations are assigned or designated in a gradient or internally distinguished way for all gender differences or social role differences, but there are some general categories which could be broadly termed different “genders” which group together, and thus it would be irrational/illogical and arbitrary to exclude trans women from womanhood or trans men from manhood under such a linguistic system.)

The transphobic takes above prioritize what “society” says, what other (cis) people surrounding someone says about what gender is, what their gender must be, as if what they say matters so much in defining us (or even at all), and then also equates the viewpoint of oppressive surroundings with the viewpoint of the oppressed individual (as if the oppressed will always just bow down and accept their oppression). That is not how we define gender or determine what anyone’s gender is, because that literally goes against the whole point of transness in the first place, which is that we define our own identities, we say what our genders are, we don’t limit ourselves by a cissexist society which constrains people by setting rigid inaccurate definitions; the subversiveness, the contradiction with surrounding norms, is literally the point; it wouldn’t be transness if there were no preexisting cisness (top-down/nonconsensual gender assignments) to struggle against in the first place.

It’s especially nasty to imply that Western trans people identify as “really” the gender they feel they are because the West’s social definitions of gender uniquely recognize that women don’t have to be wives, childbearers, and mothers (for patriarchs) and men don’t have to be husbands (patriarchs) and property-owning child-investing patrilineage-obsessed reproductive futurists. That erases the fact that there’s rampant institutionalized socially prevalent patriarchy in the West too; many people do believe that still; the point is, no society, no culture is a monolith. But it’s very obvious why sweeping portrayals of white, Western PoVs highlight the “progressive” parts while sweeping portrayals of non-white/non-Western PoVs highlight the “regressive” parts (racism, Enlightenment teleology). (And yes, people oppressed by racism can also be racist themselves.)

That also implies that trans people and our feelings and desires are dependent on cis people and their choices. That none of us will think against the grain until cis people create the conditions which allow for it. This prioritizes cis feminism and cis women’s rights over that of trans people, telling us they’ll always come first, we’ll always need them (though they won’t ever need us), if they’re not class-conscious yet then there’s no scenario where we might be more class-conscious already, which erases how we’re actually pressured to know much more about feminism than them, to understand their issues and ours and to be able to argue perfectly for both our rights and theirs in order to be relatively tolerated. These notions are only legible because of cissexism.

Trans people whose gender includes one (or both) genders from the binary are only treated as not being “allowed” to be “properly” considered as people of that gender because of cissexism. This denial is a form of oppression and social subordination, not something neutral or good or just naturally occurring. It’s cruel and it’s wrong. Notice how such discussions about “difference” never say that, e.g., “cis men are Different(tm) from trans men because they occupy different social niches, and trans men are more manly than cis men, because cis men don't fit into our/the Paradigmatic Image of What A Man Is(tm) and we only begrudgingly acknowledge cis men as probably ‘men’ in some way because of their self-identification but that won’t alter how we fundamentally categorize ‘men’ and we couldn’t possibly put forth a cis man as Paradigmatic, Archetypal, or Representative because smh he’s cis not trans, we couldn’t do that, that doesn’t intuitively make sense, a Man(tm) is a trans man unless otherwise specified?” (or likewise for women). Which makes it clear that this is about a power imbalance, a hierarchy placing cis people above trans people of the same gender and prioritizing cis people, which pushes out trans people from equal recognition and epistemic authority. (And no, the “unless otherwise specified” is not good enough, it’s still implicit misgendering; it’s just a half-assed attempt to cover the problems with your ideology; we want more.)

There is a (very obvious) reason why, despite having very different contexts at times, all patriarchies share certain common characteristics (patrilineage; intergenerational private property/power transfer of some sort; socially-mandated, enforced, or disproportionately incentivized binary heterosexual marriage/the couple-form; child-ownership by the patriarch; rigid definitions of “woman” as childbearer and mother and “man” as the one who possesses/owns the children (and “girls” and “boys,” respectively, as future “women” and “men,” requiring coercive socialization/indoctrination); condemnation of autonomous deviation from the prescriptive binary definitions of gender (in desire, in self-regard, in private or public identification/claiming, in differences or alterations in aesthetics/appearance/biological sex characteristics or role performance); etc.). Of course it’s not just arbitrarily landing on that every single time. These are social structures which arose from a historical process during which children, women, and queers were domesticated or forcibly excluded (as colonialism is imposed through an initial conquest and then ongoing counterinsurgency), relatively stabilizing after the patriarchs won the battle.

There is no reason why “man” or “woman” (or male, female, wife, husband, mother, father, boy, girl, masculine, feminine, gender, sex, “two genders,” “third gender”) would be terms any more transhistorically relevant, self-evident, coherent, or applicable than “transgender,” “nonbinary,” “trans woman/man/girl/boy/female/male,” etc. (And for that matter, “transmasc(uline)” (and “transfem(inine)”) shouldn’t be treated as “safer” terms to slide in third-gendering of binary trans people to avoid using the words “trans man” or “trans woman”; there’s no reason why they would automatically be more accurate either.) The people who would be called “trans” here today have existed and will exist in every society, and there will always be trans people under any patriarchy, and some language that would apply (whether a word or set of words or phrase or set of phrases or way of describing) to denote people rejecting or not aligning with their birth-assigned gender, so long as gender is assigned at birth. There will always be resistance, at least somewhere, sometime, when there is oppression. You will never have 100% internalized acceptance of cissexism. It’s time that relativists recognized this.

