#I like translation but that's a dead-end field if nobody cares about the languages that you know (and nobody cares about romanian)

[meezer]

spending this much time and effort and energy working towards a career path I really do not like or want or will ever go into is really taking the wind out of my sails not gonna lie. and making me hate the humanities 😍

[hopetofantasy]

Culture, parallels & meta - S3 E3

Zaterdag 08:10

Perfect parallel: An upset Robbe being little spoon to Noor this episode, him being a relaxed little spoon to Sander in the last one.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Moyo has half eaten wafers cookies on his bed. Between the cellphone time and timestamp, it took Robbe five minutes to get dressed and to the beach. The beautiful angel pendant makes its first appearance.

Bonus: This cinematography trick of using a wide shot with nobody else in the sight, makes us actually feel how lonely Robbe actually is. 

°

Zaterdag 08:23

C is for culture: “Vamanos” - As you may have noticed, Flemish has a lot of words that aren’t typically Dutch. These are called ‘leenwoorden’ (= ‘borrowing words’). In some cases, the language has made the word its own, with their conjugation or sound (like barbecue - barbecuet - or e-mail - ge-e-maild), other times the expression is copied completely (like smartphone or laptop). There are various reasons as to why people don’t want to change it: globalization, wanting to be more vague/cool, general laziness, ...

Perfect parallel: 

Sander’s playful “Are you the manager?��� and “That’ll be zero stars on Booking.com” to Robbe when they meet in this episode, Sander’s sheepish “Zero stars on Booking.com” and Robbe’s pointed “Where is that manager when you need him?”, when they have their fall-out in a later episode. 

Sander saying “When I booked this room, I explicitly asked for room-service” here and him actually booking a room with room-service for the both of them later on.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Jens’ keyboard is lying on top of the closet. Sander grabbing his keys (to his car?).

°

Zaterdag 08:44

C is for culture: The option to use self-scanning is pretty common in Belgian supermarkets, especially in shop-and-go city stores. You pick up the scanner, scan the stuff you buy, go to a counter, pay and walk out with your groceries. A sales assistant is still present to help out with problems or do random routine checks. It’s fast, easy and cost-efficient. The downside? Shoplifting becomes a bit easier this way.

That’s character: Sander is putting up a ‘cool guy, devil may care’ facade. He jokes about not scanning everything, dismisses Amber’s list, whirls the shopping cart around and sings David Bowie to this boy. He wants to make a lasting impression on Robbe. If he’s the most charming, chaotic and adventurous version of himself, then he doesn’t have to think about other stuff like his own crumbling relationship. (Also the reason why he doesn’t answer the question about Amber: they simply met through Britt). As the boxes fall down, so does Sander’s tough exterior, as he never intended to hurt Robbe by playing around in the supermarket.

Robbe’s clumsiness meter: +3, he almost topples off the cart twice and drops the chocolate bars on the floor. (The crash with Sander isn’t his fault though)

Oopsie: 

Sander is wearing a leather jacket, but we don’t see it in the previous clip. Either he left it in his car or it’s an ‘oopsie’.

When Sander accidentally tosses Robbe into the boxes, we hear glass breaking. However, in the next shot, the boxes seem to empty (and they were supposed to be filled with chips, which don’t make that sound).

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Sander is wearing black Converse. They bought Jupiler beer. Robbe pulls out ‘Delhaize’ Biscuit chocolate bars and Florentin cookies.

°

Zaterdag 13:13

C is for culture: "Croques” - The word ‘croque’ is an abbreviation for ‘croque monsieur’ (= ‘crunch mister’). These are grilled ham-and-cheese sandwiches, a typical greasy snack at taverns, markets, carnivals, your home, ... Other versions include the ‘croque madame’ topped with a fried egg, ‘croque bolognese’ with bolognese sauce, ‘croque hawai’ with a pineapple slice.

That’s character: It’s clear that Robbe has no idea how to eat properly. All throughout the season he eats unhealthy breakfasts (choco spread with cookies), snacks (chips, cookies) and dinners (Aïki noodles, frozen lasagna). But here we see the reason: he doesn’t seem to know how to cook or work a stove. Exactly why he buys prepackaged or instant food options. So, it’s probably for the best that Zoë helps out his eating habits.

Perfect parallel:

Robbe making an unhealthy breakfast in the previous episode, Sander providing him with an unhealthy snack in this one. (The way to a man’s heart is through the stomach)

Britt’s condescending “Listening to David Bowie again?” in this episode, her calling Robbe his next obsession similar to David Bowie later on. 

Sander’s “Do you know where I can find the coffee?” to Robbe in an earlier scene and his “Was coffee on the list?” to Amber here.

Robbe’s clumsiness meter: +2, he stumbles backwards after Sander touches his shoulder and burns himself after turning the ‘croque’.

Nod to the OG: This kitchen scene is the equivalent of the ‘5 fine frøkner’ scene, as Sander sings his favorite song to Robbe and makes breakfast, whilst both flirt with each other (subtly).

Oopsie: They supposedly went to ‘Delhaize’ for all their groceries, but the ketchup bottle comes from ‘Carrefour’ and the butter from ‘Colruyt’. 

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Sander messes up the first words to ‘Under Pressure’ - it’s ‘pressure’ not ‘under pressure’. He mixes the weed with tobacco for his joint. The conflict on Sander’s face at the end.

°

Zondag 16:34

C is for culture: "What kind of shit question is this?” - They’re playing ‘De Slimste Mens ter wereld’ (= ‘The smartest human on earth’), a board game by the popular Flemish television show with the same name. The quiz is very challenging. People have to solve associative, general knowledge and out-of-the-box questions with multiple answers in different rounds. Points are awarded in the form of seconds, which are used during the game. The candidate with time left at the end, wins.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: The group is drinking white wine out of plastic cups. Sander studied at ‘de!Kunsthumaniora’, the same school as Noor. Sander’s wearing his combat boots again.

°

Maandag 15:12

C is for culture: Aaron is wearing a bunny costume for the paintball game ‘Hunt the bunny’. This is usually played by people on a bachelor party or a corporate team building (with the groom/boss as the bunny). The goal is simple: the bunny has to cross the field from one corner to another, whilst the hunters shoot as much paintballs as possible to ‘kill’ it. Which is... rather painful, especially at close range. 

Oopsie: What they’re doing is actually illegal or even impossible. People aren’t allowed to play paintball in protected environments, like dunes. Unless they’re doing it with a specialized organization who’s trained for these games (and are present at the time of playing) or have the written permission from the ‘Agency of Nature and Forest’, the police, the city, ... There is a whole heap of permissions, administrative papers and laws to deal with. 

Lost in translation: Britt saying “Doe normaal” (= “Act normal”) has nothing to do with her dismissing Sander’s mental health. This Flemish phrase is often used to calm people down, telling them that they’re acting rather irrationally or childish. It’s an angry way of saying “Can’t you behave yourself? Calm down. What are you doing? Be rational!”. 

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: The blue and red flags tells us that they’re going to play ‘capture the flag’. Some of the ‘pfff’ gun sounds you hear, indicate that the air pressure needs to be checked. Moyo took off his protection mask, which is dangerous and sometimes considered a foul during the game.

°

Dinsdag 20:02

C is for culture: "Do you know how to make s’mores?” - Toasting marshmallows above a campfire, isn’t really a tradition in Belgium. So that’s why the girls don’t know how to make s’mores. 

Lost in translation: ’Smoor’ is a Flemish dialect word for smoke or the act of smoking. It does sound a lot like ‘s’mores’. This is why Luca thinks Aaron wants to hold the marshmallow into the fire. 

Oop, there it is, the homophobia / heteronormativity: Of course Robbe had nothing to lose with Noor, he wasn’t actually interested in her. With Sander, however, Robbe doesn’t dare to do anything.

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Aaron is drinking ‘Bock’ beer. Amber looks at Aaron like she really likes him, when he’s preparing the s’mores.

°

Woensdag 20:42

C is for culture: 

“An old german bunker” - The province of West-Flanders as well as its coast still has a lot of remnants left from WWI. From German bunkers to trench-networks, burial sites and museums, the 'Great war’ left its traces. Unsurprisingly, every year, people still find around 300 tons of (active) bombs underneath the fields.

“Around ‘All Souls’ Day’ they come back to life” - ‘All Souls’ Day’ is a christian holiday on the 2nd of November, on which the dead are commemorated. However, since that day isn’t an official holiday in Belgium, people visit the graves and honor of their loved ones on the 1st of November, ‘All Saint’s Day’. 

The group drinking ‘jenever’ shots - ‘Jenever’ (known in English as ‘Dutch gin’ or ‘genever’) is a traditional liquor in Belgium and the Netherlands. Young people usually drink these colored, high percentage spirits at Christmas markets, pre-drinks or parties when it’s cold outside. Different flavors include vanilla, chocolate, berries, lemon, apple, ...

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: The wooden panel behind Jens says ‘Volg de pijlen’ (= ‘Follow the arrows’). Aaron and Amber are holding hands after their fall. Robbe downs a chocolate-cream ‘jenever’ shot at the end. 

°

Woensdag 21:53

Perfect parallel: Robbe lashing out at his friends in this episode - he feels left out and confused about his sexuality - and blames the pranks. Him doing the same in the next - he thinks his friends are hypocrites by saying homophobic comments to him yet defending the gay teacher - and blames the vlogs. 

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: The second living room has a spinning disco light.

°

Donderdag 21:12

C is for culture:

“In dat jeugdhuis” - A ‘jeugdhuis’ (= ‘youth house’) is a meeting place, run by young volunteers. All teens and young adults are welcome to hang out, throw parties, drink at their bar, organize concerts, attend workshops - just making the space their own. 

“He sounded like a begging Romanian” - Luca is referring to Romanian Romani families, who roam around in the streets of Brussels begging for some money. These ethnic groups have a mostly negative image amongst the Europeans. Which is why she states this harsh and hurtful comparison.

Perfect parallel: Noor asking Robbe for a playlist so she can listen to his favorite songs here, Sander actually making a Bowie playlist for Robbe in the next episode.

Lost in translation: Luca is mocking the West-Flemish dialect by copying what the boy said, namely “Moe’en julder ok ‘n flyer ‘ennen?”. This dialect is known for blowing their ‘g’ and ‘h’ so that they sound similar, conjugating their 'yes’ or ‘no’, having double subjects, seemingly swallowing some letters, among other things. It’s one of the most confusing and difficult dialects for the Flemish to understand themselves.

Oopsie: When Aaron asks Amber if she needs a drink, Britt and Sander are dancing right behind him. When she answers and walks away, they’re suddenly gone, only to be seen again when Moyo walks over.

Nod to the OG/Wink to other remakes: The ‘call your girlfriend’ kiss, duh! 

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Jana is wearing one white contact lens.

°

Vrijdag 08:43

Perfect parallel: 

Sander searching for coffee first thing in the morning earlier this episode and him pouring a cup before any task in this clip.

Sander’s “Maybe I’m scared that I will never find someone” here and Robbe’s multi-layered “I’m so happy that I found you” in the last episode.

Oopsie: When the boys walk to the recycling spot, the lighting changes from sunny to clouded to dark in a matter of seconds.

Funny coincidence: Sander referring to his relationship as ‘ups and downs’, probably similar to his experience with bipolarity.

Wink to other remakes: An almost kiss near trash, remind you of certain Italian boys?

Blink-and-y’ll-miss-it: Amber delegating tasks, but doing nothing herself. Robbe smiles for a few milliseconds, because Sander touched him. The flash of panic in Robbe’s eyes afterwards.

[kyberled]

Send a 🙌 and I’ll introduce you to an NPC related to my Muse. || ACCEPTING

ANONYMOUS ASKED:

🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌

Challenge accepted, Anon. (Most under the cut to save the dash).

The ‘Twelvers’, also called ‘Team Tasish’, is the name given to the group of clone troopers who served in the tunnels with Padawan Commander Braig following the Tasish XII Massacre. They were also called ‘the Gale’an Ground Crew’ (though this didn’t catch on like the first two names) or ‘Braig’s Boys’ by some of their vode, and ‘Tunnel Rats’ or ‘Moles’ by Separatist General Grau Tessk.

The Twelvers were survivors of the 423rd Flare Corps, originally lead by Regiment Commander CC-2331 ‘Dash’ and Jedi Master/General Dhissit Riloff, were a part of the Third Systems Army, under the command of Jedi Master and High General Obi-Wan Kenobi. They were easily distinguished by the vibrant teal they painted their armor with. They had a saying amongst them: ‘With Riloff and Dash, Seps are gone in a flash!’, and this was painted on more than a few of their LAAT/i’s. Unfortunately, for most of them, Tasish was their final mission. It was just supposed to be a relief mission. Something simple.

It wasn’t.

Grau’s invasion was quick and merciless. It wiped out most of the soldiers, and the locals and rest of the survivors were lucky to make it away when they did. Some weren’t so lucky. The less fortunate wound up either killed or in the slave encampments Tessk’s army had established about the planet. The more fortunate wound up in the massive network of tunnels that snaked through the planet’s crust.

Under the command of Lieutenant Commander ARC-4496 ‘Kriss’ (detailed in a separate report), Captain ARC-5012 ‘Boone’, and Padawan Commander Braig, the survivors collaborated with the locals in a bid to stay alive until rescue would eventually come. Whether or not they believed that would happen depended on the individual man.

The exact makeup of Team Tasish changed frequently, growing and shrinking as men were rescued from camps or slain in combat. Following the rescue mission carried out by Master Kenobi and the 212th (among others), Braig requested that the survivors be allowed to join the 212th to avoid having them separated from each other into different units, and as a testament to the skill they had shown during the time underground.

You can usually figure out who the Twelvers are pretty easily. Not only do they spend time together, they also keep splashes or accents of 423rd teal on their kit. Sometimes, they might use some of the Gale’ha they picked up to talk to each other. Braig encourages this, as he wants to make sure both they and himself are able to remember the language as best they can. They also like making ‘you have to cook it’ jokes - or any jokes involving the word ‘cook’ - at Kriss, and typically respond to group missions with ‘One more run, boys?’, which they often said before heading out on supply runs or camp raids back on Tasish. The ‘one more’ was always used to suggest, either sarcastically or otherwise, that this would be the last time before they went home.

THE SURVIVORS:

🙌 SERGEANT LONNIE, aka CT- 26-4017, was one of the last to join the survivors in the tunnels. He’d been on his own for a while. He hadn’t been one of the ones who’d been at the ‘base camp’ during the massacre. He’d been on the field of battle. He’s still not entirely sure how he made it out. He got knocked out by an explosion. Woke up in one of Grau’s slave camps. He knew what that was, what it meant for him. He was livestock. Even more so than in the Republic, he was no better than an Alderaan Grazer. It was pretty common to hear the droids comment to each other that ‘General Tessk liked his meat tough’. Always made Lonnie’s stomach churn. He refused to end up like that. He just wouldn’t. He’d either live to see what else was out there or die being a pain in the Sep’s shebs. Either way, better than being complacent. So he ran. He made a plan with Tanzer when the klankers weren’t listening. A bit of sabotage and a landslide later, and the vod were off running. Where to? He didn’t know. Didn’t care. There were better ways to die than here.

Thankfully for himself (and Tanzer), they were scooped up pretty quickly by one of the survivors’ supply run/scouting teams. Damn near shot Scratch’s head off before he realized who it actually was. His brothers were relieved to have him back, and he was relieved at having a chance at survival again (... And seeing them too). He was pretty surprised any of them had made it as long as they had, except maybe Kriss. He was especially surprised the ‘shiny Jedi’ (Braig, who was in fact a senior padawan and combat veteran and wasn’t fond of the nickname) hadn’t bitten it, yet. Full of surprises.

Though he didn’t pick up as much Gale’ha as some of his brothers (as he wasn’t in the tunnels as long), he did really like the word ‘Naha’we’, which loosely translated means ‘everyone will do [verb]’. He thought it was fun to say. He briefly considered changing his name to ‘Naha’we’, though most of the other Twelvers vehemently opposed this. Ironically, it was Prez’s enthusiastic endorsement that made him finally decide to stay Lonnie. If Prez thinks it’s a good idea, and it’s not related to combat or drills or the like, he’s not going with it. He’s learned better.

Physically, Lonnie stood at about average height and build for a Trooper (though he’d lost a few pounds by the time the other Twelvers found him). While he’s usually clean-shaven, he grew some decent stubble - almost a beard - over the course of the mission, and might just keep it. He kept the sides of his head shaved close, but the stubble was dyed in 423rd teal, while the top was a bit longer (still within standard regulation) and kept its natural black. He was very excited to get it re-cut and re-dyed when he got home (it felt weird to him long). He has a notch in his right ear lobe and a series of small scars on his finger tips; after his time in the slave camp, he had some lash scars on his back and shoulders, as well. He wore kama with his kit and had stripes painted on his arms, legs, and pauldrons.  (He had to salvage some of his fallen brothers’ kit  after the camp, and it took a few sonics back in the barracks to get the feeling off).  Upon return to the barracks, he gets his first tattoo - ‘NOT DEAD YET’ in Aurabesh, tattooed over the lashing scars across his shoulder blades. Lonnie carried two blaster pistols and a stun baton, and was most comfortable in close quarter combat.

On his off time, Lonnie liked listening to the radio and lounging on his bunk. He’d sometimes play sabaac with his vode, sometimes join in on teasing the others, but for the most part, he just wanted to do nothing. War was chaotic and stressful. He just wanted some quiet time to shut off. ... But he WILL arm wrestle just about anyone if he’s challenged. He uses it to put chores on his younger brothers when they lose.

He was cut down during the Great Jedi Purge (aka Order 66), and was silently grateful for the plasma blade that felled him.

🙌 TANZER, aka CT-26-4290, got lucky. That’s what he tells everyone. He should’ve been dead. He should have died. The battle should have killed him. The camp should have killed him. The escape absolutely should have killed him. If that didn’t, the jungles should’ve. He was in the same camp Lonnie was. He did the same labor. Heard the same comments. Felt the same pain. Had similar ideas. He wasn’t the one who came up with the escape plan, though; that was Lonnie. Always looking out for his little brother(s). He’d be willing to die for a lot of things, but for a lizard’s meal? No, no way, kriff that. He wanted out. So they ran. Tanzer got a weapon first; stole a pretty nice semi-automatic blaster off one of the B1s and made what he would call ‘a beautiful mess of things’ on the way out. Just cause some chaos and go. ... He did worry about the locals they left behind, though. They just didn’t have the fire power to save everyone. They barely got themselves out, as was.

It was rough out there. They didn’t have locals to guide them, like the boys in the tunnels did; not until they got picked up again. It was rough. Tanzer doesn’t know if he believes in the whole ‘will of the Force’ thing. Yes, he knows the Force exists. He works with Jedi, it’s hard to ignore. But he doesn’t know about it having a will. ... However, their escape and survival, and them being found by the other Twelvers, has made him consider something being out there. He’s just not sure what. Clones don’t really get taught about religion. Maybe it’s just sheer dumb luck. Upon being brought back to the tunnels, Prez tried to talk him into eating a raw Maguwe grub. Tanzer refused and asked ‘who would do that’, and it took him a minute to figure out why Prez and Boone were laughing and why Kriss looked so annoyed (or, at least, more annoyed than usual).

Tanzer was just a bit shorter than his brothers, but it wasn’t enough to be noticed unless they were standing side by side. Not enough for a ‘decommission’. He was still pretty self-conscious about it, though, and didn’t like having it brought up. He kept his hair in the standard cut, but grew his sideburns out a bit. While he was normally clean-shaven, he ended up with longer hair and some facial hair after his time in the tunnels. He didn’t keep it, and was relieved to be able to shave upon his return. Felt like being himself again. He promised himself he was never growing a beard again. His eyes were a bit lighter than his brothers, but again, you wouldn’t notice without careful scrutiny. He hates being the center of attention, though, and won’t take it well. While he keeps his armor clean, the paint on it is chipped and scuffed, and he considers it a mark of honour. Like Lonnie, he had to scavenge a new kit for himself after his escape, and he wasn’t happy about it. He spent more than a few nights holding the bucket he’d picked up against his chest and muttering apologies he thought nobody else could hear. On his own kit, he painted a slash across his eye shield, the backs of his hand guards, and a stripe down the front and back of his chest plate. He preferred blaster rifles over pistols, and was almost as good a sharpshooter as Trickshot.

In his off-time, Tanzer liked going to shooting ranges or spending time at 79′s. He’d also spend times in his bunk, double-checking his gear as he chatted with those others in the room. While never the life of the party, he preferred spending time with his vode to being alone. He never really liked quiet; put him on edge. As he often said, ‘silence means something’s about to happen’.

Tanzer fortunately, or unfortunately, didn’t survive to 66. He died only a month or so before, after taking a blaster shot to the chest from a B2.

🙌 STAFF SERGEANT PREZ, aka CT-25-499, has always been a bit of a joker. He likes keeping morale up. Likes keeping the brothers working together smoothly. In spite of this, he has a pretty gloomy outlook that he keeps under wraps. He’s big on gallows humor. He, like many of his brothers, has seen quite a lot during his tours of duty. He doesn’t expect things to end well for him. He’s come to terms with it. That doesn’t mean he can let his brothers feel the same sense of impending doom. That ties in to how he got his name: He has a ‘strong presence’ in the units he’s in. He’s hard to ignore. Some of his brothers love him for it, some brothers hate him for it. It doesn’t seem to bother him, either way. It’s what keeps him going.

Along with Kriss and Boone, Prez was among the longest-standing Twelvers. He’d been back at base camp helping the locals and Braig. He had to live with the knowledge that he wasn’t on the field when his General and Commander were killed. It weighed pretty heavily on him, even if he didn’t let it show as readily as some of the others. Out of all of them, aside from maybe Boone, he likes to think he got on with Braig the best. It was almost refreshing to get a taste of actual faith and optimism, for a change. Kinda nice. Plus, the magic healing stuff? That was pretty top. Prez was there for most everything that happened in the tunnels. He was there when Mal got shot. He was there when Kriss ate the grubs. He was there for a lot of deaths and struggles. He was there when they found out about the slave camps and when they decided to raid them. He was there for all of it. He didn’t think he’d be there to see a rescue. Kind of figured it would be the end of him there. But, hey, it wasn’t! And now he’s got a lot of stories to tell. Buy him a round if you wanna hear ‘em, cause they don’t come cheap.

Prez shaved his head bald. He liked it better that way. He felt hair got too itchy or sweaty under a bucket. Easier to keep clean too, if you just didn’t have it. He does have a soul patch, though. He takes great pride in re-shaping it when he gets back home. He had to vie with Lonnie for the mirror, but whether that was because they both actually needed that much time or they wanted to admire themselves, nobody’s entirely sure. If asked, they each accuse the other of vanity while claiming innocence. Prez also has a scar on the left side of his jaw, near his chin, that looks like three tiny scratch marks. He won’t admit to anyone how he got it, and tells a different story almost every time he’s asked. (If you want the truth, he tripped during a march back when he was shiny. His brothers teased him about it for over a month.) After returning home, he got a tattoo of both the Bespin and Naboo boloball team logos on his ribs on the left side, in honor of Royce. As he was never captured, he never lost his kit. It’s pretty easy to distinguish from his brothers. In typical Prez fashion, he was in the mood to cause a bit of chaos when he was first allowed to paint his kit. He took a paintbrush and all but threw it at his chest piece. Ever since then, over the many times he’s had to replace it, he always paints a messy, zaggy line from the top left corner to the bottom right. Aside from that, he painted the rest with neat lines down his arms, legs, and helmet, a contrast which used to drive Dash silently out of his mind. In spite of this, Prez’s talent as a soldier and ability to execute orders perfectly (on the field) kept him in their Commander’s good graces. Prez kept a regulation blaster pistol on his hip, like many, but kept a stock of charges and explosives on the other side of his belt. He liked to think it was part of his charm.

In his off time, you could usually find Prez at 79′s, or pestering his brothers. It was his own way of looking out for them, really. He often playfights and wrestles with the goofier vod’ike when they’re not on duty. He’s also huge on boloball, and thinks Bespin has the best team in the Galactic League. He used to get into pretty heated debates about it over drinks with Royce, who was a diehard Naboo fan.

Prez survived the Great Jedi Purge and went on to become a prolific storm trooper until he was gunned down in a battle with the Rebellion.

🙌 ARC-5012, known more widely as CAPTAIN BOONE, is the ‘good trooper’ to Kriss’ ‘stern trooper’. It used to be ‘to Kriss’ and Dash’s ‘stern trooper’, but, well. Things went sour. He misses Dash, too. Didn’t have time to grieve, though. They never do. Just keep moving. Keep going. Boone has always been a bit of a ‘mother hen’, keeping an eye out for the Vode he works with whenever possible. That’s how he got his name. Always a boone to have around. Always a help. He was well-liked by his men and his General alike. He balanced out the more rigid of the chain of command, and handled a lot of the more emotional issues the other men had. He took on almost more of a paternal than fraternal role, as clumsy as it may have sometimes been, and it was appreciated. He’d been back at the base camp, too. Originally, he was going to be deployed with the fighting force when the attack hit; however, it was quickly determined that his command and people skills would be needed to help evacuate the civilians. He was also meant to be protection, given that most of the troops were on the move. General Riloff had wanted most of the best men keeping people safe. Boone respected the orders at the time, but would often wonder to himself if things could have been different, had he been in the field - the same sort of thoughts he tries to council his brothers out of. Keeping the peace in the tunnels was a test of skill for him. He definitely didn’t envy Braig and Kriss, being the senior officers. He ended up playing a key role in helping Braig quell the fighting after Mal’s death. ... He also gave Braig his first-ever alcoholic drink. He didn’t necessarily think it through.

He’d been part of the crew who’d pulled Braig out of the ship following the Tessk fight. The kid looked rough. Rough, but alive, and that was what mattered. He was pretty damn surprised by that. Got him back to the tunnels, and medicine was basically nonexistent. He’d asked the kid about fixing himself up like he usually did, but that wasn’t an option for a few reasons. So, while Makula (the doctor from one of the villages) did what he could, Boone pulled a flask out and offered it to Braig. When asked why he thought that was a good idea, he shrugged and said he thought it would help with the pain. (It did not. Braig thought it was gross.) He’s still figuring kids out, but he’s doing his best. He also shared it with Cooper after they got him back (before the Tessk fight, of course). For the most part, he kept it to himself and didn’t mention that he had it, but, hey, sometimes you just need a drink. A drink, and someone to listen.

Boone wore his hair a bit longer than regulation, and kept it tied back into a neat bun. He always carried at lest two to three extra hair ties in his utility belt, and ended up sharing one with Braig when his hair got too long and started getting in the way. He started the mission clean-shaven, aside from a moustache, but, like the rest of the Twelvers, ended up with his fair share of scruff. He had a white plus sign tattooed under the outer corner of his left eye. He also had small black X’s tattooed along the knuckles of his hands. (He’d initially asked for stars, but the vod who did it had done x’s instead, and Boone decided he liked it better that way.) Like Prez, he wore his kit into the tunnels. His shoulder guard, pauldron, bracers, and shin guards were all completely painted teal, with a teal plus on the left side of his helmet, over where his tattoo is. On his right pauldron, he left a white patch in the shape of a star burst, in honour of the Flare Corps’ name. His utility belt was always well-stocked, and in addition to the pistols he carried, he wore a blaster rifle on his back. He didn’t really have a preference for close or ranged combat, as long as he and his came home safe. That’s all he ever wanted.

Boone is a man who likes a warm drink - caf or tea - and a simple conversation. Maybe a datapad or two. He’ll go to 79′s if invited, but it’s not something he generally does on his own. He also likes spending his time doing bunk checks on the rest of the Corps. Knowing that his vode were alright helped him rest easy. He’s also very good at cards. His winning streak had some in the Corps - especially Lonnie, Trickshot, and Hardwire - convinced he had to be cheating, but, no, he just knew them better than they thought (and he thought they all had terrible poker faces).

After the control chip incidents involving Fives and Tup (which he heard about as the 212th and 501st worked closely), he got suspicions of his own. These suspicions ultimately lead to Boone being killed by a med droid sent by those in the know, though his death was ‘officially’ listed as being caused by battlefield injuries.

🙌 ARC-4954 COOPER was another rescue. He’d had a pretty rough time, comparatively. Not as though anyone had fun in the slave camps, but, he was pretty messed up. The worst of it was his right arm. He’d gotten it crushed after resisting orders, and it was ‘amputated’ by Grau himself in a bid for information. Of course, Cooper didn’t know a thing. If Grau hadn’t used Master Riloff’s lightsaber to do the deed, Cooper might have bled out or worse. It was a cruel irony, to be sure. It still could have gotten infected and much worse if the raid team hadn’t shown up only a few days later. As it was, Braig was able to Force the wound to close over properly. He couldn’t regrow the limb, though. He apologized for that, and though Cooper said it was fine, it took him a long time to come to terms with it. One of his biggest fears was that now he was ‘defective’ and would be subject to termination upon return. Even with the assurances of his brothers and Braig that this would never happen, it wasn’t until he was outfitted with a cybernetic limb that Cooper finally breathed a sigh of relief. He was actually pretty pleased with it, and the fact that it would ‘hurt more when [he] punch[ed] osik with it’. He also used it to arm-wrestle Lonnie, and was very smug when he won. After the appropriate amount of sulking, Lonnie told him he only won because of his ‘new hardware’. If it was anyone else, they’d’ve gotten slugged for it, but Lonnie’s always been his best friend. Giving each other grief is what they do. Even still, it took him a while to get used to the prosthetic, and phantom limb syndrome and chronic pain stayed with him for a long while after.

Cooper didn’t go on many raids with the other Twelvers. This was both because he was brought on a bit later into the stay (though still before Lonnie and Tanzer), and because his physical and mental state had taken an understandable hit. He was instead usually left behind in the tunnels to act as security detail. Initially, this was a blow to his ego, but he soon came to take the duty very seriously. It wasn’t at all strange to find him waiting by whatever exit the survivors had stopped at, back to the wall and blaster drawn in anticipation. He did in fact take out a few droids during his security detail, and that did make him feel a bit better. All the same, a lot of the times he volunteered for night watch, it was just because he couldn’t sleep. Boone stayed up with him on a lot of those nights, as did Lonnie (they’d take turns to ensure proper rest). Braig did, as well, offering his services especially on nights Cooper’s injury flared up. It was this, more than anything else, that made Cooper appreciate and come to respect Braig as a comrade.

Cooper kept the sides of his hair shaved, but sported a teal mohawk. After seeing himself in the mirror on the return trip, he decided he kind of liked how it looked long and shaggy. Kriss thought it looked inappropriate for a soldier. They eventually reached a compromise: As long as Cooper kept it neatly brushed and slicked back during inspections and field work, Kriss wouldn’t harp on him to cut it. Cooper also only ever died the top ‘half’ of the mohawk, letting it face to its natural black around the roots. He typically had a bit of stubble, which grew into a beard over the course of the stay. This, he didn’t keep, and spent a while touching his face once he was done shaving. Felt good. He didn’t have any tattoos, but he did paint a few words and symbols on his prosthetic that Kriss was not willing to compromise on. The rest of the vode thought it was funny, though, so he still considers it a victory. He ended up painting it with LAAT/i racing stripes, instead. Sometimes he tries to hide the ‘banned words’ in the stripes. It rarely works. He still tries, regardless. He painted the shoulders and collar of his kit in 423rd teal, as well as the top of his boots, but left it otherwise plain. He liked dual-wielding pistols, and always kept a vibroblade on his person.

When he had the rare free time, Cooper could be found at 79′s - not for the alcohol, but to watch the podracing. He was fascinated by the stuff. He thought it was way more thrilling than boloball. He usually wound up in wrestling matches with Prez, and it was rare that there was a decisive winner. If he wasn’t hanging around where Lonnie was, or watching a holo, or training, he was probably in the hangers. He wasn’t typically part of the flight crew, he just liked the atmosphere better than the bunks.

Cooper survived the Great Jedi Purge. However, maintaining his prosthetic was not a cost the Empire was willing to bear, and he was terminated not long after.

🙌 ARC-4907 LOWSWIPE (’Swipes’ or ‘Swiper’ to his closer vode) is the last of the survivors. He was also another raid rescue. The camp he was in was hit pretty early on. He was pretty surprised by it, all things considered. He’d thought most everyone else was dead. He wasn’t wrong about that, of course, but he had no idea there was a group of their boys still running around in the first place. The first thing he said when he saw his brothers, he’s been told to never repeat around the ‘kid’ ever again. (Braig has decided, in the name of keeping the peace, to not inform them all that he knows all of those words already.) But he was relieved to see them.

Going forward, Lowswipe participated successfully in a number of camp raids and supply runs between his freedom and the Twelvers’ rescue. He had been one of the 423rd’s best recon specialists, talents that definitely came in handy in the Gale’an jungles. He was notorious for fighting dirty, and his brothers would gripe at him for it during drills and sparring. They didn’t complain when he used it in battle. His detailed reports saved a  lot of lives in a lot of ways. The extremely detailed, if not somewhat crass, stories he told at night kept morale up. If anything, it almost seemed like he was enjoying himself. This wasn’t the case, of course. He hated the tunnels. He hated the Seps. He missed his brothers and his general. The enjoyment he seemed to give off was really a sick satisfaction of knowing he was making Grau suffer, even if it was only in a small way. He wanted more revenge, but for the time, it would do. It was enough. It had to be.

Lowswipe had a pretty standard appearance for a trooper. Short hair, clean shaven. Managed to avoid most scars, save for one just over his right hip. This one came from the same encounter with Grievous that gave Kriss his most signature scar. It was usually covered by his blacks, so most people didn’t know about it. He had just one tattoo: A solid black line circling his left pinky, just over the top knuckle. The reason for this isn’t quite as deep as you’d guess. He was talking with some of the Corps around a fire on a mission, once, and the question of ‘if you had to lose a finger, which one would it be?’ came up. Lowswipe said his left pinky, since he was right handed and didn’t think pinkies were very important. His vode dared him to try and see how long he could go without using it, if he was so confident; the CO’s said if he was gonna do that, he had to wait until they were back at the barracks. When they got home, he got the mark tattooed on his finger to remind himself. He lasted about two and a half days before he dropped something. Given that people had placed bets, reactions were mixed. As for his kit, it was also pretty standard. Nothing too fancy. He wore a kama, which might’ve been the fanciest bit about it. He had the pretty standard paint job, too. He didn’t like being easily distinguished. Didn’t suit his purposes. He had a teal line down his arms and legs. The only truly ‘unique’ painting he’d done on it was in the upper left corner of his chest plate: a tiny, teal starburst, in honour of the Corps. He kept that there even after being inducted into the 212th Attack Battalion.

Lowswipe, surprising nobody, liked cards. Unlike Boone, he also liked cheating, and got away with it pretty often (but not against the CO’s, and never against a Jedi). Much like telling them to arm wrestle Lonnie, telling shiny members of the Corps to play a game against Lowswipe was considered a type of hazing. As long as it didn’t get (too) physical, Kriss and Dash saw no reason to stop it. Like Boone, while he’d go to 79′s if his favourite vode were there, he much preferred to take his drinks in the bunks. He’d also join Prez in causing mischief around the barracks, though then it was usually up to Prez to make sure it never got taken too far. In spite of how the staff sergeant often had to reign him in, the two of them still got along very well.

Lowswipe didn’t quite survive to Order 66. In one of the final battles of the Clone Wars, he was taken out by a Separatist explosive. If he’d known what would have awaited him in the future, he would’ve kissed the droid that planted it.

THE FALLEN:

🙌 MAL, or  CT-26-4527, was one of the more memorable deaths in the tunnels. He wasn’t killed in a camp. He wasn’t killed in battle. Didn’t get sick or anything like that. No, he died because he was shot by Kriss, nearly point-blank, between the eyes. His death caused a huge schism in the survivors, which resulted in a bit of infighting and some more deaths down the line. Kriss pretended it didn’t bother him to pull the trigger, but it did eat at him for a long while after. Why did he get shot?

He broke.

He gave up. Rescue wasn’t coming, he said.  We’re going to die here, he said. Why don’t we turn ourselves over to the Seps? What’s the worst that could happen? (It’s worth noting that they hadn’t found the camps - or Cooper - yet. If they had, it might have been much different.) Of course, none of the others took well to this. It didn’t help that he was in near hysterics. Braig had been in the process of healing Hype’s broken leg, so Kriss, Prez, and Boone had told him to keep at it while they handled the situation. The altercation quickly turned physical, and before Braig could intervene, Mal was dead. In Kriss’ defense, Mal had gone to draw on him first - he’d just never been as fast as his ori’vod. In the official reports, Mal’s death is listed as an accident. While Braig may not have agreed with the outcome, he understood why Kriss did it. He didn’t want Kriss getting court-martialed or worse. The only ones who know the truth of the matter are Kriss, Braig, Prez, Boone, and the surviving locals, though Braig would confide in Obi-Wan upon his return.

Prior to this, Mal had looked up to Kriss a lot. Not just as a commanding officer, but as a friend. It was actually in shielding a then-shiny Mal from an explosion that Kriss got his most distinctive scar. Ever since then, Mal took Kriss’ word as gospel. Unfortunately, he couldn’t hold up to the stresses of being a refugee. Some of his brothers tried to comfort themselves by saying they weren’t like him, and he must have had a defect. This caused even more arguments. It wasn’t pretty.

Mal kept his hair cut in the regulation length, but had a stripe of teal dyed slightly off-center on the right side. He had a few tallies inked over his heart (four, to be exact). These were to represent near-death experiences he survived. He was on the lean side for a clone - not weak by any means, but not as solid as some of his brothers. It suited him fine, as he was a bit more agile than them, too. Prez liked tussling with him best, since Mal was a bit harder to hold onto that some of the other vode. Made it more interesting. Mal also seemed to be in his own head the most, so, Prez reasoned he needed the most help getting out of a slump. Mal had the same tallies painted onto the chest of his armor. He had diagonal stripes painted on his pauldrons and the middle section of his helmet. He used a blaster pistol, but also kept a stun baton on his hip. He found they worked pretty well on droids. His brothers took it with them when they continued on in the tunnels. It served them well.

On his off time, Mal liked napping. It’s not super interesting, but he liked it a lot. Turn the world off for a little and sleep. He also liked listening to the radio, but not the holonet news. He doesn’t like knowing about any additional bad things in the Galaxy; he’s seen enough of it. He also didn’t like hanging out in groups too much; he liked his space. .... The tunnels weren’t made for him.

🙌 NADA, designated as CT-25-5342, was on Kriss’ side of the argument with Mal. Shut up, vod, they’ll be here. We’ll be fine. Everything is going to be fine. He didn’t necessarily believe it, but he had to keep saying it. It was the only thing keeping him sane. And, besides, saying otherwise wouldn’t help. He figured, he wasn’t willing to lay down and die. Kriff it. Besides, there’s a karking kid here, can you relax for five seconds before you freak him out? (Braig was too busy trying to help heal Hype’s leg. It took a decent amount of concentration to fix an injury like that in the state they were both in. Braig never liked cutting off his healing work, as that can have... Complications. So he’d been doing his best to focus on his work, and hadn’t really noticed the initial rumblings). While he did try to resolve the issue, Nada didn’t exactly stop it from escalating. He was angry, he was grieving, he was frustrated. He was scared. Clone Troopers weren’t supposed to be scared. They were made to withstand any kind of stress, after all. And he was scared, and Mal was freaking out, and making everything worse, and how was that going to help? When he told Mal to not freak the kid out, it was almost just him finding a way to hide his ‘don’t freak me out’. It didn’t work. He was freaked out.

He defended Kriss after Mal was shot. Kriss didn’t have a choice, he said, made the right call. Kept them safe. Did what had to be done. It almost came to blows further, until the young padawan and the local chief - Goh - put their feet down. Nada stayed angry after, because being angry was safer than being scared. He used the anger to do some brutal things to some droids. He was part of the raid crew that rescued Lowswipe. He was on the raid crew with Hype when Hype died. He survived those. He didn’t survive a supply run. Maybe he was too angry, too scared, too tired. Maybe he’d gone too far in his vengeance. Whatever the case, he got caught by a patrol and turned his blaster on them instead of running. Whatever his motivation, he died that day, but distracted the droids long enough for the rest of the supply run to get away. Whatever disagreements they may have had, the rest of the Twelvers and the locals were grateful for his final sacrifice.

Nada had his head shaved and disliked the feel of facial hair. He had the number 423 tattooed on the base of his skull. He had a habit of dragging his left thumb nail along the inside of his index finger when he was thinking, and as such almost always had a faint scratch or two there. He had the top halves of his leg and arm guards painted in teal, with red accents above his wrists. He was another rifleman, and was pretty proud of his shot. He always had a blaster rifle slung over his back, and could sometimes even be seen wearing it around the barracks.

He was another vod that loved the shooting range, and a drink after. He also liked just leaning against the wall and watching his brothers about work. He didn’t much like listening to music, but might if it was on the quieter side. Lonnie egged him into a few arm-wrestling competitions early on into his time in the Corps, but he got bored of those pretty quick.

🙌 TRICKSHOT also - unwillingly - went by the number CT-25-5101. Like many of his brothers, he despised the notion of being a numbered thing. As soon as he got his name, and especially as soon as he was off Kamino, he refused to respond to his number. He’d never use it. He might be tempted to come to blows if you brought it up. Thankfully, that - and the Seps - were the main outlets for his aggression. It helped him keep his cool in many other scenarios. ... Except cards. He was a bit of a sore loser. The Corps had an unspoken agreement to not let him play with Lowswipe or Boone. Nobody needed that kind of fallout. Arm wrestling Lonnie was right out. (They tried it once or twice. It resulted in a scrap so bad Kriss and Dash had to scruff both of them and dress them down for a few minutes each.)

Aside from a hot temper, he was among the best marksmen in the Corps. People said he had a natural talent for it, and this got mixed reactions from his brothers. He ignored them, mostly. They were just jealous he was better than them. He’d originally started saying that to himself to make himself feel better, but it did contribute to the bit of an ego he developed. He had been another off those who’d been at the base camp, and therefore hadn’t been captured. He’d tried to pull Mal back when he’d started getting aggressive. He’d still been holding on to Mal’s arm when Kriss shot him. Even though he’d seen Mal going for his blaster, it still shocked him, and he was pretty shaken up after. He would echo Nada’s insistence that it was the right thing to do, but it took him a long while to get the taste of bile out of his mouth.

Trickshot ran in a few raid crews, a few supply runs. He had pretty good success, and it at least made him feel productive, kept his mind off of other things. Helped him stay on target. He didn’t like being on scouting and supply runs as much as the raids, though. He always liked being a sniper better than fighting in close-quarters. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t do it, though. Prideful as he was, he knew that their survival hinged on everyone pulling their own weight. It was on one of these supply runs that he died, but his death taught the others something very important about the fluctuating electro-magnetic fields of the planet: While formerly harmless, aside from a bit of static, the Separatists’ interference had somehow caused them to become lethal. Nigh-invisible walls of strong electrical currents that you’d miss if you didn’t know the signs. After his death, no group went out on supply and scouting runs without at least two locals, and the men were not to stray from them. This strained their numbers considerably, but was deemed vital to survival after Trickshot and Scratch’s deaths.

Trickshot had his head shaved, but let just enough grow back that he could have a bulls-eye shaved into the side of the stubble. He also had a full goatee that he maintained meticulously when he had time off. He didn’t have any tattoos, but he did have a scar across his nose from a mission-gone-wrong that he credited with his preference at long-distance fighting. He painted his neck guard teal, and the covers of his hand guards, as well. He also painted a straight line down the middle of his chest and stomach armor.

As mentioned before, he was proud of his marksmanship, and often spent time at the shooting range. He also liked going for runs, and made a point of staking out treadmills in the physical centers. He also spent a lot of time taking his weapons apart, cleaning them, and putting them back together. It helped him relax.

🙌 HYPE, or CT-26-4996, was as stubborn as they came. He never liked giving up, never liked sitting back, never liked admitting defeat. Always rushing onwards. Never slowing down. A real ‘guns-a-blazing’ type. It was his way of dealing with survivor’s guilt. Get out there and do everything you can, and maybe there will be more people coming home at the end of the day. It helped him sleep at night. Helped him look at himself in the mirror. (It gets even harder when you look like all of the people you failed.) His death, more than any other, Braig thought was avoidable. He’d told Hype to stay back. They’d argued about it. Braig said Hype was recovering and needed to wait until he was up to it again. Hype insisted he was fine, and they wouldn’t be able to hold a raid with the numbers they had. He was right, of course, but Braig still wanted him to stay back. Kriss ended up being the deciding vote (as this was the first raid they went on, he and Braig hadn’t yet learned how to see eye to eye). Kriss made Hype promise that he was up to it. Hype promised. They were all worried about their brothers in the camp they’d find, as well as the locals there, as well. They had to get them out, and to do that, you need as many of us as you can take. Kriss had mulled it over for a while before eventually agreeing.

Hype broke his promise. While the break had been healed, the muscle was still stiff from the limping, the moisture, and the sensation of being stitched together again. Unfortunately, it only takes one stumble in battle to get shot. Hype died in the first raid, and Kriss and Braig exchanged tense words about it when they got back to the tunnels. It wasn’t an argument, per se, but they definitely weren’t happy when they tallied up the casualties.

Hype shaved his head, but not as regularly as some of his brothers, so he usually had a bit of scruff on his scalp and about his jaw. He had two notches in his left brow and one in his right. He had a lightning bolt tattooed on his throat, but didn’t have a reason for it. He just thought it looked cool. He had similar lightning-bolt shaped lines painted down the arms of his armor, and a downwards triangle extending from the top of his chest plate to the middle. Like Prez, he liked demolitions, and had a few charges on his person along with his pistol wherever he went. He detonated one of these charges when he realized he wouldn’t be making it out of the camp, taking down a good few droids with him.

Hype lived up to his name in his off time, always willing to be the life of the party. He was always happy to regale his vode with the stories he embellished and twisted over a round at 79′s. If you paid, he’d let you pick which one he told. He knew almost every drinking song, and at least once had to be reminded to keep it out of the barracks if he didn’t want a boot thrown at him. Helped improve his reflexes, at least.

🙌 HARDWIRE bore the designation CT-26-4497. He didn’t really care about it. It was a number. He was not. That was the end of it. Aside from that, he was pretty big on regulations. There’s a proper way to do things, he’d say, so that’s how it ought to be done. Protocol was ‘hardwired’ into him. It made it harder for him to find common ground with men like Prez and Lowswipe. But, again, protocol was hardwired into him, so personal feelings aside, he knew how to follow orders. He could get the job done, so the others tolerated his rigid compliance to the rulebook, mostly. He’d get ragged on from time to time, but, hey. He was used to it. It’d been like that ever since he was a cadet - worse then, in fact. As long as the others did their job, he was fine with it.