[lahilden]

The Palace of Versailles

The Palace of Versailles is located in Versailles, France. The royal château served as the seat of French political power. The palace was originally built as a hunting lodge for King Louis XIII and enlarged into a royal palace by Louis XIV. The château went through many expansion phases. The second phase in 1678-1715 saw two enormous wings added. Although the cost was extraordinary, it was decided the château should serve as a showcase for France. All the materials that went into construction and décor were manufactured in France. One of the most costly elements was the silver furniture and silver balustrade used by King Louis XIV for the grand apartments. The palace has a long history, with the royal family forced to leave Paris during the French Revolution. When the monarchy fell, Versailles Palace fell into ruin, and most of the furniture was sold. In 1810, Napoleon began restoration work, which continued under Louis XVIII in 1820, but it wasn’t until King Louis-Philippe that true efforts began. The Fifth Republic made further restorations in the 1950s and promoted the château as a museum. In 2003, a new restoration initiative began. The palace boasts 700 rooms, 67 staircases, and 1,250 fireplaces. The original façade, red brick with cut stone embellishments, has been preserved. The eastern side of the palace has a U-shaped layout with secondary wings and a black and white marble courtyard. Throughout its history, there have been five chapels on the site, the current one built in the Baroque style by King Louis XVI. The castle is also known for its Hall of Mirrors. This gallery is 230 feet long and holds 17 arcaded mirrors, while the ceiling is painted with 30 scenes from Louis XIV’s reign. The Royal Opera was completed in 1770. The castle has many opulent apartments, from the king’s private rooms to the staterooms. The palace gardens boast water fountains and an orangery. #PalaceOfVersailles #castles #palaces #museum #France #Versailles #history

[nyxrev]

Details

Just some stuff I noticed, from small to serious.

旦那 (dan'na)

K so I found it funny Black Sperm calls Saitama “dan'na” bc the term can mean different by its context, eg. an honorific for husband, patron, or master, etc. I believe it's translated to English as “Boss” which is most fit but when I first read it I automatically associated it with “master” of the more softer nuances and not the rougher casual “hey boss” sort of vibe, so I was surprised like, huh BS is unusually deferential to Saitama, esp. bc the rest of his speech pattern is fairly casual. But, makes sense bc he's seen enough to know. Also makes sense bc on one hand, rn he has to pretend to be a benign, goofy “monkey” …idk how ppl see a black teletubby n just believe it's monkey but s'ok, story logic… to get by heroes, hence the casual goofy monkey speech, but on the other, he absolutely does not want to cross Saitama, so he chooses to refer to him politely.

master (of a house, shop, etc.)​

husband​: can be used to refer to your own, or smb else's husband (add honorifics). Some other ways of address: 夫 otto, 主人 shujin,

sir; boss; master; governor​: used to address a male patron, customer, or person of high status

patron of a mistress, geisha, bar or nightclub hostess; sugar daddy ​(パトロン)

alms; almsgiver:​ Buddhism, usually written as 檀那 for Buddhist context

As you can see, a non-exhaustive list of what it can mean. With automatic association to house -hold and patronage nuances, my mental image got mildly confused for a moment. Like can you really see an obeisant, nice little BS who humbly serves Saitama with utmost formality??

I feel myself make an uneasy face I cannot quite describe.

Also it was good to see him ask about Manako, but I do want to know if she's alive and safe.

Homewrecker? No it's (unlicensed) Demolition. Opennenoorn Get Out

^after the scene when Forte got hit, Fubuki told Saitama to go with her and said:

あなたの住処を破壊した張本人に会わせてあげる

Basically the reason she gave for their excursion was, “I'll let you meet the person responsible for the destruction of your residence.”

Whom I thought was Psykos bc at the moment, we saw parallel scenes of Tsukuyomi guy at her cell and Tatsumaki had not arrived, but Saitama doesn't know Psykos yet, so when Fubuki made her speech, Saitama confused without so much as context to who all the ppl on scene are, then Tatsumaki arrives most destructively, he must have thought it could be absolutely no other than the “chibi” who threw Genos on a wall.

Which is why Saitama went “I see, the one who destroyed my home was…(Tatsumaki) ಠ ◡ ಠ##”

But I had to wonder who did Fubuki really mean to refer to with “the person who destroyed your place”? If Fubuki meant Psykos how would Saitama react?

Fortress Haven or Death Maze?

Hige Coffee: lit. Beard Coffee (lol)

Well it's good to see Max and Shadow on break, but an emergency call cuts it short, and amidst the commotion, one of them (I assume it's Max) laments the place is so big it's easy to get lost.