He’d been held prisoner in the camp raided when Hype died. The men worried he might’ve said something (not that there was anything to say), and telling them to stop was possibly the first time Kriss and Braig were really on the same page. He appreciated the support, and was adamant that he hadn’t said a word (he hadn’t.) He had some pretty nasty scarring from the camp, but not much aside from that. He had been one of the newer members of the Corps, after all. Not new enough to be shiny, but only by a little bit. He still hadn’t completely grown out of the need to prove himself, which was his death. In perhaps the only defiance of strict rules and protocol he ever showed, he jumped on the back of a B2 to save a child local during a raid. The child was saved, but Hardwire and the droid fell to their deaths.

As was his nature, Hardwire didn’t differ much from what was regulation for a trooper. Short hair, clean shaven. He did paint his armor, though. Every edge was given a nice, neat coat of teal. He liked it that way; thought it looked respectable.

In his free time, Hardwire liked to read. He also liked taking walks around the barracks and maintaining his bunk and gear. He prided himself on never failing an inspection. He also had an interest in cartography, and would, when he could, study holomaps almost religiously. Had he survived, he would have been an incredible navigator.

🙌  CT-25-5501, better known as SCRATCH, had a nasty end to a hard life. He’d made it pretty far. He wasn’t sure if rescue was coming, but, hey. No way to find out if you don’t keep going. That was pretty typical of him. He wasn’t a pessimist, wasn’t an optimist. He called himself a realist. He resigned himself to existing. Honestly, he was pleasantly surprised by how long he’d lasted in the tunnels - how long all of them had lasted. If he’d lived, maybe he would’ve changed the way he thought of things. Might have finally made an optimist of him. Of course, the universe’s sense of humor is too cruel for that sort of thing.

He’d been on a supply run when he died. He’d been enjoying the space and privacy, of which there wasn’t much in the tunnels. a good chance to stretch his legs and breathe. It really is amazing what you can come to appreciate, living like they were. He wasn’t completely off his game, though. Just taking a bit of time to collect himself. Something moved off to the side, alerting him, and he’d gone to investigate. Unfortunately, being lost in a strange planet meant that there were strange predators better adapted than he was, and he was pounced upon by a large canine creature called an Umu’oke. By the time the rest of the party found him and shot the beast dead, Scratch had already lost a lot of blood. He bled out on the way back, and was dead by the time they made it to the tunnels.

Scratch wore his hair just long enough to be tied back in a small pony tail. It was all bleached to a pale blonde. He kept himself clean shaven, and had no tattoos. He did have a small scar on his right shoulder from an encounter with a slug thrower, but that was about it. He painted downwards-facing arcs on the upper part of his arm guards and chest plate. Like Mal, he liked keeping a stun baton on his person, but it was unfortunately broken when the  Umu’oke lunged at him. It could not be salvaged.

He was known widely for being a fairly lazy man about base. Don’t get me wrong, he did his job, but don’t expect him to do any extra work for inspections. Lonnie learned early on that pawning off chores on Scratch was worse than just having to do them, himself. His favourite activities involved napping and watching boloball, though he wasn’t nearly as die-hard in it as Royce and Prez were. It just kept his interest. He also liked watching his brothers play cards more than he liked playing himself. You could usually find him hanging around to offer commentary and conversation when the deck came out.

🙌 GRAZER (CT-25-6002) was an expert pilot. He was more comfortable in the skies and stars than on the ground. That was home, he said. He chalked it up to the Mando in him. He’d get playfully ribbed for this every so often, but nobody could argue his success in the skies. The only one of them better was Tailwind. During flight drills, it was pretty common to see the two of them trying to one-up each other and pulling stunts. They got away with it by nature of being Very Good At Their Jobs. As long as they kept being good, hell, let ‘em have their fun. He’d been back at the base camp when the massacre happened. He’d found a bit of grass, and, as he was wont to do, had been chewing it while he chatted with his brothers. He didn’t know how or when this habit started, just that it did. In truth, he had a bit of an oral fixation, and nutrient paste just didn’t cut it.

He, like Royce, Digger, and Tailwind, is considered an honorable mention among the Twelvers, as they never really made it back to the tunnels. When the attack hit, Grazer, Royce, and Tailwind had made for their fighters. They figured they’d get up, hold off some of the klankers, maybe shoot down some of the drop ships. Grazer did in fact manage to get up in the air.  He also managed to shoot a ship or two down. He had just seen how many more ships were jumping out of hyperspace when he was shot down.

Grazer had a standard haircut for the troops, but grew out his sideburns. He had two navy blue dots tattooed under each eye. He had arrows pointing up painted on his chest plate and leg armor. He had arrows on his pauldrons, too, but those were white on a teal background. He was happiest with a ship’s controls in his hands, but did carry a standard pistol on his belt, just in case.

On his off-time, Grazer could usually be found at 79′s, if only to have a straw to gnaw on. His brothers would often remind him not to chew the styluses for writing reports. He liked watching nerf races more than other sports. He liked animals, and had an impossible dream like Tones, though he kept it to himself: He thought he might like to have a pet, some day.

🙌 DIGGER (CT-26-4332) didn’t expect things to go this way. He figured it’d be pretty standard. In and out, home in time for life day, you know how it goes. He kind of liked the planet they’d been sent to, this time. Lots of greenery. Lots of room to move around. In other words, it was nothing like Kamino, so he liked it. At least, he’d liked it until the massacre happened. That put a rather understandable damper on his spirits.

He had been at the camp when the attack hit. He helped the others get the locals moving and away from the still-deploying droids. He volunteered to help take up the rear and watch everyone’s six. He watched Grazer, Royce, and Tailwind all die. He sort of figured at that point, he was going to die. There was no way they were all making it out of this. That was, in fact, part of the reason he had volunteered for the back. He wasn’t an ARC or an officer. His death would matter less than the others. He didn’t say any of this, of course; no time. He just yelled that he’d take the rear and nobody was in the mood to argue.

He made it pretty far, actually. Had made it into the tree line, and a bit farther then, before turning to loose a few shots off at the droids and slow them down - or, at the very least, thin them out. He got a few down before he took a fatal shot to the chest. Given that the last thing he saw was the rest of the survivors disappearing into the greenery, he died satisfied.

Digger had longer hair that he wore in a tight braid (Master Riloff had taught him how to braid it). He had the 423rd’s star burst tattooed in black on the inside of his left wrist. He also had a small scar on the underside of his right foot from when he stepped on transparisteel after someone had failed to properly clean up a mess in the barracks (he always secretly thought it was Scratch, but never knew for sure). He painted a braid down both the arms of his kit. He also had the star burst painted on the right side of his chest plate, like a badge. His weapon of choice was a gattling gun, and kriff, did he wish they’d brought one along for the ‘relief’ mission. Might have changed things.

While he did go to 79′s, he was very much a ‘leave me alone unless you’re also talking about the pod race’ kind of guy. Don’t get him wrong, he loved his brothers. Just, sometimes you just wanna have a stiff drink and watch kark go fast without having to think about anything or anyone else. He liked his space and his time alone... But this didn’t stop him from subtly warning Prez or Lowswipe when the higher-ups were going to walk in on their shenanigans. He’d just deny it, if you asked.

🙌 TONES (CT-25-9091) loved music. He liked to think to himself that, if the clones got to survive the war and had options, he’d become a musician. For the most part, the rest of the Corps humored him. Of course, that wasn’t possible for a clone. There was no future for them when the war was over. But, he was a nice enough guy, so the others let him dream. It wasn’t hurting anyone. Let him have it. He tended to find music in everything. Marching footsteps made a very nice, even rhythm. The beeps of ship controls booting up had a lot of interesting pitches. Even the clicks of cleaning a blaster could sound nice, if you did it right. He liked to think he knew how to do it right. He was usually the run drumming his hands on his lap during debriefings or on transport ships. as long as he wasn’t obnoxious about it, his brothers had learned to live with it.

He’d been in one of the camps that they found later. He’d figured he was going to die in the camp. He was a clone. Clones are expendable. Even if reinforcements did arrive... ... This was also about the time he accepted he would never get to live out his dream. He’d known, really, but it set in hard in the slave camp. That was it.

He was rescued, but unfortunately, his condition was too frail to survive for long in the tunnels. The other Twelvers did what they could for him, but there was only so much anyone could do. The locals sang to him as he passed, at the request of his brothers. One of their old songs. A story he couldn’t understand, as he never learned the language. Even still, he died with a smile on his face, surrounded by his first and only love as the music lulled him to sleep.

Tones kept the sides of his hair shaved short, with four lines clipped into each side to reference a musical staff. He had music notes tattooed across his clavicle. He had similar sets of four lines painted on the arms and legs of his kit, with a trebel-cleff on a staff over his heart on his chest place, with a few star bursts in place of notes. He liked heavy weaponry, but when that wasn’t available, kept a pair of blaster pistols on his hips. His keen ear made him a good scout, and as such, he wore a scouting-style helmet when out in the field.

As stated before, Tones loved music. He taught himself to whistle when he was a shiny (and his early attempts drove his brothers mad), and was often making up little songs for himself. He drummed with his palms or fingers on his lap, on tables, on walls... He loved listening to the radio. Anything like that. He always wanted to learn a real instrument, someday. In the mean time, he’d satisfy himself with marching and drinking songs with the boys.

🙌 TAILWIND (CT-27-0451) was the de facto flight captain of the 423rd. Yes, all of them knew how to fly. Yes, all of the COs were good at it. But the three of them preferred to be on the ground where possible. Right in the thick of things. Tailwind was their best pilot besides, and was very good at following orders and adapting plans to situations. The COs all agreed he had ARC Trooper in his future at the very least, if not an officer position, someday. He knew this, but didn’t make a big point of it. He was just glad to be of use. He liked helping.

He’d tried to help when the camp got hit, too. He’d made the call to get in the fighters. He figured it might be their best chance to help the others get to safety. Unfortunately, he never made it to the ships. He was close, but not quite. The Seps saw what they were doing and decided that wouldn’t do. A slew of blaster fire took Tailwind out, sending him toppling to the ground before another bolt ended his life. He’d been so close to his beloved fighter, but he was spared seeing it blown up by the same stream of fire that killed him, at least.

Tailwind kept his head shaved, but had a teal soulpatch. He had a small fighter tattooed under his right ear, and a few scattered stars under his left ear. As he was mostly in the air, he’d been spared any major scars. He had a downwards facing triangle painted onto his helmet, ignoring the ‘fin’. He also outlined the viewport of his helmet, had painted his pauldrons and knee guards, and had two stripes just under his pauldrons and on the tops of his leg armor.  Like the other members of the flight crew, he preferred a fighter to a blaster, but he kept a pistol on him, just in case.

Tailwind loved flying. His brothers used to joke that his personality was just the word ‘pilot’. He spent most of his off-time cleaning, maintaining, or re-painting his fighter. He was always the first to volunteer for flight dri.ls or similar exercises. He also spent a lot of time designing nose art, both for himself and his brothers, so he was getting to be quite the artist.

🙌 ROYCE (CT-27-0566) was a risk-taker, but, as he liked to call it, a ‘calculated risk taker’. He knew what he was good at. He knew how to keep being good at it. Or, he had. Everyone’s luck runs out eventually. With his daredevil antics, his actually held out pretty long. He was the last of the men who had stayed at the base camp. He’d been chatting with Grazer when the attack hit. As mentioned before, he never made it to the tunnels, and as such is considered an honorary Twelver at most.

He, Grazer, and Tailwind, as mentioned before, all tried to get airborne. Royce lasted the longest of any of them. He’d gotten into his ship and gotten into the sky. Taken out a ship or two. He saw the other ships coming in and managed to warn the others over the comm channels. He barely got the sentence out before he was shot down. But, at least he warned them about the blockade. He saved his brothers. He did his duty.

Royce had an undercut - shaved sides and back, longer top. He’d tried dying it when he was a shiny, but never liked it. He liked the natural colour better. He also kept a well-trimmed beard. He had a stripe painted around his vizor and a series of dots down the midsection of his chest plate. He had a straight line painted around the center of his back plate. He also had a diagonal stripe sliced through his vambraces. He didn’t do any tattoos, though. He disliked needles immensely, which his brothers thought was weird. Clones get a lot of needles. Whatever, Royce still never liked them. Like most of the flight crew, he preferred a fighter to ground fighting. Unlike the others, instead of a service pistol, he preferred carrying a snubnose blaster rifle.

He and Prez were both hardcore boloball fans, though they argued over which team was better. Royce was a diehard Naboo fan, and they got into more than a few bickering matches about it over drinks. Even so, the two of them both preferred watching the games together instead of apart. It was more fun, that way. Whoever’s team lost had to buy the winner drinks. It was kind of their ‘thing; in the Corps. He also joined Tailwind in the hangars a lot, and helped him paint a good few pieces of nose art in his time. He didn’t have the creative eye for it, he’d say, so he mostly just left the planning and design to Tailwind, but he liked the actual process of putting the paint down. He also liked going for flight drills, or walks around the city. He’d usually do this by joining a few of the vode he was closer to in the Guard on their patrols. He just liked getting out.

🙌 Jedi Master DHISIT RILOFF was the General in charge of the Corps. He was a Quarren who, like many other Jedi before him, came to the temple when he was young. He grew up there. It was his home, his family, his code, his oath.  He had been trained by an elderly human Jedi by the name of Sairees Liial. He was the last of Master Liial’s padawans before she retired from teaching, though he still saw her checking in on the creches from time to time. He imagined, when he reached his twilight years, that would be him, as well. He was proud of being a Jedi. Though he was a bit older, and a Master, he never sat on the High Council, and that suited him fine. Braig would later describe him as a ‘shut-in’ and ‘weird’, but overall very kind. He didn’t need to be a part of any grand goings-on to be happy. Meditation was his favourite thing to do in the temple, and if he wasn’t doing that, keeping up with his training, or off-world, he was probably in his room with a datapad. He wielded a long-handled lightsaber with a yellow blade. He commanded the 423rd Flare Corps, under the Third Systems Army and Obi-Wan. While he was older than Master Kenobi, Master Riloff respected his tactical prowess and ability as a Jedi, and had no problem taking orders from him when need be.

Master Riloff had trained a couple padawans in his time. The most recent was Sudic Draa, a young Nautolan male. Unfortunately, a year or so before the mission to Tasish, Padawan Draa had been killed by General Grievous. Both Dash and Kriss had ended up in critical condition, and Master Riloff viewed it as a grave failure on his part that he never forgave himself for. The Tasish mission had been the first time since Draa’s death that he had agreed to bring a Padawan along with him. As much as his heart ached for the loss of his student, he knew the score. The next generation would need to be trained, and, with the horrific casualties the Order suffered, they were running short on available teachers. He could not shut himself away forever. He had hoped this would be a way to help him come to terms with it all. Him, and the men. A senior padawan with the experience to be left unsupervised, but young enough to still remind him of the joys of teaching. A simple mission, too. From what he’d heard of the boy, it should have been just what they both needed.

Of course, it didn’t work out that way. Master Riloff fell to the droid armies defending the refugees, though not before taking down a significant number of battle droids. He knew that the Force was calling him. He could feel the men around him, his men, as they fell. It was not how he wanted to go, of course, but he was too old to be naïve. He used his last free moment to deliver his final warning to the base camp, then crushed the commlink to prevent its use in tracking the survivors. He died not far away from Commander Dash, saber in hand. ... Until, of course, Tessk came for the spoils.

🙌 REGIMENT COMMANDER DASH, CC-2331, lead the Flare Corps from its inception. He was proud of his boys and made sure they knew it - but he also made sure they knew it was a pride they had to earn. He worked them hard and rewarded the effort. As stern as he could be, it was his fairness that made his men respect him. He also made it clear he’d never ask them to do something he wouldn’t do, himself. A real ‘do as I do’, ‘boots on the ground’ type of guy. He was also very gruff, and not known to mince words. He said what was on his mind and felt no shame in it. No time for pussyfooting around in his Corps.

At the same time, Dash wasn’t especially talkative. He appreciated the value of quiet. He much preferred solitaire to sabaac, and preferred to drink either alone or with Kriss. He considered Kriss his best friend, and this was mutual. They’d grown up together - not batchers, but squad mates. On their off time, he and Kriss sparred together often. When they were younger, Kriss was the better grappler, but Dash was better at standing combat; with how often they trained together, they both helped each other even it out. Dash spent a lot of his free time checking reports, going over equipment lists and reserves, and holding inspections for the men. He liked making sure things were running smoothly, and that they’d be ready for anything. As mentioned before, he also spent a lot of time sparring. If he wasn’t busy, his vode knew he’d almost always be down for a scrap. That’s why he hadn’t been too interested in a relief mission. Yes, he got why it was important, but bonding with people outside of his Corps had never been his thing. The peace and quiet made him restless. In a way, he was almost relieved when the attack came. Or, no, not relieved: Vindicated. That was the word. He was made to kill Seps and protect his brothers and his Jedi (.... and the Republic, but, eh), and that’s what he was going to do. It’s what he did do, right to the last. Blasters blazing, teeth grit, barking orders and formations into his comms. It was just how everyone thought he’d be going out. His only comfort came in knowing some of his brothers would’ve made it out alive.

Like Kriss, he wasn’t sure what to make of the kid General Riloff dragged along. He wasn’t one to question how Jedi worked - he liked his General of course, but Jedi were meant to be weird - but it didn’t necessarily sit right with him. He didn’t know the kid, didn’t know how he’d work with the Corps. Yeah, he knew the kid wasn’t shiny-- Or, sorry, inexperienced - but he’d never worked with them.  And they hadn’t worked with him. And Dash was always awkward with kids who weren’t vode, so, oh well. Kriss’ problem, now (I’ll get you a round when we get home, brother). He figured they’d just handle it all, go home, and it’d be just the Corps again, like he preferred it. Nobody was more important to him than his brothers. Because of this, even if he was gruff, he was well-respected and fondly remembered by the Twelvers. Kriss would keep Dash’s name painted on his blasters, even up to the Purge, until he was stripped of the last bit of individuality he’d managed to hang onto.

Dash grew his hair just past regulation, and kept it slicked back. He was mostly clean-shaven, but occasionally had a bit of stubble from when he got too busy with work to clean it up. He had the numbed ‘423′ and the Corps’ star burst tattooed downwards, from his shoulder to his elbow, on both arms, in thick black aurebesh. He had a number of scars across his torso, arms, and legs from his time on the battlefield, as well as a small scar on his right cheek bone. He had two thin lines painted down his arm and leg guards. The fin of his helmet was painted in 423rd Teal, and he had the starburst painted over the base of his helmet’s transceiver. He also painted the mouth covering of his armor, his pauldrons, and his utility belt. As a commander, he was proficient in many weapons, but had a personal love for polearms. He was also the best unarmed combatant in the Corps, and his vod’ike all had stories of tasting the floor as a result.

🙌 SP-34//R, also known as Spear, was General Grau Tessk’s personal service droid. No, he wasn’t a tactical droid. He was a chef. Grau did his own planning, thank you so much. He had fun with it. No, Spear was there to keep Grau’s peculiar habit interesting. Spear knew over a hundred recipes for preparing any kind of sentient you could think of, with room to download at least a thousand more. He made sure to mention this when Grau mentioned how much human he’d be eating after they wiped out most of the 423rd - “If you worry about the taste becoming bland, I can hold many more recipes than those that you are used to”. He was the one who prepared Master Riloff for consumption. He didn’t see a problem with it; it’s what he was programmed for. It was whoever-it-was’s fault for going against Grau, anyway.

Spear was left unaware that Grau had been killed. He assumed his master was still out on the hunt, as he usually was. Spear was still preparing future meals when the Separatist base he was in was bombed by Republic ships.

UNRELATED TO THE TWELVERS:

🙌 FEENOR REDIIK was a Devaronian padawan at the Jedi Temple during the era of the Clone Wars. As an Initiate, he was sorted into ‘the Mighty’ Bear Clan; following his gathering, he wielded a green lightsaber with a standard hilt. Feenor had a pride about him that many would say was inappropriate for a Jedi, but he claimed he could easily back it up. For the most part, he was right. He was good at what he did. He had good scores in his tests and assignments. He was fairly proficient at sparring. However, his morality was something to call into question. Feenor was someone who believed, because he (and the rest of the Order) had been born with the ability to tap into the Force, he (and the rest of the Order) were superior to those who could not. It showed in some of his interactions with other people, but, given that he didn’t like most others, it wasn’t especially distinguishable from his normal disdain.

Though he and Braig (and by extension, Braig’s core group of friends) were the same age, they didn’t spend any more time together than necessary. They couldn’t stand each other. Not one bit. This was in part due to differing personalities, and in part due to some less than friendly encounters they’d had in the past. Braig thought Feenor was arrogant and selfish; Feenor thought Braig was soft and emotional. They learned to exist with each other, though, as everyone living in the Temple must. Feenor got a master before Braig did, which also didn’t help their relationship any. The fact that Feenor gloated about it made things worse. Feenor was taller and stronger physically than Braig, and often used it to his advantage. However, Braig grew to be a much better swordsman, and Hano grew much bigger and much stronger than most anyone in their year, so Feenor eventually (grudgingly) left them alone. There was still a bit of a rivalry and a lot of dislike between their two friend groups, but they mostly stayed away from each other.

Feenor was taught by a young Piton knight named Roshi Kudh. Knight Kudh was more compassionate than Feenor, but just as stubborn. Feenor was her first padawan, and she was determined to do right by him. Their mutual determination and unwavering resolve saw them through many a mission, and they had a very impressive record under their collective belts. Unfortunately, their grit could only carry them so far, and both student and teacher were killed in battle nearing the end of the war. They were 16 and 29, respectively.

🙌 HANO RHI was a Cathar padawan at the Jedi Temple during the era of the Clone Wars. As a crecheling, he became fast friends with Braig, and they would remain best friends until the Order fell during the purge. They were both sorted into Bergruufta Clan, which suited them fine. The two of them often play-wrestled, even as older padawans. They were sent on their Gathering together, and Hano was one of the ones who helped pull Braig out of the crevice he’d found himself in. He’d sometimes tease Braig about it later in life, calling him ‘Popsicle’ after Garak’s comment from that day (’Thought you’d be a popsicle’). Despite the differing species, the two of them considered each other to be brothers. Like Braig, Hano carried a somewhat unusual lightsaber; the bronze of its blade almost matched his eyes. The bronze crystals were drawn to those of great physical strength, and Hano did not disappoint. He hit the average height for a male Cathar - seven-foot-five - reaching seven feet before he was seventeen. His training and natural physique ensured that he was a wall of muscle, something he was quite proud of as he grew. In spite of his terrifying stature - and the ideas people have about Cathar men - Hano was mostly a gentle giant. He knew he was intimidating, and knew how to use that to his advantage when need be, but for the most part, he liked using his strength to help the men and temple staff with carrying or loading supplies, and to carry his friends around. Braig, Naweh, and Booda, the more physically affectionate members of their group, were his favourite people to just Lift, and Braig especially often rode around on Hano’s shoulders simply because he could. He was also able, especially later into the war, to carry a downed trooper back to safety with one arm without any serious loss of mobility. This was a talent he put to use many times, and some of the troops he served with joked that he was ‘the biggest little brother’ they’d ever had.

As kind as he was, Hano was also a troublemaker by nature. If he was around, you’d probably hear his master, Yokar Eedai, sighing an exasperated ‘padawan!’ from somewhere nearby. He loved cracking jokes and playfighting with his friends (thankfully, the control he’d learned in training prevented this from causing harm). He did his best to keep his lighthearted antics throughout the war, and for the most part, was able to keep smiles on peoples’ faces. He also disliked wearing a tunic (it’s terribly uncomfortable with fur, he’d say), much to his master’s irritation. Pants, boots, sash, robe, sure. He just disliked shirts. This casual state of dress, along with his usual personality, made it easy to underestimate his intelligence. He has been asked on multiple occasions if it bothers him. It didn’t; he was of the opinion that those who needed to know that he was smart did, and those that didn’t gave him the advantage of being able to catch them off guard. Hano also had a reputation of being very protective of his friends - a ‘dad friend’, in modern parlance. Whether it was scaring off someone who bothered them or bringing them food when they were laid up in the medbay, he liked knowing they were well cared for.

Hano did survive Order 66, but only barely, and only because of the sacrifice of his master. He was rendered unconscious after being caught in an explosive, pulled out by some sympathetic friends of his master, and hidden away before being shipped to the relative anonymity of the Outer Rim. When Hano woke up, he was blind, alone, terrified, and missing his left leg from the knee down. He didn’t know what to do. He was only seventeen.

He ended up spending many years in self-imposed exile, not ready to venture out into a galaxy that had taken everything from him. He learned to get around with sound, touch, and the Force, but the world was cruel and cold and he didn’t know how much was left for him. He did venture out eventually, and would - many years down the line - find Braig again. After that, he spent most of his time hanging around the shop, and slowly learning to have fun again by teasing and playing games with his new nephew and lifelong brother. It was the closest to being home again he’d ever felt since the Purge.

🙌 BOODA MALBO was a Gungan padawan at the Jedi Temple during the era of the Clone Wars. As an initiate, she was sorted into the Boma Clan. While they were in different clans, she was very good friends with Naweh, Hano, and Braig from an early age. She was also the one who introduced them to her friend, Lohata, who eventually became another core member of their group, and her girlfriend. (They liked to think nobody knew. The Gathering Group was fully aware, they just didn’t comment on it.) She wielded a light green saber with a standard hilt. Towards the end of the war - just before she was 16 - she had prosthetic arms from the elbow down on both sides. She broke them relatively frequently in the line of duty, but saw the bright side in that she got to change the colour of the exterior plating whenever it was redone. Sometimes, her friends would gather to paint little designs on them, too, and that always made her happier.

Booda was known for being extremely kind and compassionate; a real bleeding heart. She wanted to make other people happy. Her favourite thing to do was to help people. She liked smoothies, and sunshine, and swimming, and flying. Because her master - a Nautolan named Nid Arto - was also an aquatic race, a part of their training usually saw them at the bottom of the Temple’s lakes, meditating together. Her favourite class to study was cultures, and she and Braig often edited each others’ reports before they submitted them. As she got older, and especially when she began venturing out into the galaxy, she made an effort to stop using Gungan Basic and use Galactic Basic. She felt like she had to. She was pretty self-conscious about how the rest of the galaxy viewed Gungans, and did her best to try and present herself as proper and well-educated to combat this. She also felt very self-conscious if she had to make big speeches, and sometimes struggled if she was the center of attention. It was something she was trying very hard to get better at. It helped, having friends who knew what it was like to have their species looked down on. It made her feel understood.

She was incredibly acrobatic fighter, forgoing the strength Hano was known for in favour of being impossible to hit. Her fighting style was not vertical, was not horizontal, was not diagonal: it was all of them. She was always very good at jumping, so, why not? She hopped around when she was excited, too, but tried to keep it under wraps when she was in public. She also loved dancing, and incorporated that hobby into her combat abilities. When she wasn’t spending her meditative periods submerged, she was a frequent practice of moving meditation. She never really liked sitting still, unless she was with her friends. Even then, she was prone to bouncing one or both legs. It helped her stay centered. It was also a common occurrence (though they wouldn’t admit it) for her to hold Lohata’s hand under the tables during meals. Worst case, this could be dismissed by the fact that she was a very affectionate person in general. She especially found her warm-blooded friends comfortable to lean against. It wasn’t strange at all to see her cuddled up to Braig or Hano during study sessions, or on cooler nights when they were assigned to the same mission. It was a running joke amid their group that if she ever greeted them with ‘hey, you’, the correct response was always ‘hey, Boo’ in the same tone.

Booda did survive Order 66, physically. Emotionally, she was not so lucky. She’d been doing flight drills around Naboo with her Master and Lohata (Lo’s master was sick at the time, and was resting back at the Temple). They’d brought a few of the men with them, since they’d at first come to investigate an issue that had been quickly resolved. Nid had figured, well, they have time to kill, and the girls did seem pretty excited to be there. Why not have a bit of fun before going home? They’d had no way of knowing the troops would turn on them. Booda and Nid survived the initial assault that downed their ships; Lohata did not. Booda damaged her prosthetics trying to pull Lo out of the wreckage before Nid was able to drag her away. They took refuge under water, just like they used to for meditation. When the troopers started dropping depth charges, Nid shielded his padawan at the cost of his own life. His body floated in the water for hours before it was eventually retrieved. Booda was able to hide in an underwater cave with an air pocket for a few days, until she felt that the search had been called off. Even still, she was never able to venture far from the lake that had become her safe haven. Many decades down the line, she learned of Braig and Hano’s survival. She was able to send them a transmission, and after that, her old friends would make regular visits to her lake to check in on her. While she wouldn’t feel truly safe ever again, it definitely helped her to feel more at peace.

🙌 YOKAR EEDAI was a Mon Calamari Jedi Master during the era of the Clone Wars. He was known for being curt and stern, and nobody really knew how he and his padawan, Hano Rhi, got anything done with their differing personalities. In truth, while they didn’t always see eye to eye, Yokar never regretted his choice in pupil.

Yokar wielded a blue lightsaber with a shoto-style hilt. He was very steadfast in his beliefs, and he knew how to uphold them. He believed in proper behavior, proper diction, and a firm hand to keep the peace. A Jedi ought to be respectable. This is where he often found himself at odds with his padawan, as Hano was far more relaxed and jovial than his stiff-lipped master. Yokar’s favourite pass-times were meditation and going for walks around the temple, sewing, and reading. He also liked fishing, but he hadn’t had much time for that since the war started. He had a spot or two in mind to take his padawan to enjoy a cast or two, once the fighting had finished. He’d learned how to fish from his own mentor, Jon Jorathi, and had hoped to keep the tradition alive.

Despite what anyone else would think, Hano and Yokar not only got on well, they also cared for each other deeply. Yokar was never one to question his devotion to the Order, nor one to ever want anything else, but he did view Hano as the son he never got to have. Yokar was the last person to speak to Hano before he returned to Cathar for the traditional coming-of-age hunt of his people, and the first one to greet Hano upon his return. (He also gave Hano the following morning off of chores to rest up, which was most unlike him.) While he tried to instill proper etiquette in his padawan, those who knew Yokar would notice that Hano had the opposite effect on him. He would never become what someone would call ‘fun-loving’, but he did learn to lighten up a bit. Just a bit. The lectures on behaviour became shorter and less impassioned, he would turn a blind eye to minor shenanigans. Strangely enough, it was good for his blood pressure.

Perhaps, had things been different, he would have progressed further into the realms of knowing how to relax. Maybe he would have gotten to knight his padawan. This never happened.

Order 66 happened instead. Hano and Yokar had been on the way back to the Temple after some business about town. Nothing too terrible. Working with some contacts, cleaning up some loose ends. The Force shifted suddenly and it was all they could do was rush to the Temple to see what was happening. Of course, they were too late. Yokar knew that even as it left a horrible taste in his mouth, even as Hano refused to accept it. They had to run. He almost had to drag Hano the first few steps (brave, noble, foolish Hano) before they started getting away. They ran, but not fast enough. The explosion went off and Yokar knew that only one of them would make it out. He made the only choice that made sense.

In spite of what someone else might have thought, Master Eedai had always loved his padawan. And he always did, right even as the final blaster bolt went through his chest.

🙌 KASHNA was a wanderer who avoided making a name for herself after the Republic fell to the First Galactic Empire. As a Clawdite, she could look like anyone she wanted to. That suited her just fine. She didn’t like being acknowledged. After the Empire, that meant death. Before the Empire, it could mean death, or it could mean unemployment. Neither was great. Money made the planets revolve, you know.

In spite of that guiding rule, Kashna wasn’t greedy or materialistic. She just needed to survive. Like many of her species, she often found work as a spy or infiltrator, using her natural ability to hide in plain sight. She became much more comfortable in the skin of someone else, rather than her own. Besides, nobody liked a Clawdite being a Clawdite. They liked a Clawdite being someone else. She’d been young when she ventured out on her own; didn’t fit in with her family. Argued with her parents too much, had to get out, find her own way. For the longest time, she thought she was going to exist alone, and you know what? She was fine with this. ... Until she met Kuvora Niett of Clan Dranug. A young Mandalorian Cathar, the leader of Clan Dranug had sent Kuvora out on a journey that she had decided she needed a Clawdite’s help for. The two of them became good friends over the course of their adventures, spending evenings sharing stories over drinks and rations in the cockpit of Kuvora’s ship. It wouldn’t be the last time they worked together, and eventually, Kuvora sent a transmission inviting Kashna to meet the rest of her clan next time she was in the system. Kashna thought that would be fun. Then the Empire purged the Mandalorians. Kashna found Kovura too late, and made an interesting choice. Kashna didn’t like Kashna. Kashna liked Kovura. After giving her friend a burial, Kashna took the armor Kovura had worn.

She also took Kovura’s name and appearance. Kashna travelled the stars as Kovura, a proud Mandalorian, in both honour of her friend and dismissal of herself. Nobody had to know. ... Of course, Braig knew. The Force is an interesting thing. Clawdites and Cathar feel different. ... He also figured she wasn’t who she seemed because she didn’t fight like a Mandalorian did. He’d never want to pick a fight with a trained Mandalorian if he could avoid it; Kashna didn’t give him nearly as much trouble, when they were at odds over a data chip they both wanted. Braig had also grown up with Cathar, and Kashna didn’t move like someone who was used to being a Cathar did.

He didn’t kill her, which was strange, but she did feel humiliated by it all. She also didn’t get the job done, and had to lay low from her employer for a while. She’s going to carry that grudge for a long time, and next time, she’s determined to fight more like a Mandalorian.

[cubanmalefootlover]

In the line of duty

How is it possible a heroic spirit inside a super ticklish body? An unflagging, tenacious soldier could have the answer…

 Corp. of the USMC Dustin Coleman looked completely different when he was off-duty and wearing his normal clothes. He’s like any average 21 years old and happy boy, trendy, outgoing, always smiling, very chatty and playful. But today he’s dressed in camouflage uniform, cap and boots because he’s been sent to this odd country at the other side of the world, too far from home. He missed his parents, friends, parties… However, he had to give his best in this mission, defrauding was not an option.

Following strict orders, Dustin and a dozen of highly trained men arrived at the city to eliminate the last remnant of terrorists in this zone, although they were ambushed and brutally attacked. After several days of bloody skirmish and chaos, Dustin and four others survivors discovered that those terrorists were actually government collaborators disguised as terrorists. A week later, Dustin opened his eyes in a supposedly hospital government, but there’s no trace of any member of his squad. Very concerned and having confirmed his suspicions of a plot, he managed to take a jeep and ran away. He had to report to his superiors about a few interesting things.

Dustin was driving through this unwelcoming land, winding around the rough path with care. The enemy had shown to be well-prepared and how perfidious they could be with foreign troops. Tired, more than twenty hours without sleeping, paranoid, thirsty and hungry, Corp. Dustin Coleman had no time to think in his own misery. Every mission was loaded with real danger and any day could be the last, but he didn’t fear for his own life.

Dustin was scanning all around with eagle eye. He was focused in the road when a twinkle made him look at the right side of the horizon. In the direction of the flicker he saw a house still standing among a few ruins of small buildings, very common in this zone of the country where remains of bombarded towns appeared in sight. Out of the blue, strange noises started coming from the jeep's engine.

-What the fuck’s going on?

He tried to ignore it and kept driving as fast as he could but as he got the level of the wrecked houses, it stalled completely.

-Great, now I'm screwed! –he grunted.

The young man jumped out of the jeep to check the engine. While he was busy in his task, he saw a large cloud of sand coming to him.

-Shit! Is this real? This isn’t happening. No, no, noo… this isn’t happenin’!

He stared at the house about five hundred of meter from him. It’s dark from soot and looked gloomy. It must be uninhabited. His soldier instinct warned him not to go, but stay in the road under the sandstorm wasn’t an option. Not a safe place to get sheltered except that wrecked house… “Damn it!” He swallowed hard and took his M16, a knife and ran toward the house.  

“Looks like nobody’s been here for a while”. He stepped forward as if he were in the battle field.

He looked at the door hesitantly. Then he pushed it and saw a family having lunch. The members of the family stopped eating and stared at the soldier in shock. Dustin aimed his M16 over them. All they stared intently till an older woman said something in their language and a twenty-something girl, probably her granddaughter, translated with anguished voice:

-Don’t hurt us, please…

Dustin stepped inside watching all around.

-We don’t have arms or anything… -spluttered the young woman.  

Dustin looked at her better; she had a small body and pretty face. When he was sure there wasn’t anyone more and no danger, he relaxed just a bit.

-Are you the only one who speaks English? –he asked her. She nodded with fear. The view of this American soldier, with those piercing eyes, aiming his powerful rifle to them got her goosebumps. He was young but looked very dominant and obviously capable to kill them all in a jiffy.  

They looked accustomed to this kind of presence and seemed harmless. Their haggard bodies and sadden faces betrayed too little strength to fight or even escape. This people had nothing to offer him except water and shelter until the sandstorm finish. He made a gesture to they continue their poor lunch. They ate two more bites and the women ran to the kitchen. Dustin followed all them the whole time. The women came back with a bunch of saucepans which placed diligently on the tattered table.

-This is for you, sir… -said the same small, pretty-faced young lady.  

-No, thanks… -he reluctantly mumbled, feeling really grateful because this people offered him their better food.  

The men had closed the windows as better as they could and now were blocking up remaining holes. It worked because the sand kept outside. The food smell filled the place; everyone was satiated except the starving soldier. Dustin was looking at the banquet with a stoic face. Poor boy, his stomach was rumbling like hell; he could eat a horse! There was no hope in the middle of the desert, above all under a sandstorm. He finally sat in a chair and started devouring ravenously: meat, vegetables, bread; local cuisine, but succulent. The members of the family stayed all together to the soldier could watch them.  

When he finished he waited in a corner close the main door. The monotone sound coming from the sandstorm acted as relaxant; he began to feel less tensed and chatted with the pretty-faced girl, the only one who spoke English. She told him her family was thanked that his troops had come to her country to help them against the terrorists. He told her everything was confused and what had happened to his squad with very little details. She told him that sometimes things are not what they seem. He sensed her last words slightly menacing, but he thought it was just his paranoid subconscious.

As he usually did when he met a cute girl whom he wouldn’t have any later relation, Dustin didn’t worry about asking her name, only things in common. She liked sports, parties and hang out with friends like him. She was apparently excited about having found her soul mate and didn’t take her big green eyes off his tall, wiry build encased in his camouflage uniform that made him look authoritative and dominant as he behaved.  

He didn’t even notice when his eyes began to close during the talk… As soon as the girl heard his snoring, every member of the family helped to carry him to a back room.

Dustin woke up with a startle. Blinking repeatedly his eyes, he noted that he was in a bedroom, probably in the same wrecked house. He tried to sit up but his wrists and ankles were strapped with thick ropes to the legs of the bed forming a big X on the mattress. The sunlight coming from the windows made him see two things: the sandstorm was over and the sunbeam angle indicated it’s been three-four hours since the jeep had stalled in the road. Next he distinguished the nine silhouettes of the family members coming out of the semidarkness. The older man said something in their language. The young cute woman approached to the bed:

-He says that this was your last food… Now you will stay here until you die.

-What?!! That’s crazy! –Dustin yelled. He struggled with all his might to no avail.

-Why did you do this to me??!!!! Are you all crazy??!!! FFUUUCK!!!

The ropes were strong enough and had been knotted properly to hold his sinewy, well-trained body in place for long time.  

-You can’t do this to me! –he roared-, I'm here to save you from the terrorists! I'm your friend! Hey you… girl… you have to help me!

The older man kept speaking angrily. Again the young pretty-faced woman deciphered:

-You will stay here until we decide how to finish you off…

Trying to not panic, Dustin managed to convince her to intercede on his behalf. Apparently she told her family exactly what he asked her to say, but they remained deaf to his arguments. The adults of the family went out of the room to talk far from the yells of the prisoner. Dustin continued struggling and kicking against his bonds; he vociferated tons of threats against all them if they don’t let him free immediately and the fate they all would face for hurting an American soldier.  

Two little boys found this situation funny; they started playing each other in a childish fight. The intimidating soldier tied up on bed must seem an amusing situation since they jumped on the bed as well imitating his awkward pose and gestures. One boy accidentally poked his side and he withdrew his torso. Then the other kid, trying to hit his brother, jabbed the other side of the powerless soldier and he jerked uneasily. The boys must have noticed this and began to prod playfully his both sides, making him jump and chuckle.

-Hehe-hey kids hohoho don’t do that… -He tried to look as angry as he really was, but his lips got distorted in smiles as he was touched.

The boys giggled and spoke in their language which turned Dustin more annoyed. The young woman, who was watching the whole scene, grinned mischievously and called the elder man. They talked and sniggered while watched from time to time to the captive in bed squirming helplessly.

-You’ll know ‘bout me as soon as I get out’f this, assholes!! –yelled Dustin.

All them surrounded the bed and stayed looking at him with empty eyes. It was eerie even for a highly trained man. There was something very strange in the eyes of that people that made him fear the worst. His hairs stood on end and a chill went down his spine.

-YOU ALL WILL PAY FOR MY DEAD! –he said with extreme seriousness. But all his words sounded worthless to them.

The elder man took a pair of scissors while another two men brought out knifes.

-What’re you gonna do to me??!! Hey! HEYYY!!! GET AWAY FROM MEEEEEE!!

Dustin tried to resist, but he couldn’t stop those scissors and knifes carefully cut away the strong camouflage fabric of his shirt and the undershirt until leaving Corp. Dustin Coleman’s slim torso naked. He went blush seeing himself in that situation. He was now so painfully vulnerable, just like a man like him NEVER should be. Dustin prepared himself to be slashed, burned, his nails or eyes pulled out, brutally beaten or who knows what kind of method of torture these people would conceive for him. This is war and this was his fate; he had to face it as a hero. He closed his eyes and waited when he felt someone sitting at his both sides. He opened his eyes and saw the elder man and probably his older son. They were watching intently his fit torso and stopped their devious gaze in his hairy underarms. After too much and distressing hours, unable to change his uniform and driving under the middle-east sun, his armpits were reeking with sweat. Dustin didn’t understand why, but soon he did when they brought their wiggly fingers to them. He shook his head a second before feeling those fingers landing in his skin. His body reacted before his mind could realize what was happening.

-Woowoohohono no no… C'hamon, men... C'mon! Hey-haha! Wait a fahackin minute..! Hahahohohooo-hehehehe… that tickles-that tickles… no… don’t!!

The men muttered something in their language. Dustin was now more infuriated than ever, but all he could do was squirm as much as he could to avoid the contact which was pretty difficult in his X-shape pose.

The elder man let his fingers pressure increase just enough to make Dustin jerk and twist with all his strength. He started to giggle harder.

-HAHAHAHAHA… C'mon men… No… no-no-no-NO HAHAHAHA!! Oh my Gad that tickles too much! Oh god OOHHOHOHOHOHOHO GOD NO HAHAHA!!

-They are not sure if this tickles you… -said the pretty-faced young woman.

-Of cohohorsse yehehessss!!! I'M FAHAHAHACKIN TICKLISH!!! Tehehell thehem stop hohohehesshh PLEEEEEHEHESSS! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

The elder man and his son slid their restless fingers down the prisoner’s sides and devoted to rub and knead them along the entire length of this very reactive flesh. Also fingering the soldier’s muscular biceps was too nerve-racking to him. Dustin broke into a deep belly laugh:

-AAHAHWW-NOOOOO...AGHHH-HAHAHAHAHA NOOO MEN… I CAN'T TAKE! I CAN’T TAKE IT… PLEASE DON’T DO THAHAHAT TO ME NO… NOHOHOHONO NOT LIKE THAT NOHOHONO NONOHOHOHOHOHOHOHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!! AWWWHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! STAP!!! I'M TOO TICKLISH! YOU SHOULD TORTURE ME IN OTHER WAY! NOT LIKE THIS! OHOHOHOHOHOSSHHIIT!!!!

One thing Dustin was always trying to hide about himself was the fact that he was explosively ticklish. Actually, he was the type of guy who loved and hated being tickled, but in this situation, he would have preferred to be tortured in other way. This people believed to have found out the perfect punishment for him. The look of panic on his face and his violent thrashing whenever the fingers touched his body was a spectacle worthy of being watched. He followed every move his captors made and did his best to jump out of reach, but all were fruitless efforts.  

-HAHAAAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! HELL NO… DON’T… HEHEHAHAHAHAHAAAWW!!!! NOOUHAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA I CANT STAND THIS I CAAHAHAHAHNNTT!!! FUCK!! CHOOSE ANOTHER WAY TO KILL ME AAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!!!! YOU MOTHERFAHAHAHACKERSSEEHEHEHEHAHAHAAAHAHAHEHEHEHEHEHE!!!!

In a matter of minutes, Dustin was reduced to a hysterical mess. With his eyes filled with tears and sweating buckets, his skin glistened as if he’d just come from a hard training under the rain. He did a silly dance on the mattress trying his best to keep his willpower. Such scene looked borrowed from a grotesque movie: a helpless man was ravaged with tickling and he could do NOTHING to stop it.

Then one of the women cried. Everyone stared at him as if he were some kind of monster: his camouflage trousers had become a huge tent around his crotch. He peered down at the spot they were looking.  

-Oh shit… -he panted-. Tickling does that to me… Now you’d let me go?

All the members of the family retreated from the bed. Dustin sighed with relief thinking that the torture would stop once and for all. Perhaps they would be willing to free him and then disappear because he would take his revenge for having humiliated him so much.

The elder man threw some pieces of the torn shirt over his bulging trouser and again drew back, plotting another way to destroy the soldier, a more traditional, bloody way for sure. Dustin thought these will be his last minutes on earth. The children somehow realized there was something wrong with the upper body tickling, though they didn’t know what. Then they focused their eyes on the huge combat boots protruding from the bed and spoke to the adults. The elder man was reluctant, but after a persuasive talk he seemed to agree. Indeed, there’s another place which is as sensitive as the upper body and it’s located very far from the pudenda.  

Absorbed in his pray, Dustin hadn’t seen any of this until the sound of some stools dragged to the end of the bed made him stare over there. Two guys sat close the corners of the bed and started unfastening the strong laces of his desert boots. 

-No, no, no! Don't you dare YOU FUCKERS! -Dustin kicked against the ropes.

The knots of his Magnum men’s Elite Spider boots were taking too much time to loosen, so the captors brought their knives and shredded the laces.