What can I say, it's almost like the new HQ, with its concentrated yet puzzled pyramid structure, complete with a moat of self-isolation, remotely omniscient surveillance, a manufactured façade of paradise with luxury security atop seven hells of hidden disasters eager to be released, and so on…almost like it's a direct visual representation of HA's operation hierarchy: centralized system of power and economic monopoly, yet rife with office politics, factions at tension, dysfunctional management, corrupt unstable foundation, and unsavoury secrets to hide.

Cohesively staffed, an impregnable fortress. Yet improperly managed, an exit-less death maze.

And I say it bc the place is not only complicated and spacious but also uniform. Its grand Jenga-Lego stack of cluster structures look so similar, if not literally the same, from every angle, if you rotated it on a turntable, I couldn't tell the sides from each other nor which faced NESW at first.

Of course, part of why they got lost is, it's newly built, heroes just moved to residency, obviously, it's not out of expectation for heroes, or anyone who's never step foot there for the matter, to be unfamiliar with exact floor plan details of such a vast, complex structure, its design sleek at best and dystopian at worst.

But I must wonder, for I feel like it will become a problem later, HQ's isolated vast complexity… If it doesn't fall apart from its core first, what with overpowered resident, destructive visitors, and let's not forget the basement full of a nasty little monstrosity of pets the corrupt executives keep for cash flow they don't use to pay heroes.

Air and Blue Fire: Cyborg Surgery?

On a scale of beneficial to suspicious, question.

Notice the text right next to Air? It's an SFX.

キュイーン kyui—n (onomatopoeia): like a whirr sound effect, low sounds of machinery at work, usually small technical ones which contract or spin. For example, camera lens… how ominous, don't you think?

While Forte is eager to get out of bed and make a quick work of the noisy monsters who disturb his already bad day, blow off convenient steam, it looks like Air can't even emote natural, human facial expressions, and it unsettles me so!

If you look long enough it almost looks like he is controlled like a puppet Σ(-᷅_-᷄⁉︎)

As for BlueFire, I can't tell if it's an empty sleeve or a prosthetic arm but hopefully he got an arm with extra spicy flamethrower fingers so he can be extra terribly efficient. He'd probably max his specs to roast evildoers out of spite. I sense one step to Genos. Same age, similar personality.

Bonus: List of Every Hero Present

aka. faces you see the last moments of your life, if you happen to be a mischievous monster at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Top panel: Golden Ball, Spring Mustachio, Red Muffler, Funeral Suspenders, D-pad, bottom L hat prolly Gun Gun, Shooter, Smile Man, Skunk-Boy Gasmask, top L corner Eyelashes, Mohawk Hacker, Brass Knuckles guy, Great Philosopher, Magic Trick Man, Darkness Blade, Bones, prolly Blue Fire's back (front of Bones), All Back Man? (didn't he quit?), Butterfly DX, Kusari-Gama, Mushroom, Horse-Bone, Twin Tails, can't tell who the mop of dark hair next to her is but prolly Blizzard member, Tank-Top Al-Dente, Tank-Top Rockabilly, another two Blizzards by the suit,

Bottom: Eyelashes, Brass Knuckle, Spiked Club Blizzard, L- Max, Genji, Stinger, Tank-Top Mask, Tank-Top Racer, Crescent Eyebroll, Green, Wild Horn, Skunk Boy Gasmask, Tank-Top Al-Dente, Tank-Top Rockabilly, a sliver of Darkness Blade, Heavy Kong.

Fubuki Group? More like Mafia?

Look at how they stand. Look at how they walk. Look at their formation. If each of them were as strong as Needle Star got, fought as well as the support team cooperated, if equally valued and given opportunity to contribute their expertise, they truly would be formidable, fearsome foes, and reliable allies Fubuki can trust to hold their own and not constantly worry about. Of course part of the problem is Fubuki's own insecurities but we know she has the potential to be a great leader if she put her focus on the right path and used her power to maximum beneficial strategy

Counted around 33 members without Fubuki or Saitama. Rowdy Suit Gang. Mountain Ape n Lily stand out and you can see them from far away.

Extra Bonus: Spot the Spy 6-6

Nah cuz I really need to talk about the cursed Tsukuyomi guys. I brewed some praises n some toasty roasty jokes. I need to cook some wacky, juicy conspiracy about them. Just a little gentle speculation.

[air-rising]

Aww Ellie’s mum commenting on Daans post, can’t wait to see Beth’s mums comment on Vivs post, oh wait… 😂

For the love of god, will you stop impersonating people? Do you think people can’t tell when you reply to yourself impatiently, or hide behind a façade? Do you think I don’t know which new accounts are yours? Do you have nothing better to do in your life that you just *have* to manufacture lies to feed your own vitriolic narrative?

Do you think I, or any Lyon fan have ever cared this much to violate boundaries? To involve players and parents at this level, like how you’re fixated on Ellie’s mother? Do you think we—and anyone with a rational mind—wouldn’t condone your childishness, your manipulations? Shame on you. You say you care for her loss, but you mock her memory. How have you no respect for the dead?

Has her cancer not taught you anything? Get a fucking life. 2024 is on the horizon, and you’re still here wasting it.