-No nonono hold on! HEY… DON’T! DON’T TAKE MY DAMN BOOTS OFF!

They ignored him; their hands kept busily cutting the laces. As the soldier felt his boots being taken off, he knew he was doomed.

-We have tickled you too close of your private parts. This time we will tickle you far from your genitals –sentenced the pretty-faced girl as Dustin shook his head in total shock.

Dustin wore desert boot socks, slightly damp from sweat but they had no clue of smell. He swallowed hard and closed tight his eyes. The wicked men wiggled their fingers over the socked soles and scribbled them up and down the length of both feet. Dustin was in real trouble now, knowing perfectly that his feet were his most ticklish spot. He fought to repress his giggles and made futile attempts pulling his legs away from the ropes. Patiently, the men were testing every corner of these size 11 feet covered with suitable military socks. Dustin was responsive as if his feet were bare. They explored the heels, the arches, the instep, the ball of the foot, under the toes, in between the toes as much as the thick socks allow, on top of the toes and even the ankles. The room filled with boisterous laughter; spasmodic gusts of desperation poured from the soldier’s lungs in form of loud guffaws. Corp. Dustin Coleman got lost in TICKLE HELL. Incapable to keep his mind, he lost all control of himself and laughed unrestrainedly like never before in his life. Others member of the family took turns to have their own fun.

After about 10 minutes, they noticed the sheets around the victim’s body were bathed in his sweat. He was breathless, but was determined to endure this. Somehow he understood that his life depended on his resilience. The women threw more clothes over his private area since they realized that the tent in his camouflage trouser had grown even more, if it could be possible. “What size was the male organ of this American soldier?”, they asked with surprise.

Indeed, his throbbing cock was pumping hard against the strong fabric and leaking precum below his shorts. The tickling on his feet caused him stronger arousal, but since the fingers didn’t touch directly the skin because of the thick socks, he was still quite far from the climax; hence, if they kept tickling him through the socks the growing and non-consummated orgasm could shatter his strength. Right now Dustin wanted to cum more than else in the world. Even the fact of being freed and sent home wouldn’t make him feel better if his tormentors didn’t let him cum first.

Having caused such agony just through his thick military socks, some members of the family wondered how much they could harm him if they removed his last protection and did their evil work directly on his bare soles. The elder man was loath to uncover the prisoner’s feet, however he accepted. They pulled the soldier’s socks, exposing inch after inch of his feet and without more ado, they resumed the previous torture.

-OH MY GAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA…!!!!!!!!

Corp. Dustin Coleman went completely insane with tickling. The poor marine howled, ranted and shrieked as his ultra-ticklish soles were scratched with fingernails until he finally climaxed. It was the most thrilling orgasm he had ever had; he kept coming and coming in a nonstop orgasm until his sexual energy was totally spent and he collapsed from exhaustion.  

When Dustin regained conscious, he saw again the same room and knew it wasn’t a nightmare as he hoped. The sunbeam revealed that it was morning, so he had been sleeping 12 hours or more. Surprisingly, he wasn’t tied up in spread eagle, but he had only a manacle around his neck attached to the bed by a chain, so he sat up and stretched his aching body. He had still his camouflage trousers on and could feel the sticky mess in his shorts, but was too ashamed about stripping off his last clothe and stay nude in this crazy place filled with psychos. There was a tray with meal in the bed that he devoured angrily. At least these people weren’t going to starve him to death.

After noon, several persons came in the bedroom. They weren’t the family of the previous day. Dustin cried who were them. These new people said something Dustin didn’t understand. They forced him spread eagle again, took off his trousers and shorts and fastened his wrists and ankles as well, then they vented their anger on his body in the same odd way. In a matter of minutes, Dustin was in a state of ticklish dementia; his Adam nipple vibrated frenziedly and he got beetroot in a forced smile-grimace as they tickled and tickled the fuck out of him. Every of them wiggled their fingers all over his body, from his responsive neck to his super ticklish soles, including his private parts, so he reached orgasm soon and, shockingly, after he climaxed, they continued tickling him knowing that after the orgasm the ticklishness should peak.

Next day Dustin woke up with the neck manacle and the meal. Today he was stark naked. His green shorts, his uniform, cap, boots and socks were scattered on the floor. He was asking himself tons of things about his recent days when the door opened and another bunch of people entered in the room, these were different from the previous. Dustin was astonished! “All the fucking people of this country are coming here to tickle me?”, he thought in utter disbelief. “This isn’t happening!”  

Once again, Dustin’s hysteric laughter thundered against the walls for several hours. It was terrifying how two people grabbed his ankles within a leg-lock and held back his toes with one hand while used the other to scratch his exposed soles with no mercy. As well other people scribble their fingers on his armpits, down his sides, his ribs, nipples, abs, navel, inner thigh and calves. Corp. Dustin Coleman had been gifted with an average cock, about 6-7 inches long ―he used to measure it and compare with others guys― and medium balls. His orgasms were intense, at least that’s what he had experience so far. Nonetheless, in this bizarre situation, under the rapturous effects of the tickling, his cock had reached 13 inches long and his balls looked like goose eggs! He was beyond wonder, but he got used to it very quickly, after all some BIG genitals had been always his great dream! Perhaps, he thought, the penis and testicles grow when they’re properly stimulated, above all if the cock is also engulfed in a greedy mouth that gave him the blowjob of his life, which it was repeated many times all the while he was tickled. To make things better, he felt also a myriad of tongues licking every corner of his body. Needless to say he came countless times and after every climax he was, as expected, more and more responsive, so no one in world could imagine how he was feeling right now. He was miles away from Hell or Paradise, in a sort of limbo. He was completely out of himself in an endless cycle of agony and ecstasy, but what these people ignored is that Corp. Dustin Coleman had an exceptional stamina, so he confronted his fate with all his strength and good mood…

  Fourteen weeks after that day when Dustin’s jeep got stalled in the vicinity of those wrecked buildings, one squad of the company *** stomped in the deserted house. They had followed some traces that leaded them to finish the conspiracy and defeat all the terrorists in the area. One of those traces guided them where the jeep was, the rest was history… As they walked within the gloomy house, a half open door attracted their eyes. They pushed it and found a tall, wiry figure, it was a man and they recognized him quickly. Corp. Dustin Coleman was sleeping on the bed and buck naked as if he were in home. His hair had grown to his shoulders and was bearded. A look of despair twisted his nice looking face as soon as he saw his compatriots. He apparently had forgotten his English and was speaking the language of the country. In the infirmary he managed to claim that he had been tickled to no end every day by many people, but he was told again and again that he wasn’t tied up and that nobody lived in that house two years ago since the war started.

Dustin was sent back to United Stated and put in an asylum for a month, until he gave signs of recovery. He stopped talking about being tickled and behaved normally. His memories about that place looked a dream. Everyone assured him that they didn’t explain who had kidnapped him there since it was a ghost town, all the people had died during a bombardment a year ago. His kidnappers surely were terrorists.

  One year later, Dustin Coleman took a fly to Middle East. The town was still deserted despite the plan to rebuilding. Our veteran soldier rented a car and drove toward the gloomy house; he pushed the door as if he came home. The same family was inside looking at him without surprise. He was wearing his normal clothes, those that made him look like any 22 years old boy, cool, happy, uninhibited and friendly. He smiled and waved his hand, after all they knew him and he knew all them.

-Hey, guys –said Dustin in their language- this time I came to stay…

  The end

[spectraspecs-writes]

Tatooine - Chapter 55 (HK-47)

Link to the masterpost. Chapter 54. Chapter 56.

@averruncusho thank you for reading, you get a tag

I just got a bad feeling. Something’s coming. Or we’re getting closer to something. Dark. And it’s close. “Hey, Mission?”

“Yeah?”

“You have your stealth field generator on?”

“Always.”

“Would you do me a favor - turn it on and just look around the corner.”

“Is something wrong, Rena?” Bastila asks me.

“Bad feeling,” I say, “I want to confirm.”

“Does this bad feeling involve me cracking some skulls?” Canderous asks eagerly.

“I’ll go check it out,” Mission says, and she activates her stealth field. We wait about a minute or so before she comes back. “Three Dark Jedi,” she says, “Mean looking. They got face masks on.”

“They were probably sent by Lord Malak,” Bastila says, “Is there any way we can get past without fighting them?”

“Not without tripping the poison mines I set in front of them,” Mission says proudly.

Canderous beams, laughing. “Smart kid!” he says. (And he gets away with calling her kid - I love their friendship so much.)

“Well done, Mission,” Bastila says, and I expect a “but” coming, “Although in the future I would advise against taking such risks.” Not a “but”, an “although.” How surprising.

“You’re welcome,” Mission says. God, I love her. “We should probably go say hi before someone else triggers the mines.”

“Good idea,” I say, “Ready everyone? Let’s go fight the Sith.”

We round the corner, and right on cue, three Sith. Three mines. “Lord Malak was most displeased when he learned you had escaped Taris alive!” one of them says, but I can’t tell which one because of the masks, “He has promised a great reward to whoever destroys you.”

“Why don’t you come collect that reward, you pack of hairless banthas?” They step forward - and have their faces flooded with poison gas. And in the chaos, Canderous gets off a shot at each of them. When the gas clears, they hit the ground dead.

Canderous sighs. “This is getting too easy,” he says, “Have the Jedi lowered their standards or do the Sith just let in anybody with a chip on their shoulder and an axe to grind?”

“I assure you, it’s the latter,” Bastila says. Is… is she smiling? Is she smiling at Canderous? And he’s smiling back - oh, my God, this is so cute!

“Oh?” Canderous says - oh, wow, he’s making a move, is he? “So if I ever went up against you, you’d give me a good fight?”

He’s trying to flirt, but Bastila is working more the friend angle. “If it ever came to that.”

Canderous backs off the flirting angle, but that doesn’t stop Mission from saying, “Sheesh, get a room, guys!”

Canderous - holy hell, Canderous blushes. Bastila says, “I hardly know what you’re talking about, Mission.” She brushes her hair away from her face. “We should get moving. I know Rena is especially eager to see this droid.”

“I am, yes,” I agree, sifting through what the Dark Jedi dropped, including some lightsaber crystals and a datapad from Malak with a description of me and Bastila. Seems like these guys won’t be the last Dark Jedi we face. “But the cantina is also around the corner and we should ask about your mom.”

“Rena, we really don’t have to,” Bastila says, stammering a bit, “If it takes time away from the mission…”

“I’ll take care of it,” Mission says, “I’ll ask around, you guys go see the droid.”

“No arguments here,” Canderous says, “I’ve spent more than enough time in cantinas for one lifetime.”

“I agree,” Bastila says, “I see no point in waiting there if my mother is no longer on the planet.”

“Yeah, you guys go have fun,” she says, “I’m going to hustle some nerf-herders out of their credits.”

“Don’t bet too much,” I say, and we head off to the droid shop.

Already I’m skeptical. There’s a droid out front with sand in his vents, still functioning somehow. You don’t store droids outside, dude, come on. We step inside, and there’s nobody out front to sell us anything. Wonderful service. I only see the one functional protocol droid, must be the one we’re looking for - may as well ask it to sell itself.

Wait, hang on -- “This droid has sand shields!”

“What?” Canderous says, because he wasn’t part of yesterday’s conversation.

“I thought you said you developed those?” Bastila asks.

“I thought I did.”

Then the droid activates. “Greeting: Hello to you, prospective purchaser. I am referred to as HK-47, a fully functional Systech Corporation droid skilled in both combat and protocol functions. Query: Would you be so kind as to purchase this model from Yuka Laka? It would serve my purposes to be removed from his ownership.”

“Certainly talks like a protocol droid,” Canderous scoffs.

“I’ve never heard of Systech Corporation,” Bastila says.

“No, neither have I,” I say, “but they seem to make good droids if this model is any indication.” The sand shields are still throwing me off; they look just like the ones I made for T3 yesterday. I look back at the droid. “What else does Systech make?” I ask him. 

“Answer: With the restraining bolt in place, I do not have access to my memory core. I suspect, however, by the fine quality of my manufacture that they are a prestigious company, indeed. I suspect I am of unique construction,” the droid says, “…or perhaps I was intended for a very specific customer. How I ended up here I can hardly say. It is sufficient to say that I am a fully capable translator and cultural analyst, and I am also proficient in... personal combat.”

I pull out my microspanner and make a quick inspection of the restraining bolt. “Yeah, that thing’s on there good,” I say, “And it’s restricting access to your memory?”

“Statement: Indeed,” HK tells me, “It is possible that the Ithorian Yuka Laka placed the restraining bolt on me to prevent my return to a previous owner. It is also possible that the removal of the bolt will not restore memory functions. Without my memory, I do not know if I know the answer.” Yeah, that would certainly put a damper on things. “Do not interpret this as a reduction of my worth, however. My capabilities are quite expansive.”

“I can tell,” I say, still examining him with my spanner. 

“What are you seeing, Rena?” Bastila asks.

“Well,” I say, “to be honest I’m not completely sure. I’m more familiar with utility droids. But I can tell this droid has everything a utility droid has and more. There’s a lot going on in here.” I tuck my spanner away. “Not much in the way of computer interfacing, but a droid like you, I’m not sure you need it,” I say to HK, “You said you’re a translator and a cultural analyst. I understand most languages pretty well myself, why would I need you?”

“Extrapolation: Intuitive language comprehension? That would be the result of recognition and training of Force sensitivity.”

“Smart droid,” Canderous comments. 

“Your kind have little use of translation droids,” he says, “Of course, your kind also encounters danger on a far more frequent basis than the average citizen. You would do well to have me work for you, then, before someone else makes use of my… more exotic functions.”

Sounds like a low-key assassin droid to me. But I doubt anyone else knows that. “Well, I’m sold,” I say, “Is Yuka Laka around? I’ll see about purchasing you.”

“Statement: The fool Ithorian has decided I am to be an expensive purchase. He does this out of greed and not out of knowledge of my true capabilities.

“Advisement: I have observed him. He is a coward, and will be responsive to… aggressive bargaining.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, then I call out, “Is the proprietor in?”

There is a very large metal clamor out of sight, followed by a garbled series of beeps and whistles and some swearing in Ithorese. When the Ithorian comes out of the back room, it is on a small wave of droid parts. “What is this?” he says, “A customer I don’t recognize? Perhaps you bring off-world credits to Yuka Laka?”

“Talk to me about HK-47.”

He ambles over to me. “It's a fine protocol translator. I think it's been modified. It claims to understand the Sand People dialect, and also has some armor mounts. Combat ready, perhaps?”

“I’m interested,” I say, sparing a glance back at HK, “Let’s talk price.”

“It's a very solid machine,” he says, considering a price, “in good shape. I can't let it go for less than 5000 credits.”

Yikes! “If that’s the price, you can keep it.”

“4000!” Yuka Laka quickly amends, “Not a credit less!”

HK was right, he is a coward. “That was quick. Desperate to sell?”

“Ah, no, not really,” he says unconvincingly, “but the first figure really was a little high. You never know, the occasional person bites right away.”

It’s still a bit high. “Perhaps I can convince you to go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats in disbelief, “How low are you expecting me to go? These are difficult times.”

“Listen,” I say, trying to be charming - I’ve never had much luck with Ithorians when it comes to feminine wiles, but when it comes to business sense, they’ve always been receptive to me, “I’m a Republic droid tech. This war with the Sith has been moving farther and farther out to the Outer Rim. There’s been a greater and greater need for parts and capable droids, and yours is the only place to get them in Anchorhead.” I think I see him softening. “Now, when I go back to my superiors and they ask me about the business in Anchorhead, I can tell them one of two things. I could either tell them that Yuka Laka sells substandard tech at exorbitant prices, or that he’s a sharp-minded Ithorian with a keen business sense who’s willing to make a deal that will do him better in the long run.” Almost there, almost got him. “Which do you think will convince my bosses to come to your store?”

He’s so close. “And you think your superiors will listen to you?”

Bastila catches on. “Sir,” she says, “As a member of the Jedi Order, I can assure you that the Republic has the utmost trust in this woman.”

“You--” Yuka Laka says with a bit of a laugh, “You can’t expect me to give you the droid for nothing.”

“Of course not!” I say reassuringly, “That’s bad business. But it would also be bad business to quote me a price that I can’t take back to my superiors.”

Got him. “2750.”

“2500 even, and I’ll throw in a top-notch microspanner.”

“Done.” I hand him my microspanner - not even my good one but it’s still in good shape - and transfer him the 2500 credits. (Some credits come right back to me - Mission must be doing pretty good at Pazaak.) “Well, thank you very much. Just go on over and talk to it. I'll deactivate the restraining bolt when you take possession. It's a good purchase, especially if it actually speaks a Sand People dialect like it said. Now,” he says, “you’ll be sure to tell the Republic about this business deal?”

“Most definitely,” I say, “Next time the Republic fleet is in the area, expect an increase in profits.”

“I look forward to it,” he says.

“HK!” I call to the droid, “Let’s go.”

Yuka Laka pops off the restraining bolt. “Statement: I will enter into your service now, master. I am certain you will make adequate use of my primary functions. My gears are practically quivering with anticipation.”

When we step out, Bastila - I should have expected some disappointment from her - says to me, “Why did you lie to that man?”

“It wasn’t a complete lie - and you helped.”

“I did not lie!” she protests, “The Republic obviously has trust in you if they recruited you. You were lying - you certainly have no intention of informing your ‘Republic superiors’ of this transaction, do you?”

“If someone asks, sure.”

“And to expect more business the next time the Republic fleet enters the system?”

“Of course - economies get a bump whenever the fleet rolls in.” She’s still not satisfied. “You want long-term? I’ll give you long-term. We get a droid who can speak the Sand People dialect, we make peace with the Sand People, we find the Star Map, we leave, destroy the Star Forge and end the way. Instead of making a better life for one merchant, we make a better life for the galaxy. Now, is that an acceptable trade for you, or are you going to make me give back the droid, which will hinder the peacemaking?”

She tries to argue, but only stammers. Then she just gives up: “You are becoming a horrible influence on me.”

“Yeah, I like you, too.”

Just as we’re on our way back to the cantina for Mission, she finds us. “Okay, two things. Well, three things,” she says, correcting herself. “First off, they won’t let me play Pazaak in there anymore - “

“You hustler, I love you,” I say, and she smiles.

“Second, it didn’t take much asking to learn about Bastila’s mom. She’s there most days and yells at everybody.”

“That sounds like her,” Bastila comments.

“She wasn’t there just now, but tends to come later in the day according to the bartender. And third, apparently there’s a sandstorm coming and Czerka told all their miners to either come back or stay put.”

“Guess we’re not hitting the dunes today,” I say.

“We should return to the ship,” Bastila says, “We can continue our search tomorrow.”

“I tend to agree,” I say, “I want to look over HK, anyway.”

“Objection: Look over? I assure you, master, I am in prime condition!”

“I know,” I say, “but I’d like to know what ‘prime condition’ entails.”

“Statement: As you desire, master.”

[emordnilap-fr]

Day 15/16 - revelations

lore pinglist: @voltaic-ambassador ask if you’d like to be added!

Pulls: black head bow, cliffside milkweed Action: breed/gene a dragon, 10-20 battles

After two days of living with this-- makeshift clan? was that what they were?-- Taki had to admit that these other dragons weren’t half bad.

Mitodoro had warmed up to him instantly, trying to pull him into various games and the like. Despite her limited vocabulary, she communicated with him well enough - or was helped by Taki’s own ease at reading others - and did her best to make him feel welcomed. It worked, he had to say.

Ora was an odd case. He was friendly towards Taki, but never seemed to know quite how to talk to him. It was unexpected after how Ora had suddenly insisted that Taki them, but Taki couldn’t blame him. He seemed to be the shy type, if his quietness around everyone was anything to go by. At least he was getting along with Laurel; the longneck had told Taki about Ora’s curiosity in healing, which the skydancer knew from experience how long Laurel could go on and on about. Serkalem was friendly enough, but he was usually busy talking to one of the others or walking up and down the ledges of the ravine, keeping watch. Still though, the other dragon would ask Taki how he felt about staying with them (fine) and where he’d come from (home) and generally just make sure he was doing well with himself. Altera was probably the only one he wasn’t very fond of. He respected her, of course; she’d been the main one leading this ragtag group of young dragons for a couple weeks now, teaching the what she knew and making sure nobody ended up dead. But she was also the only one not particularly fond of Laurel, which Taki took offense to. Laurel had said not to worry about it, but… well, Taki wasn’t one to ignore things like that. At least she genuinely cared about the others, himself included, underneath her snappish personality. But, even with his misgiving towards Altera, Taki still had to say these dragons were pretty damn good company, especially after having been on his own for the past several days. Their devotion to each other, however… strangely expressed it could be, was obvious. Well, at least to him it was. He could just tell these kinds of things, after all. Maybe that’s why now, everyone but him was surprised to find Serkalem sitting next to Altera, his head leaned against hers, as she curled herself around a single rocky-looking egg. Mitodoro hummed wildly in excitement, a loud, ever-changing “tune” that, really, only served to grate painfully on Taki’s eardrums. Laurel stood back, watching in amusement as Ora sat back on his haunches and gesticulated excessively with his arms, wings, and crest. He was the epitome of the word “Huh??”. “You two- what- I don’t- when?? I wasn’t expecting this! I didn’t know you liked each other!” “Really?” Taki piped up from his position, slightly nearer than Laurel. “I thought it was pretty obvious.” Everyone looked to him at that, Serkalem and Altera in embarrassment and Ora and Mitodoro in surprise. Serkalem tilted his head and asked, “Wait, we were? I thought we were doing pretty well keeping it low, really.” Ora nodded in agreement. “I didn’t know a thing. Now you two have a nest!” Taki just shrugged his wings. “Yeah, I could tell within a few hours of being here. I’m good at reading others though, so… don’t worry. If the others didn’t notice, then nobody else would’ve.” The others simply kept staring at him, confused and bewildered, until Laurel began to chuckle. “Look,” she said, trotting over to Taki and pulling his head down by his lower horn, “Taki? Dancer dragon. Feels heart with this.” She tapped a blunt claw on his forehead gem, then ran it down the length of one of his antennae. “Very advocate.” “...Accurate,” Taki whispered as quietly as he could. “Very accurate,” Laurel corrected herself without missing a beat. The others were quiet for a few moments more, before Serkalem finally broke the silence. “Damn. I think you’ve beat all of us when it comes to the weird things our species can do.” All Taki could do was nod (not that he could do it well, still being held onto by Laurel). It was a strange ability, but… it was him. And if that was the only sort of reaction he’d get from these dragons after them finding out, then, well. Things would be just fine.

- Taki is Not used to others being surprisingly chill with him being able to read them like a book. he is glad these guys are cool with it - Serkalem and Altera otp is a go yessss - explanation for Laurel’s mixup: i’ve been thinking of Ursegal as the Draconic they’ve all been speaking, the dictionary for which can be found here. ‘accurate’ is translated as ‘toget’, while ‘advocate’ is translated as ‘Getat’. it’d be an easy mistake to make for a longneck still slowly getting used to the language - coli team was Altera, Mitodoro, and Taki in the training fields. 15 battles, Mito and Taki are both lv 3

[trolloled]

Big List of Fantroll Facts from Hiveswap

This is all pulled straight from the game with 0 (or attempted 0) bias from me or @peckonthecheek​

We have both played the game so I can verify several things on the list. Most of the information comes from @peckonthecheek​ who exhaustively did everything in the game and recorded useful information.

If you want to add to this post, feel free to screenshot what you want to add and send it to me!

Land - Alternia consists of 4 - 5 continents and is mostly covered by said land.

Language - Alternian is distinct from English, trolls at least write in Alternian. It is read from LEFT to RIGHT and every symbol in its alphabet can be directly translated back to an English letter.

Drones - Weak point is in its torso. Drones can burn down hives and just take away random trolls for whatever reason.

- They can also fly and fire missiles.

Lususes (Yes that’s correct) - One species of lusus is the Cuspidated Grimalkin, (A deercat) which prefers to bond with brownbloods with leadership aptitudes. If a Grimalkin loses its charge (Fairly common) it will try to find a new troll to adopt. This is highly illegal.

- Another species of lusus is the Supplikatydid, which resembles praying mantises

- There exist several books on the various species of lususes.

- Lususes have blood colors and tend to bond with trolls of certain bloods

- Sloth lususes (GLACIAL TREETRUDGER) are pretty uncommon

- Lusus can be referred to as a pet/dad

- Multiple of the same types of lususes exist

Powers - Redbloods share telekinesis and speak-with-dead powers as a caste, brownbloods share animal communion powers

- Telekinesis - no matter how weak - can erase data off of discs easily

- Overexerting powers can cause exhaustion, nosebleeds, headaches

Stickball - This is gonna be huge so just. Bear with it.

- There are several leagues depending on area - There’s some sort of piece known as a CLOVER - Positions include PUSHER, BRAWLER, PROWLER, ZAPPER - Played on Velvet - Two pieces called a DOZER (Ball) and a SNOWGLOBE (Ball) - Burgundies often play PUSHER due to their telekinesis and ability to talk to the dead players - PUSHER is the most dangerous position - No one cares if a rustblood dies due to the danger of the position - Some HAZARDS - MATCHTIP - burns you - ZAPPER - blasts you - LUSUS - controlled by opposing (brownblood) Wranglers - Only unbonded lususes are allowed (Can be friendly, neutral, or opposing) - Each ball (DOZER, STITCHER, TRACER, FINISHER, SNOWGLOBE) has its own effect (There are 15 total) - Cuebats (the tool that the PUSHERS use) are made to be hard to bend with their telekinesis - It's okay to use someones torn off leg or other weapons found on the playing field as improvised weapons - but illegal to bring in your own!  - DOZER puts you to sleep if you touch it with your bare hands - STITCHER is a ball of yarn that has to be rolled up before it can be used to score - TRACER will try to follow the path it was taken the match before - FINISHER will only move in a predetermined path to the goal. - If your tryout is bad enough, you CAN get culled  - Rustbloods caught cheating in Arena Stickball will "get culled before they can blink"  - SNOWGLOBE - 8-BALL, rigged with a nuclear bomb that explodes after a set amount of time. - Controllers are often bluebloods (Cerulean?)  - Lususes are used in this sport - they can be friendly, neutral, or opposing - Aren't allowed to be fed, though - Sloths are not commonly used in AS due to their slowness - PUSHERs are the only players allowed to score (And are thus prime targets) - PUSHER helmets are designed to leave the forehead exposed for their    Psychic Powers, however this is a weak point and why they die a lot. - There is a team called the SNOWGLOBES - Xultan Matzos was a PUSHER - very famous - If the heiress attends a match, you are “encouraged” to kneel the entire time - Not following the rules proper will get you culled - Couches are MADE of FABRIC  - PUSHERS are advised to rely heavily on telekinesis - THE MAN ON THE MOON (White, non-scoring ball) cannot be interacted with by PUSHERS. It radiates a feeling of pernicious intent (to Xefros, at least)

Lowblood life:

- Having leadership aspirations is illegal and grounds for execution.

- Suburbs (Subgrubs) are segregated by caste.

- It is mandatory to buy what the heiress is selling.

- The bus system is infrequent and unreliable ("engineered to prevent caste mobility")

- Sometimes (Most times for lowbloods?) jobs are involuntary and assigned

- There is a LOT of class struggle and oppression

- There is, quote “Forced participation in keeping that oppression running smoothly.”

- Have to practice your profession before the TRIALS or you'll get culled

- Demanding a refund as a lowblood can get you culled

- Even uttering rebellious sentiment and promoting it could lead to your execution

- It's Imperial mandate that rustbloods are kept poor - they're not allowed to have more than the bare minimum to scrape by

- "Almost all" rustbloods end up as butlers 

- If a lowblood (read: redblood) makes a name for themselves and succeeds too well, they are liable to be humiliated and culled.

- Heiress will and can make a spectacle of your death in public

- Dreaming of destroying things associated with the heiress can get you killed

- Circular discs are a luxury, if you can't afford them, you get hexagonal ones

- There are sections of magazines that are illegal for lowbloods to read (???)

- Good pizza toppings are reserved for highbloods

- Lowbloods either get instaculled in raids or snatched up for later

- Mostly to be killed as a highblood spectacle

- Lowbloods can get culled for anything and everything or no reason at all - Anyone who disobeys the heiress gets rounded up and enslaved or slaughtered - Slavery is a thing (especially for rustbloods)

- The heiress hates aliens and lowbloods

- Your money is monitored by the government to keep you poor. (Probably).

- Scythian (Troll version of Amazon) always takes forever to deliver to lowbloods

Highblood Life:

- SLAM OR GET CULLED prevents voting from lususes, unless you're a highblood, and then you can have your lusus go on stage and eat everyone, if you want

- Highbloods generally can get away with a lot.

- Indigos (Blue?) care where the silverware goes (tend to "crush anything they pick up anyways")

- High society dinners often involve bluebloods (Pranking during this time often gets you culled)

- Chucklevoodoos are a subjug thing - not a purpleblood/Gamzee thing (Typically these involve dreams and the subconscious) - Heiress has a lot of servants, literally eats off of gold plates

- Violetbloods are considered royals: They can get published anywhere and tend to write lots of reviews about everything (Their hatred for lowbloods, what they just ate), most reviews are by them and they are especially disgusted by rustbloods.

- Heiress has a court of highbloods and a drone army

FLARP:

- They have FLARP editions based on spies, espionage, and rebellion - FLARP editions have fatigue rules in them involving SOPOR SLIME - There is a FLARP class called ESPIACROONER - It is permitted to use your telekinesis and other psychic powers in FLARP  - Need a game grub in order to play FLARP! 

Miscellaneous (Everything else):

- There is a city named THRASHTHRUST which contains the subgrub called OUTGLUT

- Swinging a weapon at an image of the heiress will bring a drone down upon you near instantly.

- Trolls sleep in recuperacoons due to the "violent and troubling impusles" they have - Sopor is very physically and mentally draining - Can injure trolls further if they sleep in the sopor while injured. - Gotta shake off some of the slime to completely wake up (?) - There are chairs with sopor slime in them, made to relax in (See below) - Sopor slime in close proximity to a troll helps them to relax - Eating sopor slime makes you dumb though 

- Sopor Slime keeps powers in check while they are asleep.

- SLAM OR GET CULLED can end in “relatively certain death” for the losers

- There is an interplanetary warsong titled  "If You Aliens Were Not Meant To Die At Our Hands, Why Are You All So Pitifully Incapable Of Defending Yourselves?!"

- There are Illegal parts of History! Censorship is REAL!

- Protest art exists (Videogames are considered art?)

- Video game controllers dies from starvation. Once they die, the mother console lays a new one.

- Crack open a controller for game grub - pus gets everywhere

- There have been multiple heiresses, but only one is alive at a time

- Interfaces can be designed with psionics/telekinesis in mind

- Jostling sopor is good housekeeping (?)

- Magazine titles: Arena Stickball Illustrated, Grubs Diurnally, Talentless Nobodies

- RITES OF MATURATION: Occur around 7 sweeps, involve Trials, decides your future. Nothing is known about them beyond this, not even whether it means you instantly leave the planet. Trolls are expected to TRAIN FOR THESE.

- Putting inorganic material in a grubslurry activator is begging for death

- Eating raw eggs is bad for trolls and gives them parasites - Trolls have benevolent and benign parasites

- Troll pupils are kind of reflective like a dog - they reflect white, though!

- They create their hives when they are freshly pupated, CARPENTER DRONES ENFORCE THIS.

- Typing Quirks are very personal for trolls! - Close friends and quadrants can imitate them sometimes - Only two fuschiabloods - Heiress and the Queen. Both are seadwellers - Queen is far away  leading conquests in other galaxies, she is known to be incredibly powerful

- THERE ARE NO (0) (ZERO) ADULTS ALLOWED ON ALTERNIA. NO EXCEPTIONS EVER.

- Adults are sent off-planet for their ORDEALS when they come of age

- Quadrants are Fated? (???)

- All text communications and conversations are subject to monitoring by the government.

- Trolls do not meet aliens until they’re off-planet, where they conquer them.

- The caste system is highly important.

- Trolls clean their floors with mucus (?)

- Calendars exist with celebrities on them!

- There is a month named CULLUBRE

TROLLIAN TERMS HIVE - House POWER HEXAGRID - Power grid? LUSUS - Caretaker beast SUBGRUB - suburb STEMCLUSTER - City OMNISCUTTLECOACH - Bus SCYTHIAN - Amazon but not FLARP - LARP but deadly RESPITEBLOCK - bedroom GANDER PRECIPICE - balcony ARENA STICKBALL - a sport! WAREGRID STUDYSCROLL - Looks like a placemat that you study for tablesetting MEGAFORK , MICROFORK , KNIFE FORK, "FOOLS FORK" - Several types of forks SMASHSUIT - stunt gear "SLAM OR GET CULLED" - American Idol but deadly RECUPERACOON - bed SOPOR SLIME - sedative slime that trolls sleep in RAKE PRONG, BILESCOOPER - Utensils 12TH PERIGREES EVE - assumedly christmas SCOURDRAY - Maid. Cleany. Thingy. RESIFLUID - Floor Cleaner SMEARSPINNER - Floor waxer CUEBAT - PUSHERS tool in ARENA STICKBALL FLAVOR DISC - pizza WET CHITIN SACK - ??? XULTAN MATZOS - Famous STICKBALL player BOBBLENUG FIGURINE - Bobblehead RECESSED TABLETOP ARENA STICKBALL - foozeball but not THRASHTHRUST SNOWGLOBES - ARENA STICKBALL League team SPORT OF LORDS  - ??? SPLAYSAC - beanbag filled with SOPOR SLIME CHAIRBAG - beanbag GAME GRUB - videogame CASTE SYSTEM - a system of oppression by blood - rust is lowest, fuschia is highest. ROYGBIV NUGBONES - Skull GRUBFLECKS - a type of cereal SCOURBRISTLE / SCOURBRISTLING - Mop/Mopping? Alternatively Broom/Sweeping CHITIN-RIDGER - goes to the right of the cuebat STICK-JAMMER - thumbtack DROMED BAKTAR - famous stickball player LOUNGEPLANKS - sofa CRISPRANGE - stovetop GRUBSLURRY AGITATOR - used to aggrivate some grubslurry GRUBSLURRY - made to be aggrivated HUSKLOAF - meatloaf BILESLAW - probably coleslaw : / GRUB-SAUCE - its a sauce UNRANGED CLUCKBEAST OVA - uncooked eggs? ACID TUBES - probably intestines given the context GRUB JUICE HYDRATION CYLINDERS - cans of grub juice GRUB JUICE - drink to restore psychic powers WRIGGLING DAY - birthday WIPES - a measurement of time. RITES OF MATURATION - a series of TRIALS and potentially ORDEALS that happen around 7 sweeps SMEARGUNK - cleans floors - is used with smearspinner GLACIAL TREETRUDGER - Xefros' Sloth lusus! ZIGZAG INCLINE - stairs GASTRIC EVACUATION GLAND - The uvula TUBEFLORA SHAVINGS - Banana Slices (Maybe, unconfirmed) LAWNRING - Yard SUPPLIKATYDIDS - Praying Mantis Lususes ORDEALS - gone through by adults. May be a part of the RITES OF MATURATION? CRUEL-AID - Kool-aid CUSPIDATED GRIMALKIN - deercat lusus of Dammeks GUTTERBLOOD - a term for lowbloods THROTTLEMOTH - Just a moth BELLOWSACS - Lungs SCENTBULB - Nose

[perahn]

Codex Entry #4

The following pages are among the more difficult to decrypt in the journal, as the writer was clearly disturbed by these events recorded. The handwriting is hurried and near-illegible in places. There are genuine mistakes in the text that alter the meaning (see: use of Draconic ‘grk-hssp’ or ‘spell-energy’ in place of ‘grakh-yssth’ or ‘existence’) and several errors in the encryption that misdirected translators.

… very little left, after panicking and Polymorphing Shay just to get her free of the gelatinous cube. Then one thing after another – the first cloudkill, the drow with the greatsword… Evard’s Black Tentacles. It is pathetic how little it took to reduce me to a mewling, quivering child, helpless, hearing that laughter and feeling (there is an angry scribble obliterating several words, easily mistaken for part of the encryption). Then, of course, Katy’s magic went rogue – she can’t ordinarily cast fireball - just before the drow got off another cloudkill. I can taste it now, and I remember knowing that I had one chance to get through it before I would lose consciousness. And I failed. It should have been death.

Instead, Harper ran into the field, got me out and stabilised me.

He has said that he means me no harm, that he would help, that he would see this done. It can’t be that simple. He is an intelligent and dangerous man, exceedingly skilled in [the Mulhorandi word used here could be translated into Common as ‘politics’, ‘interpersonal dynamics’, or ‘manipulation’]. If you save a life, you must have some further use for it in mind – it’s not an unusual manoeuvre – but in that case, it would be as counterproductive as it was insulting to decline the debt I acknowledged. What in all the Infinite Abyss is his objective?

What does he want from me?

Katy is being irritatingly melodramatic about the whole affair. Anyone with a brain in their head and any familiarity with the Weave can feel the difference between a spell she’s purposefully cast and when her magic goes wild. It’s a wonder any sorcerer survives their own magic – instinct is no substitute for conscious, reasoned control. In the interests of avoiding a repeat incident, I’ve offered to try and teach her. I entertain doubts about the efficacy of the whole business. She’s a child still, but one very set in her undisciplined ways – also, I’ve little knowledge of wild magic, the messy, chaotic, inelegant blight on the Weave that it is - and I very much doubt that the exercises that novice wizards are taught will be much help to her. We approach magic from completely opposite directions. Still. I’ll find a way. I refuse to be defeated by anything so minor as an uncontrolled sorceress and her unshaped magic.

Shay continues to be her contained, sensible self. It is a relief to be able to have a sane conversation in a civilised language with someone whose motives are largely known and whose background is similar enough that I do not have to struggle to make myself understood. I must be more careful; I would not like her to have to return home and confess failure to her elders, and not only because I would be dead at that point.

I suspect I’ll never forget the first time I visited the monastery. I am not squeamish, but I do not comprehend unnecessary cruelty. There is a point beyond which punishment or torture becomes ineffective, even as a deterrent for its witnesses. The monks passed it long ago. There was one specimen; most of his internal organs had been externalised for the education of twenty years’ worth of novice monks. The scarring, the burns, grafts, stitching on the living surface of his lungs… not something I would willingly bring on Shay.

…absolute darkness. Not the mere absence of light, but a void that actively obliterates it. Seventeen. The touch of darkness is a fluid netting, like veins or cobwebs, a warm almost-pressure against my face, enmeshing my hands. Thirty-five. Two serpentine figures, dividing and becoming men, then coming together again. Exchanges of matter.

That part of the dream is easy enough to record. After that… well. I was watching and I was the medium in which they moved, and if the images were unspecific, the sensations were not. I haven’t been troubled by desire that intense in years. There was fear, too, and a sense of familiarity about the men. I thought at one point it might be any pairing of Faraghor, Halvren or Vannos, if it were some trick of my subconscious, but it had the depth and cadence of a genuine dream. I hope it wasn’t, given that such dreams have a tendency to recur – in whole or in element - and once was unsettling enough.

It keeps teasing at the back of my mind - perhaps because of that unplaced sense of familiarity, perhaps because of the lingering and unwelcome disquiet. Inevitable, when control cracks, but nothing I haven’t dealt with before.

(the following line wanders upward and overlaps with previous lines, as though the writer was no longer looking at the page)

Stop watching me write, Harper. I can feel you smirking.

… it’s beautiful. One spell, several days of intense study, and all its secrets would be mine. My fingertips itch, and only touching the spine really soothes them. But I have to think.

My position is not strong enough. As an outsider to the Skullport Enclave, I was always going to attract attention – rather more of it than is compatible with my favoured approaches – and my display in the Tournament was not sufficiently intimidating to make any potential rivals among the Enclave Red Wizards think twice. Any good that might have come from it, I probably undid by my idiotic visit the day before we left. I expect, and have warned the others, that someone will try to claim my prize soon.

There are several options open to me, and myriad ways to achieve them.

Katy’s suggestion to simply walk away with the tome is ludicrous. I see little reason for it… unless she believes that I would unable to adapt or survive outside the order, and would thereby become more dependent, easily exploitable to her ends. She’s shown little sign of that order of thought, but it never pays to underestimate someone. Certainly Harper is capable of that sort of planning, and he could easily steer her in the correct direction... My early training has not left me well-suited me for life out here, true, but I am stronger than they think, and I certainly have no intention of abandoning my life’s purpose for an ill-defined whim.

If I handed it back intact… I would want some leverage to ensure that I was adequately rewarded. Difficult, but not impossible. The main fault with this is, of course, the sacrifice it entails. I want this tome, but there are things I may want more. The possible favour of Metoth Zurn. My advancement in the order. Not to antagonise Zurn further, or to make an enemy of the complete unknown to whom he intended to give the book – assuming the original letter can be trusted in that regard. Skullport is Zurn’s territory, Waterdeep is Daraam’s, and I have their attention now; this is a poor time for risks. My own allies are clearly marked as such and vulnerable.

What Red Wizard worth her robes would walk into the same trap twice?

And yet, I keep tempting myself with the tome. How to use it, then give it to Zurn; how to cover my tracks, assuming he expects it to be active. On one hand, a century is not much time for someone sustained by necromancy; on the other, nobody likes to wait for their advantages. If I had thirty days, Nystul’s Magic Aura could make it appear active – but at the end of the study period, it would be obvious that something was wrong. Moot point; forty-eight hours would not be enough time to put myself entirely out of reach of Zurn or Daraam. I could use a scapegoat.

I have finally mastered Teleportation Circle and Nondetection (absurd, that the latter should have eluded me for so long, however little I like the concept), both of which may prove useful in the near future. It’s pleasing to finally have a use for the two sigil sequences I have memorised.

Interesting developments with Harper. It would appear that, after all these weeks of… I would write ‘innuendo’, but I believe that word suggests a degree of subtlety… they have found a moment of privacy for sex. Or, at least, Harper is willing to have us believe that’s the case, and I estimate the probability is high. Curious, and potentially troubling. I gave him the piece of advice that saved me in similar situations. I know Harper’s value; the drow remains an unknown and extremely dangerous factor.

He thanked me for helping Katy, despite the fact I’ve taught her nothing as yet. He didn’t deny he was kvaleth (a Mulhorandi word, not widely used outside Thay. ‘Superior’, ‘ascendant’, ‘dominant’, or ‘senior’ are possible Common translations, as are ‘responsible’, ‘with power’, ‘with authority’, ‘owed obedience’ and ‘owing protection’) to Katy in their alliance, but appeared genuinely grateful that I’d offered to teach her what he could not. It’s understandable that he would wish her magic under better control, I suppose – it could just as easily have been him within range of her fireball – but perhaps he is not fostering her dependence on him as carefully as I’d thought. He also winced, quite visibly, when I used the word ‘responsible’. Interesting. I suspect it might have something to do with his past, but I still lack sufficient information.

He said he would like Shay and myself to stay with them – giving further weight to the possibility that he was the one behind Katy’s suggestion that I simply walk away from my order. He also raised the subject several weeks before she did. I wish I knew what he was planning.

Shay seems to be drinking less. Possibly she’s come to the end of her alcohol supply after two weeks out in the Underdark, but I suspect there is something else afoot. I deem it inadvisable to press too hard. It appears that Shay may wish to leave the Long Death, but doesn’t believe it’s possible. As I told her, I think it unlikely they could do anything to track her that could not be dealt with, if that was her choice. Here I am, disdaining Harper for not keeping close control of his wastet-le (another Thayan term, the counterpart of the last difficult-to-translate one, indicating the ‘junior’, ‘inferior’, ‘obedient’, ‘protected’ or ‘lesser’ partner in an alliance), while I stand ready to sever the foundation of my alliance with Shay at her word. But I t- (a large ink blot follows the broken word, suggesting that the writer left her pen sitting on the page for some time).

Szass Tam’s pickled balls.

That would be problematic. It appears to be true.

I will have to think about this, and whether I shall inform her of it.

The rest of the page is left blank. When the text resumes, the handwriting is unusually slanted and untidy, and the encryption is almost cursory; the writer appears to have been in a hurry.

Well, how intriguing. Harper has escorted the drow just outside the Tiny Hut spell and is asking him questions. Which the drow is answering. Harper has (present tense, presumably the survivor in control of the family business) a cleric brother, possible fit with some of the things he’s said about the gods. Point of killing the Tyrran? Gave the truth before, impeding activities of his organisation. Difficulties of being on the wrong side of so many gods? The drow implies feeling responsible for an entire people, which requires him to provoke divine wrath, and there is nobody else who would do it properly, ‘we can’t choose whether the gods favour us or not’. Deity he serves? Harper wouldn’t recognise the name, but has nothing to fear on that account. Teach Khem the trick of navigating to Skullport? Shrewd request, will do so on our return.

The usual intricate encryption resumes at this point.

I am exceedingly impressed. That was a great deal of very useful information Harper extracted – and where I could hear it for myself, too, not merely reported to me. Of course, the drow might have been lying – one assumes he is familiar with the properties of the Tiny Hut spell - but it didn’t sound that way. For what that’s worth. I am more interested in Harper’s choice of action, although I will not read too much into it. He is far too good at what he does.

I suppose I should try to sleep… but time is too valuable at this point. What will I do with this lovely book in my lap?

[mrlnsfrt]

Love is... (part 2)

Recap

Before we continue our journey through the book of Ruth in search for a deeper understanding of love, let us briefly review.

The very last verse of chapter one sets the stage for the second act by summarizing the critical information.

So Naomi returned, and Ruth the Moabitess her daughter-in-law with her, who returned from the country of Moab. Now they came to Bethlehem at the beginning of barley harvest. Ruth 1:22 NKJV

At this point the story seems to be all about Naomi, Ruth is merely a tagalong. Naomi has returned, and by the way, Ruth is also with her. 

And by the way, Ruth, she is a Moabitess.

She is not an Israelite, she is an alien and her alien status will cause much tension the story. As a Moabite in an Israelite world she can hardly expect any acceptance with the locals.

Ruth is Naomi’s daughter-in-law so she is related by marriage, but her husband is dead, and she had no children. Meaning she needs help and has no way of getting it and no claim to it.

Also her mother-in-law, Naomi, is someone who fled to Moab during the famine, so she might not be the best Israelite to be associated with if you expect to find grace in the eyes of the locals. Also, her mother in law is also a widow, and has no sons. It would not be a far stretch of the imagination to imagine how the locals might consider her cursed by God.

Naomi has returned empty, except for her daughter-in-law, Ruth, who is both a widow and a foreigner. Things are not looking good, but at least these two women have each other.

Nevertheless, when we consider the season, the time of the year, we catch a glimmer of hope. Naomi and Ruth arrive in Bethlehem in the beginning of the barley harvest. Naomi and Ruth arrived at the house of bread (Bethlehem) just as the grain is ready to be cut. The time period was likely April or early March (by our western calendar).

Since barley was the first crop to be harvested each year their arrival time could not have been more perfect, for they will be settling in during a time when there is plenty of food available for them to store for the dry season. (Block, Daniel Isaac. Judges, Ruth. Broadman & Holman, 1999. p650)

Introducing Boaz

With the new chapter, Ruth chapter 2, we also get a new character.

Boaz.

There are four very importants details about Boaz that we learn from this brief introduction.

1 Boaz is a relative of Naomi’s husband. It is important for us to note that this does not mean that Boaz is an acquaintance of Naomi, but a relative of her husband. If you happen to be familiar with Israelite family law and custom this details will give you hope. But we will not talk about it in more detail just yet.

2 Boaz is described by an ambiguous Hebrew expression. The same expression used to describe Gideon in Judges 6:12. In reference to Gideon the expression is translated as “mighty man of valor, noble warrior, military hero.” (Block, 651) But will Boaz be like Gideon in this sense, a warrior?

Another way of interpreting this phrase would be “man of substance, wealth” (Block, 651) a man of standing in the community. This would mean that Boaz is not just an average Israelite. This will need to be confirmed later on in the story.

Finally this ambiguous phrase could also be interpreted “noble with respect to character” (Block, 651). You would expect this man to be heroic, to save…

The narrator is hinting at something positive about Boaz, but we will have to wait and see which definition will better fit him once we witness him in action.

3 As we already mentioned earlier, Boaz is from the clan of Elimelech. A clan is a subdivision of a tribe. This confirms how Boaz is a relative of Naomi’s husband.

4 The name Boaz could mean “strength is in him” (Andrews Study Bible note) or “In the strength of YHWH [I will rejoice/trust].” (Block, 651)

Ruth takes action

For the first time Ruth is portrayed as the primary actor and Naomi now becomes the reactor. Ruth seizes the initiative. Even though Ruth is an alien in a  foreign land she is determined to make something of her life and she goes to find work in order to provide both for herself and for her mother-in-law.

Ruth politely requests that she may go an glean or “gather scraps.” This is not to be confused with harvesting. Ruth would be picking up ears of grain that were inadvertently dropped or left standing.

Mosaic law displayed particular compassion for the alien, the orphan, and the widow by prescribing that the harvesters deliberately leave the grain in the corners of their fields for these economically vulnerable classes and not go back to gather the ears of grain they might have dropped. (Leviticus 19:9,10; 23:22; Deut. 24:19) 

As a Moabite and as a widow Ruth more than qualified to glean. But she could not count on the goodwill of the locals. Moses had given the people of Israel the law, but the people did not always follow the law. That is why Ruth mentions that she will glean behind someone who will look upon her with favor.

The expression to “find favor in the eyes of” means one person acknowledges her/his dependence upon and need for mercy at the hand of a superior. Usually this would take place in the court of a king. The favor of the superior cannot be taken for granted. (Block, 652)

Ruth is dependent upon the mercy of the men in the field. Keep this in mind for this is one of the key points in this story.

The next part of the story is really interesting. 

"Lucky" Ruth

Ruth 2:3 is best appreciated in the original language. A literal translation would go something like,

"...and her chance chanced upon the allotted portion of Boaz..." 

The narrator intentionally draws attention to Ruth’s luck. What are the chances of her arriving exactly int he field of Boaz?

What an incredible stroke of luck right? 

Or is it?

Either Ruth is extremely lucky, or God cares and guides and blesses her.

This awkward and redundant phrase is one of the key statements in the book. The book of Ruth can be seen as just a love story. But that would make Ruth one extremely lucky woman. Or, perhaps, the book of Ruth is teaching us about God. 

To the devout Israelite, there is no such thing as luck, or chance.

When the writer of the book of Ruth excessively attributes these events in Ruth’s life to chance he is intentionally forcing the reader to disagree with him. The attentive reader is forced to sit up and disagree, especially in light of everything that follows this “chance” encounter. The writer is using irony to drive home a theological truth.

This statement does the opposite of what it says. Instead of interpreting these events in Ruth’s life as mere chance it undermines such an interpretation and undermines the search for purely rational explanations for human experiences. This statement and the entire story in the book of Ruth refine the reader’s understanding of providence.

The writer is actually screaming “See the hand of God at work here!” (Block, 653)

God provided and guided, but Ruth had to decide to go out and glean. Ruth did not stay home feeling sorry for herself and fearing how she might be treated if she tried to glean. She did not wait at home for God to drop food on her lap. She went out there and "lucky" her, she went straight to Boaz’s field.

God’s hand allowed the famine and the death of Naomi’s husbands and sons. The hand of the same God also guided Naomi and Ruth back to Bethlehem at the exact time of the wheat harvest, and it is the same hand that guided Ruth to the field of Boaz. But the "coincidences" don't end here.

Behold Boaz

The attention now shifts from Ruth to Boaz who arrived at the field where Ruth is, while she is still there. The writer seems surprised that Boaz "happened" to show up at the right place at the right time.

Look who’s here! Its Boaz! The guy briefly mentioned at the introduction! Nobody saw that coming right!?

In the providence of God, Ruth went to the right field, on the right day, and at the right time.

Boaz arrives with a blessing on his lips.

Now Boaz was seen coming from Bethlehem. He said to the people gathering the grain, “May the Lord be with you.” And they said to him, “May the Lord bring good to you.”  Ruth 2:4 New Life Version

We see right from the get-go that Boaz provides  a positive work environment for his people. Boaz is a model of true covenant “hesed.” 

Boaz’s speech is characterized from beginning to end by grace. (Block, 655)

When Boaz asks, "whose young woman is this?" (Ruth 2:5) it may sound harsh to our modern western ears, but this question is the equivalent of “Whose daughter or wife is she?” or “To which clan or tribe does she belong?” I know it can still sound chauvinistic to the modern reader, but in its cultural context that information was important. 

The focus of the story returns to Ruth, and the reader begins to wonder about her status as an alien and as a widow.

But Ruth is not only described by her status as a foreigner, but also by her actions, she accompanied her mother-in-law, she had been working hard all morning, except for a short break (verse 7). Ruth is not a passive victim of her lot in life, she is a fighter, she gets things done, she makes things happen, she does not sit idly by the sidelines.

Boaz is also an incredible man, but in a different way. From the moment he first opens his mouth until the last words he speaks his tone exudes compassion, grace and generosity.

“In the man who speaks to this Moabite field worker biblical hesed becomes flesh and dwells among humankind.” -Block, Daniel Isaac. Judges, Ruth. Broadman & Holman, 1999. p659 (emphasis mine)

Boaz refers to Ruth as “my daughter” intentionally breaking down barriers that separate her from him. Like a loving father Boaz offers this foreigner his protection and his resources. Boaz knows she is from Moab, but he treats her with respect, with dignity, with love. There is no hint of physical attraction or anything romantic. This is a love that we are not used to encountering. This is hesed in action. 

Boaz also commands his men not to bother Ruth, the verb used here includes not to strike, harass, take advantage of, or mistreat. (Block, 659-660) Boaz just instituted the first anti-sexual-harassment policy in the workplace recorded in the Bible!

Because Boaz is so in tune with the biblical notion of hesed he is way ahead of his times, and those who work for him are privileged to have such a great leader.

Boaz even allows Ruth to drink from the water his men had drawn. This is extraordinary! The water would usually be drawn in the cool morning, a large container would be filled than brought to the field where the workers would drink from throughout the day. Not only that, the cultural context would expect foreigners to draw water for Israelites and women to draw water for men. (Block, 660)

Ruth cannot believe how gracious Boaz has been to her, a foreigner.

Then she fell with her face to the ground and said to him, “Why have I found favor in your eyes? Why do you care about me? I am a stranger from another land.” Ruth 2:10 New Life Translation

Even though we are not sure if Boaz even knew Ruth’s name at this point, she was just the Moabitess who came with Naomi, he acknowledged her. Boaz has dignified this destitute widow from a foreign land and treated her as a significant person. Ruth is aware of her social status, as not only a widow, but also an alien, from Moab to make matters worse.

Boaz is aware of Ruth’s actions, his extraordinary kindness towards her mother-in-law and her courage in accompanying her in her travels to a foreign land. Later her actions will be characterized as hesed but not yet. (Block, 661) Ruth’s faith in leaving her home and family behind could be compared to Abraham’s faith. Ruth left her gods for Israel’s God.

Boaz is a great example of a good man, a man of noble character as described in Ruth 2:1. Boaz is a genuine member of the community of faith, he is a true believer who embodies the standards of covenant faithfulness (hesed). He spontaneously utters words of encouragement and naturally performs deed of kindness (hesed).

In the beginning of the chapter, Ruth had expressed to Naomi her desire to to glean behind someone in whose eyes she might find favor, although she was not praying at the time, God heard her wish.

Boaz is kind to Ruth because Yahweh has prepared his heart for her!” - Block, Daniel Isaac. Judges, Ruth. Broadman & Holman, 1999. p662

God had been working preparing Boaz, developing him into the man that he is. God was preparing Boaz to bless Ruth. Do you realize that God could is preparing you to bless someone? If you don't fight and rebell against God's will and His plan for your life, He will use you like He used Boaz, to bring great blessings to someone. 

Or perhaps you identify as Ruth, doing your best to help and follow God. God has someone who will bless you.

After all this, Boaz does not believe he has done enough for Ruth, so he blesses her as well. He calls upon the LORD to repay Ruth for her actions.

May the Lord reward you for your work. May full pay be given to you from the Lord, the God of Israel. It is under His wings that you have come to be safe.” - Boaz (Ruth 2:12 New Life Version)

Boaz’s blessing illustrates the principle stated in Proverbs 19:17; 14:31; 17:5.

"Giving help to the poor is like loaning money to the Lord. He will pay you back for your kindness." (Proverbs 19:17 Easy-to-Read Version)

"Whoever takes advantage of the poor insults their Maker, but whoever is kind to them honors him." (Proverbs 14:31 Easy-to-Read Version)

"Whoever makes fun of beggars insults their Maker. Whoever laughs at someone else’s trouble will be punished." (Proverbs 17:5 Easy-to-Read Version)

Ruth, by her acts of kindness to Naomi has not only indebted her mother-in-law but also The LORD. So Boaz prays that the LORD will repay her for her work. In coming to Israel Ruth had turned to the God of Israel for protection. So Boaz introduces one of the most beautiful pictures of divine care in all of Scripture. He describes God as a mother bird who offers he wings to protect her defenseless young. (Block, 663)

Ruth has found relief under the protection of Boaz.

“Like a young chick frightened by the pouring rain, she has come out of her fears and found comfort and security under the wings of God. Those wings are embodied in the person of Boaz.” (Block, 665)

 Ruth is amazed that differences of race and class do not stifle Boaz’ compassion towards her. 

But he was not done.

Meal Time

Social realities were expressed at meal time.

But this meal time was not what one would expect in its cultural context.

For one thing, Boaz, the landowner, is eating with his harvesters. That was already unusual for the time, but Boaz goes beyond that and invites Ruth, an outsider, a Moabitess, to join him and his workers. 

The fact that Boaz has to call her to come closer shows that she had deliberately, and appropriately (according to the customs of her time) kept her distance.

Not only does Boaz invite her to join him and his workers for the meal, he invites her to share the food prepared for his workers.

Boaz does not even allow her to eat dry bread while he enjoyed more pleasant food, but invites her to dip her bread in a sauce or condiment used to moisten and spice up dry bread.

Not only that Boaz served her roasted grain himself. He gave her with his hand, a word used only here in the entire Old Testament.

Boaz is so generous, Ruth eats and has food left over. The writer makes sure to mention this detail to help us grasp Boaz’ generosity. Boaz did not just feed the hungry, but he took an ordinary occasion and transformed it into a glorious demonstration of compassion, generosity, and acceptance — that is exactly the biblical understanding of hesed. (Block, 667)

This chapter, this story, these dialogues, teach and develop a theology of love. In this story we learn that

“The wings of God are not only comforting to Israelites; they offer protection even for despised Boabites.” - Block, 667.

Back to gleaning

 After the meal, Boaz tells his workers to pull out some of the stalks and leave them lying on the stubble for Ruth. His workers are not to humiliate or insult her. Boaz's workers will not threaten Ruth physically or shame her psychologically because of her alien status or the low class she represents just because of her current situation, having to go begging to be allowed to glean in the fields.

Boaz made provisions for Ruth to work in peace and to have enough to support her and her mother-in-law. (Block, 669)

After a long day’s work Ruth gleaned and threshed one ephah of grain. This is the equivalent of roughly 6 gallons which could have weighed from thirty to fifty pounds. The harvesters must have listened to Boaz and allowed Ruth to glean liberally.

Naomi is surprised by Ruth’s productivity and utters a blessing upon the man who took notice of her daughter-in-law.

Her mother-in-law said to her, “Where did you gather grain today? Where did you work? May good come to the man who showed you favor.” So Ruth told her mother-in-law, “The name of the man I worked with today is Boaz.” - Ruth 2:19 New Life Version (emphasis mine)

Once Naomi finds out its Boaz and she realizes Ruth's “luck” Naomi spontaneously erupts with a second blessing for him.

Naomi said to her daughter-in-law, “May he receive good from the Lord, Who has not kept His kindness from the living and the dead.” Then Naomi said to her, “The man is near to us. He is of our family.” - Ruth 2:20 NLV

Ruth stays in Boaz’s field not only until the end of the barley harvest but the end of the wheat harvest as well (Ruth 2:23). Ruth must have been out in the fields 6-7 weeks from late April until early June (by our western calendar).

Conclusion

Boaz has been introduced as an extremely kind and gracious man and as one who qualifies to rescue the line of Elimelech. Though Boaz has helped Ruth and Naomi economically, there are no hints that he is doing anything about the real crisis created by the death of all the male member of the family.

Will this situation be resolved?

How will it be resolved?

For that, you have to come back next week.

Application

For now I hope that we can be like Boaz.

I hope we can live as a personification of God’s love.

Boaz does not shame Ruth, but respects her. He does not judge her by her origin or her current condition or social status, but praises her for her kindness admiring her determination and courage. 

Boaz allows her to provide for herself and her mother-in-law without fear of abuse in any form. He respects her and grants her dignity.

He goes above and beyond the social norms of the time, he breaks the prejudice and crosses lines that the society and culture of his time had erected. 

Boaz was a true Israelite and did what was right. He embodied the love of God. He was blessed by God and blessed those around him.

It is my prayer, that you will also be a blessing wherever you go, breaking down barriers and walls that prejudice builds up. Let us live by God’s standards. Let us teach the world the true meaning of love by how we work and how we treat those around us. Because that is more powerful than any theological truth that might come out of your lips. 

[browniefox]

I Was Abducted By Aliens And All I Got Was This Crappy T-Shirt

Okay, so once upon a time i was writing a fic about Matt... but now he’s back in canon again.

So

I’m just posting what i have of it here. It’s unfinished, but i made up some lore on voltron that i think was pretty neat :3

oOo

You would think that after years in space, doing a thankless, thoughtless work day in a and day out, having to limp wherever you went, one would come to hate space. Logically, somebody would look up at the stars and feel homesickness, would scream at the constellations for not looking correct. Any sane person would come to loath space with their entire being, if not more.

But Matt couldn’t bring himself to hate it.

As he limped in from working in the fields, he’d look up at the sky and see the dark blue-black splattered with shining pinpricks in the distance, and he saw what he’d always seen. He saw freedom. He saw a wide open place just waiting to be explored through human eyes.

Matt found that the small things made all the difference, and Matt was thankful for what he had to thank. He was immensely relieved that he hadn’t been separated from his father. During the day, when they were able to be close to each other, they’d talk. These days, the deep-throated growls of Galran came almost naturally, which was technically good since it seemed to be the most well-known language. But with his father, Matt could speak in English. They’d talk about Katie and Colleen, any scientific discoveries they’d been able to come to during the brutal work hours. Tales that they’d heard from other prisoners would be translated as closely into English as they could get, if only so that they were able remember what their native tongue sounded like and remind themselves that they were able to speak it.

At first, Matt had been afraid to speak English, afraid to speak at all.

“The Galra don’t care.” A furry alien with a scaly tail had told him one night as Matt and the five other prisoners in his cell ate their bland food. Krimr, Matt would later learn. “As long

as we don’t seem suspicious and are working hard, it’s fine. Elgrish, Galran, Repprn, they don’t care. The only language they won’t allow is Altean, and very few speak that particular tongue these days.”

Matt spoke to his father, but it still took him a while to warm up to his cellmates. They had obviously been prisoners for a long time, been in the same cell for most of that time. The five treated each other like family, close knit and comfortable around each other. Krimr was the one who first made an effort to make Matt feel included, and Matt was distantly reminded of back when he was on the same ship as Shiro, of Ymir excitedly and slowly teaching the humans how to speak Galran.

Eventually, he warmed up enough to them to ask the volatile question.

“What is Altean?”

Xtriy nearly choked on his mush. Krimr slapped her hand over her mouth in shock. Prynn gave a small scream. Toei slammed their hand against the wall. It was only Qrie, the eldest of the group, who remained composed.

What flowed from his mouth were sounds not produced from deep down, not hisses and growls and howling. It was hums and whistles and more movement of the tongue than Galran required. The four aliens in the cell’s anxiety seemed to grow at that and Toei kept glancing at the door as if expecting an officer to burst in at any moment.

“That, Matt, is Altean.” Qrie looked rather proud of himself, smiling almost smugly.

“Altea is a legend.” Prynn stated. Immediately Qrie and Krimr looked ready to speak up, but Prynn pressed on before they could. “Altea is a legend because nobody known the myth from the fact. At the beginning of the Galra empire, the beings of Altea rose up against them. They got the closest to defeating the Galra… so the Galra wiped them from existence.”

The cell was quiet the rest of the night.

oOo

The following day, Matt approached his father about the subject.

“I’ve heard of it.” Sam had answered as he cut down a piece of fruit from the stalk. “The prisoners in my cell told me the tales only a little while after I arrived.”

“Tales?” Matt hefted the fruit into the wheelbarrow thing. “I just got the gist of it. They fought the Galra and then died. Which doesn’t seem too different from just about every other extinct alien species.”

“Then I’ll tell you the best one I’ve been told.” Sam offered. “This one is from the very end of the empire. Emperor Zarkon confronted the last ruler of Altea. The King had something of Zarkon’s and he wanted it back. The King informed Zarkon that there was nothing he could do that would make him reveal the location of the lost prize. So the King was sent to the druids. There he was tortured. His mind was picked apart and he was cut up and stitched back up so many times. At the end he was no longer the regal being he had once been. Yet, despite the druids best work, the King never broke. They say, as the druids demanded the location of Zarkon’s possession, he breathed his last breath. And the last breath came out in the form of a word: Allura.”

“Allura?” Matt furrowed his brow. He’d never heard the word before, which meant it must’ve been more volatile than Altea.

“According to the myths, Allura was the name of his only daughter and the next rightful ruler of Altea.”

“So he saw her before he died?” Matt asked. Perhaps over the years Allura had become some type of goddess of death or peace to the prisoners.

“Some believe that. But one of the prisoners in my cell, Olto, says that in history there was never any proof she even died, much less died before the king did. Olto believes the King was calling out to her in hope in his final moment. If Allura never died, then it would not only mean that the Alteans weren’t completely wiped out, and that somewhere out there there are still Royal Altean descendents that may be seeking revenge. And I think that may honestly scare Zarkon. I really do.” Sam shrugged as he said the last part, as if to pretend that he hadn’t obviously put weeks of thought into it.

oOo

“Tell me a myth.”

Matt was lying on the ground of the cell, seeing as the two beds were already taken up by Qrie and Prynn.

“I have one.” Krimr sat up from her position against a wall. “It’s a wonder none of us have told you it yet.”

“The one about Voltron?” Xtriy perked up at the mention. “Oh, can I tell it? I haven’t heard from hope in so long.”

“If you insist.” Krimr gestured at Xtriy to speak.

“Okay, well, according to myth, there was once a great being that watched over the universe known as Voltron. However, despite its strength and speed and size, it was unable to protect every part of the universe. So, in an effort to cover more ground, it tore off its limbs and spread itself across. Each piece of Voltron was a part of the whole and became beasts that watched over their corner. For thousands of years, they have been dormant. But one day, they shall awaken and rise again, uniting into Voltron once more to beat back the Galra and free us all.”

“And you believe it’s real?” Matt asked, and all in the cell nodded vigorously.

“If it wasn’t real, why would the Galra themselves be so afraid of it?” Krimr pointed out. “They talk about it in frightened whispers when their superiors aren't watching. It must be real enough to cause such a reaction.”

“They’re most definitely real.” Toei was staring at the wall, mind clearly focused on some event that happened awhile ago. “My species, we didn’t fall easily. Those of us who weren’t slaughtered were paraded through Emperor Zarkon’s personal ship. I did not speak Galran very well, but Voltron is the same in every language. I could hear him yelling at his men Voltron. Why would an all-powerful being such as he utter the word that could cause rebellion if it wasn’t real?”

oOo

“Dad, have you heard about Voltron?”

The elder Colt shook his head.

“No, it’s never come up before. What is it?” Matt leaned on the wheelbarrow-like object that held the fruit they’d gathered.

“I only know what my cellmates told me, so it’s not like I’m an expert on the subject.”

“I wasn’t asking you to be an expert.” Sam chuckled. How often had Matt held back information simply because it was incomplete? Too many times for Sam to count. It almost reminded him of back at home.

“It was supposed to be a defender of the entire universe that split up into pieces to help it protect it all. Do you think there’s  such a species that could do that? Like, some giant, asexual creature that went dormant hundreds of years ago.” Matt mused.

“I don’t see why not. There’s plenty of things out there that we don’t understand or know about. This one alien I met used to live on a planet that was actually a giant creature. Another’s planet was eaten by an even bigger being. So it doesn’t seem so impossible to me.”

oOo

“There is a new prisoner.”

Matt looked up at the alien, arms ladened with fruit. He didn’t recognize the thing, but the alien seemed to recognize him. It was covered in scars and one of its eyes was missing. It was sizing Matt up.

“There are always new prisoners.”

Sam stepped slightly in front of Matt protectively. The alien’s eyes roved over Sam, before it let out a snort through its nose and let its eyes stare just below Matt’s. The human took this as a good sign.

“But it looks royal. Otherworldly. Unnatural. It looks like you two.” The alien stepped closer. Sam tensed a bit, but allowed the alien’s snout get close to their ears as it whispered. “It looks Altean.”

“We look Altean?” Sam questioned loudly, and the alien slapped one of its hands over Sam’s mouth, head darting towards the overseer not too far from them. When it didn’t move the alien relaxed before looking back at the father and son and nodding.

“The old art of my home depicted those beings of hope. You look like them to the point I almost mistook you as one.”

“Do you know where the other human is now?” How long it had been since they’d seen another human. The last had been Shiro. Shiro, who was surely dead by now. Shiro, who they had mourned together when the father and son had been reunited. The alien opened his mouth, but he never had the chance to speak.

“HEY!”

The English pierced through the air and every head whipped around to the figure standing on one of the overseer platforms. He was wearing a helmet that didn’t match his prison garb. The galra who had stood on the platform lay unmoving at the foot of it.

“GALRA TRASH!” The human, human, continued to yell. “SURRENDER NOW AND YOU WON’T BE DEAD!” The Galra didn’t put their weapons down, though a few looked between them, obviously questioning whether to give in or not. “ALRIGHT THEN, HAVE IT YOUR WAY!”

A giant, green, mechanical lion materialized behind him.

It roared.

A few Galra shot at it, a few guns clattered to the ground, a few ran away.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. There was rebellion in the air. Chaos was everywhere as the prisoners gained the courage to rise up against the Galra. Sam and Matt took the chance to explore their prison. Along the way Qrie and Krimr joined them, whooping in joy as Qrie went crazy with a stolen gun and Krimr beat up just about anything vaguely purple that moved.

“I’ve wanted to do this for many spicolion movements!”

[thunderheadfred]

Red Streak [2.4]

Chapter 02: Babel [Part 4 of 5. Revised July 2017]

Read the complete fic on AO3

Hannah Shanxi 2157 CE

With little patience, Doctor Alvarez and his small team were ushered by rifle-butt from the surgical suite. Hannah watched them retreat, her eyes wide with desperation, hoping one of them would snap, fight back, cry out. Anything except abandon her to a turian captor in her weakened state. She couldn’t even run.

Once the last turian exited, pulling the wall of screens closed, Hannah and Regidonis were left completely unobserved. The moment they were alone, his hand loosened on her throat, just enough to allow a few breaths of air to flood into her aching lungs. Despite the reprieve, he didn’t release her. His gun stayed fixed beneath her jaw, growing warm against her skin.

“You need to respect a few things about your situation, newcomer,” he said, so close she could smell him, all metal and ozone. She saw little splinters of gold netted in the flashing silver of his eyes. “I am not the alien in this room.” His gun knocked against her chin. “That would be you.”

She held very still and waited for whatever was coming, saving her strength.

“Furthermore,” he said, still inches away. “You need to respect a few things about me. I am no butcher.” The translator glitched around some words; an obscenity, most likely. “In a moment, I am going to release you. Before considering another outburst, please remember that I happen to be holding the finest hand cannon Armax has ever produced, and you are unable to walk.”

He stared at her, waiting for something. All of the hardened plates on his face had loosened, but his expression remained as mysterious as tectonic plates shifting beneath the earth. A powerful force she couldn’t comprehend, taking cities and continents along for the ride. Not knowing what else to do, she simply held his gaze.

The gun dropped away at long last, finally giving Hannah room to properly breathe. Regidonis sat back and rubbed his neck, looking as if he’d been strangled himself. From the covered door came a curt, “Permission to enter,” which Regidonis swiftly answered:

“Make it quick.”

The subordinate who had been sent for rations bowed through the curtain. He deposited an apple, a few thin strips of jerky, and a sachet of clean water. After a telling pause, the officer gave his Captain a stiff salute then left as unceremoniously as he’d entered.

Regidonis looked at the rations for a moment, then turned his knife-sharp eyes on Hannah and said, “Your body is at risk of atrophy. Your doctor told us that you must have been giving most of your rations to your child, saving almost nothing for yourself.” His voice sounded haggard, exhausted. “Rest assured: I made certain she was not passed over.”

With a flick of his wrist, he summoned a holographic imager and began a playback of Jane. The vid showed her ferociously setting upon some kind of porridge, washing it down with a fruit-flavored electrolyte solution. Hannah reached out to touch her daughter’s face, but her fingers ghosted through the holo and knocked against the hard plating of the turian’s armor instead. She set her fingers into his arm in a killing grip.

Calm and slow, he stopped the playback and said, “She is quite safe. I will bring her back to you as soon as you and I come to an understanding.”

He held out the packet of water, motionlessly waiting for her to take it. Offering food and water moments after offering her the business end of his gun. Holding Jane hostage under the pretense of feeding her. These were either the overtures of a master manipulator, or the signs of an honorable soldier making the most of a bad situation. She wasn’t sure which possibility was more disturbing.

With creaking fingers, she released the holographic imager and snatched the water from his hand. Whether she was meant to be his double-agent or his sex slave - or some twisted combination of both - she would find a way to live through it. But there was no denying that she had barely eaten in a week, and starvation was an enemy she couldn’t destroy with brute force alone. She slumped back into the cot.

The water was clean, the first real hydration she’d had in days. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she’d been until the first drops passed her lips. She drained the packet in seconds. Regidonis, always watching, immediately produced more water from his own supply, pulling a sealed field ration from the interior of his suit. She pierced the seal and drank, half expecting it to taste like brimstone, but it was water, plain and simple. Vaguely metallic from the field pack, warmed by the heat of his body.

He offered the fruit next. She bit into it so eagerly that her teeth caught her own lip, drawing blood. She didn’t care; as the sweet juice sloppily dribbled across her chin, she moaned out of pure relief.

“Good,” he said, nodding, his body language once again too familiar to be real. “Get your strength back up. You’ll need it.”

While he watched, she devoured the rest of the apple, then set into the jerky. He waited until she was completely finished, then leaned forward.

“I appreciate that you have taken an enormous personal risk today,” he said. “As of this morning, you are conspiring with the enemy, and with your own child’s life on the line. Your distrust is well-earned. I can respect that.” In a much quieter tone, he sad, “Hannah Shepard, I need your immediate assistance or a great many people are going to die.”

It remained unnerving, hearing her name in his mouth. Perhaps he’d failed to notice, or just didn’t care, but a great many people had already died on Shanxi. She frowned at him, waiting for the terms.

“I would have preferred to avoid risking a civilian with this job. And you, sole caretaker of a young child… In the name of all that is—” he cut himself off. “General Williams assures me you have ample military training, that you can handle a crisis.” A pause, as he dragged a hand across his face. “If the Primarch wants my head for this, so be it. In the interest of peacekeeping, I have decided to give you the same debrief I gave your General.”

He thought for some time, apparently searching for the least treasonous approach.

"When your people materialized from dark space, it looked like the second coming of the Rachni. An unknown species pouring from a dead relay, in an unknown class of warship, with your guns primed and ready. We had to act.”

Her eyes narrowed. A month-long orbital siege seemed excessive for a petty border dispute, for violating some treaty that humanity had never been party to. By every account she’d heard, the turians had fired first.

Regidonis absorbed her heated glare, raising his hands in a familar supplicating gesture.

“Not my call. No respect for first contact procedures, none of this—” Again, he stopped himself short. “Of all the fleets to stumble upon while barging through a disabled relay, your people had to catch the Blackwatch—” Hannah’s translator implant lagged around an unfamiliar idiom, then offered the closest human equivalent: “—with our pants down.”

She couldn’t help it, she snorted back a laugh. He froze, entire body stiffening, face harder to read than ever.

“You truly have no idea how far this reaches, do you?” She didn’t answer, so he was forced to provide the context for her. “I am a fleet captain in the Heirarchy Blackwatch. Without modesty, I can tell you that I command one of the most elite groups of special operatives in all of Citadel space.”

She’d seen his soldiers; precision in every breath. She believed him at his word.

“My ship, the Tenefalx, was tasked with chaperoning a small detail of experimental cruisers. A shakedown cruise out at Relay 314, well beyond observable range. We were running high-spike radiation exercises: core evacuation procedures, weapons tests, broadside drills. Nobody was supposed to know we were out there. Tenefalx was hosting General Arterius, who was aboard to observe the cruise.” Regidonis stilled, staring past Hannah’s shoulder. “He made the call to arms. Shots were fired before communication was even attempted, and we followed your last survivors back through the relay. He had the authority. I thought—”

His voice died. She watched his jaw shift as he fell into a deep silence. Between his mandibles and his cheeks, an angular gap showed off his slender teeth, his navy-blue tongue, which lay motionless in his mouth. He was speechless.

She tried to fathom it, the sheer size of the theatre the turians were accustomed to operating in. If everything Regidonis said was true, there was almost no comprehending the mess humanity had made by activating that relay. Most of the things he’d said made little sense or none at all, but she devoured the intel as hungrily as the rations. Impossible to know when she might get the chance to wield this information in self-defense.

At the moment, Regidonis looked more vulnerable than Hannah felt. He stared at his hands, flexing his long, thick fingers back and forth, back and forth.

“I had no idea…” he breathed. “Children. Spirits above. It would be abominable to continue. The moment we discovered this was not a military installation, I did everything I could to secure a surrender, but the situation is tenuous at best. Your navy is no laughing matter, and your people are an unknown quantity. General Arterius still wants to blow this entire planet out of orbit without a second thought, just to mitigate the risk.

"The only thing keeping him from changing his mind is the fact that out here in uncharted territory, our supply situation is almost as desperate as yours. We would be forced into a war of attrition, trying to starve one another out, and with your people mostly noncombatants... There is no honor in this fight, and no point besides.”

He looked back into her eyes, as if he was searching for something important. Whatever it was, he seemed to find it, because he gathered himself back together. When he spoke again, it was with absolute confidence.

“Personally, I suspect humanity is little more than a tribe of uplifted monkeys who had no idea what they were toying with. I see no reason for us all to grind each other to dust just yet. Not before we get some real answers. Are you with me, Shepard?”

Her name coming out of his alien mouth again, now in the context of collusion, made her shudder. She didn’t answer.

“You believe this is an attempt to manipulate you.” Not a question. He sighed. “Let me make myself more clear.”

He raised his sidearm again. She refused to flinch, but she couldn’t budge her eyes from the muzzle, either. He turned the weapon over in his hand, studying it.

“My father gave me this gun when I reached the age of majority. It has been in the Regidonis family for generations, wielded by honorable Legionnaires, a General or two, even a Primarch. I never discharge this weapon unless I am absolutely certain that my bullet flies with honor.”

He stretched out his arm, offering Hannah his gun, and said, declaratively, “I believe you capable of making the same distinction.”

An instant of stupefied silence passed before Hannah snatched the weapon from his hand and slammed the muzzle squarely between his eyes. Those bright, uncanny eyes of his, which gazed at her so unflinchingly. Always staring, as if he could see straight through her. Transparent or not, if this Blackwatch bigwig didn’t give Jane back immediately, Hannah Shepard would be the last thing he’d ever see.

“You have a choice to make,” he said, unbent. “If you think killing me would be the best way to end this war, your bullet is honorable, and my weapon is yours.” He pressed his forehead into the gun. Out of the corner of one eye, she caught the fearful clenching of his fingers against his thighs “But if you kill me, I cannot protect your little Jane from what would come after.”

He’d learned her daughter’s name.

She hesitated. A long enough pause for both of them to know he’d already won, but she kept the gun raised a moment longer, if only to shield her pride.

“What do you need me to do?"

[b4kuch1n]

Blossom Hills

it was going well this afternoon, but then I tripped on something and toppled over. so I guess this doesnt really work but oh well

@crescentmoonrider Im very sorry

Trigger Warning for body horror and death in general. No major character death tho.

Read on AO3 | FF.net | LJ

The first case in Spice City was a quiet one. It was a housewife - they remembered the name Kojiro but weren’t quite sure it was hers anymore - the police found in an apartment on the west side of the city. The newspapers hadn’t been able to put a single image of the body in their report, neither had the six o’clock news show, but there was of course some photos on the internet that were claimed to be from the Incident, as they had been calling it even until now.

Master Reigen could conclude after a glance at the photos in question that they were all photoshopped. Some of them poorly, some of them better, but there was always a mistake somewhere. Visual logic was a complicated thing not many humans could cover fully. Master Reigen was a man of many things, keen observation included; it took time for him to fully debunk every single one of them, but time he did have, and sooner or later all of those photos were discredited. They were still out there, of course, freaking out people surfing the internet at night alone in their room, but they hadn’t blown up the way they could have had everybody trusted the story they told.

Shigeo too could tell that they were manipulated, by the amount and types of flowers. He could see a bit of it on the portrait photo they broadcasted of her, the deceased wife and mother: it was a deep pink. Her breaths, her kind eyes, her grip on the counter she was posing next to. It was Judas flower. Just by the overwhelming scent of flowers he caught every time he came past the building, the floor was probably already covered with Judas flowers when the police got it.

A far enough time into the future, when one of them came across the morning report of that Incident (they always called it that, Incident with a capital I), they would sit down to remind themselves of it again, despite never really wanting to. It was like staring at a rabid animal as you backed away from it: they didn’t want it to sneak up on them ever again. They didn’t want to be vulnerable to it, to forget and wake up the next day to a similar report sounding from the radio on the night counter.

The woman’s name was Kojiro Shimizu.

The first case in Spice City wasn’t the first worldwide, obviously - Kojiro died two days after four people on another continent, but of the same death. Shigeo found Ritsu in his room reading an article about them months after the Incident, when the disease was most rampant. “Two highschoolers, a doctor, and a retired mechanic,” he said quietly when asked. “Except the doctor, all of them were reported missing, then were found overnight.” Printed out online articles and hand-drawn charts were scattered across his table, and he had a death grip on the red pencil they used to correct their own math homework. One of his classmates was confirmed to have caught the disease the day before.

Ritsu was smart and dedicated, but he was (almost all of them were) still a kid. They could stay up night after night trying to draw a conclusion from what seemed to be a conspiracy theory, and in the end it would go nowhere. It did go nowhere. There was no place for them among the saviors of the world.

They all felt that in their bones. Maybe that came with the power they had; the more they could do, the worse they felt about not doing. It was a faulty design they were helpless to change.

An article called the disease Kadan, and the name caught, even though it wasn’t entirely accurate.

Nobody told him to, and nobody asked it of him, but Shigeo kept count of the flowers. They stayed in a corner of his mind, came out as he wrote down was the teacher was saying on his notebook, scribbled in the margin. He remembered the victims he knew that way: name of human associated with name of flower.

By the second year in, most reports had devolved into a brief paragraph giving the deceased’s name in the same sentence as the disease’s, but the first ones during the weeks right after the Incident were much more thorough. What Shigeo thought was that the disease wasn’t much more than a foreign threat then, and its novelty could still get the newspapers some sale.

Those reports were how they knew about the way the victims died, but they couldn’t really bring the image of it into their readers’ mind. People modified photos to try to capture it: bodies on the ground, head covered in flowers like a firework spark in a glass cube, light shone weakly into their final resting place trying to make their death more intimidating. Some junkies were bolder, taking a close-up shot of someone’s head, painting thousands of cracks on their skull from which flowers bloomed. None of those photos could scare Shigeo: the visual was never what bothered him in a situation.

Someone interviewed a witness at a case’s site once, somewhere in the second year of it. “The newspapers say the truth,” the woman said in a plain, almost hollow voice. “We can never find the head. The flowers where the head should be always grow taller than the rest, as if to fill in for the lack of it.”

Coming into the later half of the second year, more and more of the city’s population could confirm that. The novelty was lost, and only then did people start wanting it back.

The TV said once, “Most infected victims were near the scene of another fatality at one point after it happened,” and immediately a silent quarantine was established by the inhabitants of the city. Parents scared their kids into submission. The streets were deserted.

Shigeo and Ritsu’s school closed for inspection after an incident nearby.

Hanazawa came by the Office in the afternoon. “Hope I’m not intruding,” he said as he walked in, “I don’t have school today and nothing in my quarter’s open anymore.”

Master Reigen just flicked his hand at him, disinterested. “‘ea. Find a seat somewhere for yourself.”

Hanazawa found his place next to Shigeo around the glass table they were sitting at. Shigeo was tapping out a rhythm he remembered from a long time ago while Ritsu was copying something from his phone to a blank page in his notebook. Hanazawa seemed to recognise the words being written down.

“Kujiwara,” he said. “I remember that name from the newspaper a week or so ago. Kadan, wasn’t it?”

Ritsu didn’t answer. Hanazawa didn’t ask more, but there was a hard look in his eyes.

They talked about school, clubs, their day, anything but the crisis going on. Shigeo told Hanazawa about the field out next to the train station. They exchanged stories about pets and weird people they’d met.

The street was quiet when they went home - Hanazawa left with them and took a different turn a little bit farther down the road. Even as they checked their itinerary carefully to avoid incident sites, their voice was blanketed in a barren calm.

They made it home. They made it to the next morning. So did Hanazawa.

It took time for Shigeo to realise that he wasn’t scared. It only came to him after he had figured out that other people were scared, and had gotten over the unfamiliarity of that idea.

Despite being called rampant, the disease never killed too many people in a night. It was an awful thought to think, but it was the truth: no more than three cases were ever discovered every week. It was a steady and silent pace; they watched as the disease grew like moss, eating up the city inches at a time, putting its mark in their life one report, one article, one piece of banter at a time. Thanks to the TV and the internet, they knew that somewhere there was a battle, but more than anything that knowledge gave them a juxtaposition.

Shigeo realised Ritsu was scared when he fell asleep at his desk one night, red pencil in hand, frantic lines crisscrossed between keywords trying to get anything at all out of the sea they were all submerged in, a few paragraphs about rumors circled with the note it can’t end like this scribbled below. He realised his parents were scared when he saw them standing at the end of the stairs after he answered their wake up call a moment later than usual. He realised Master Reigen was scared when he glanced at his screen while walking past it to see articles in all kinds of language pulled up next to a translation engine. He realised how scared the city was by the silence outside. People smiled and talked and walked, but a lot of them were trying to keep it up. Some of them failed, and the waves washed over them until they stood up again.

Shigeo wasn’t scared. He worried some, of course, taking care to avoid incident sites and did what was recommended to them by the authorities, but he wasn’t afraid by any mean. Maybe it was the quiet that subdued his fears, or maybe it was the others’ fears that masked his in their midst. Maybe he was already familiar to the waves. He had seen a lot, maybe something from that list had taken that reaction away from him.

Hanazawa called them during lunch some days after Salt middle school was out of quarantine. There were only Shigeo, Ritsu, and some other kids from the media club in the classroom, the media kids helping one of them - Amano, Shigeo remembers from an encounter in the school’s lab before midterm - planning a love confession. Ritsu plugged his borrowed earbuds in.

“I think it’s love,” Hanazawa said, silently. Ritsu’s brows furrowed at that.

“What do you mean?”

“Kadan. You asked me about that a while ago, Younger Brother, didn’t you?”

“Not really,” Ritsu said. Hanazawa shrugged it off.

“Yeah. I knew two girls from my school who contracted Kadan last week. They both confessed to someone and was rejected right before they died. I think that’s the trigger, since if it’s airborn and doesn’t need anything to develop then we would all be dead by now.”

The thought of it was absurd - a disease triggered by love, of all thing - but Shigeo, like Ritsu and Hanazawa and Master Reigen, was already the embodiment of absurdity itself, so he listened on. “That doesn’t cover Hoshino’s case,” Ritsu argued. “He didn’t have a wife or a lover.” Hoshino died in his apartment near their neighbourhood. The man had mostly been a forgotten face because of his quiet personality, until after his death. He was buried by a relative who lived in the south.

The line went quiet for a moment while Hanazawa looked up Hoshino’s death. “But he has a dog. It died about two weeks before him, right?”

They processed that information.

“Someone in my quarter was like that too,” Hanazawa said. “I think her name was Yuuko. She posted something about her friend since childhood bringing her into a fraud deal days before her death.”

“Strong affection overthrown,” Ritsu mumbled. “Of any kind.”

“Terrible,” Hanazawa said. “But at least we have an idea of how to not die now, right?”

They doubted the idea, and even until Amano was found in the media club’s room, laying among yellow carnations with his head nowhere to be found, the doubt lingered. Shigeo guess it was because the claim couldn’t be proven fully, but maybe it was just that they couldn’t wrap their head around it. It was a faulty design, for them to be unable to take on an idea to examine it.

Some people came to the same conclusion as Hanazawa; the internet was full of discussions and heated arguments around it. None of it changed the fact that it was a variable no one could control, but the idea stayed in people’s mind.

A death by heartbreak. Plenty could be sung about that.

Hanazawa came by their house sometimes. He stayed in Shigeo’s room the whole duration of his visits, bringing some snack he had at home or bought on the way. Shigeo’s parents knew his name and face. Unnecessary pleasantries lessened.

For all of his boisterous exterior, Hanazawa’s visits were quiet. They talked, Ritsu and him about incidents and theories, Shigeo and him about everything else. Hanazawa seemed to seek their presence more than conversations, and they gave him that without too much inquisition.

Shigeo talked to him about the fear he didn’t have one day. “I can feel it too, actually,” Hanazawa said. “The fear in the air. Everyone’s afraid. You aren’t at all wrong, Kageyama-kun.”

“Are you?” Shigeo asked him. “Afraid, I mean. Are you scared?”

Hanazawa didn’t say anything for a bit, and they sat there in silence. His eventual answer was, “I’m not. Same as you, Kageyama-kun.”

Shigeo didn’t ask more. He just thought Hanazawa deemed himself out of the disease’s reach. It didn’t mean they lived happier by any mean, but it was what it was.

Kojiro Shimizu’s husband died of Kadan sometimes around then. A salt cedar tree bloomed flowers where his head should be.

Sooner or later, they found out more about the disease. Morning news shows became a whirlwind of myths and informations and proofs - they heard Hanahaki and new strain and airborne and pollen thrown around frequently - and soon all of it became white noise.

A list of possible symptoms was broadcasted on the six o’clock news one evening well into the later half of the second year, and then printed out and stuck on every surface possible in schools and bureaus. Master Reigen had it taped on his desk, probably to keep the panic to himself and not scare off clients. Shigeo had learned it by heart. Headache, breathing difficulties, sensitive and watering eyes. Headache, breathing difficulties, sensitive and watering eyes. People chanted the mantra.

According to the informations given by the news, the headache became more and more extreme the closer the victim got to the disease’s last stage. “How extreme are we even talking here?” Mom had asked. “Headaches are pretty common.”

“Probably, like, out of our imagination,” Dad said as he poured the soup into his bowl. “I mean it’s flower blooming in your head. Can’t imagine something that hurts worse than that.” They glanced at Shigeo, as if to see if he was still there, then looked away, and the conversation carried forth.

Shigeo was silent during dinner. He had some idea of out-of-imagination pain, but it wasn’t much more than an impression.

Ritsu never stopped his research, even after Hanazawa’s idea that he shared with them. He started reading up about Hanahaki - something the news mentioned - and covered his desk with notes about it. Shigeo and Hanazawa played the role of his sounding board, trading a sentence or two every once in a while as Ritsu mumbled on about diseases, Hanazawa sometimes chiming in with a question. Informations about Hanahaki was hard to come by on the internet, but they scourged up enough to deduce that it was an extremely rare and usually fatal illness. Kadan seemed to be a new strain of it, if what the news said was true.

Hanazawa stayed for the night; they sat in Shigeo’s room, Ritsu on his phone trying to find out more, Hanazawa and Shigeo taking in the silence. They had been up to too much out of place silence, to feel it again without the weight was comforting.

At two in the morning, Ritsu spoke up. “There’s a tab on a health society’s website. They list the known cases of Hanahaki in Japan. There was one in Spice City a dozen of years ago.”

“What are you gonna do with that anyway?” Hanazawa asked, quietly.

Ritsu looked down at his phone. It took him a while to answer. “I’m going to ask around for a bit. Look through the hospitals’ documents. That society only has two member hospitals in Spice City.”

Hanazawa waited equally as long to continued. “This won’t help anyone.”

Shigeo expected Ritsu to snark at that, but in the end the reply was “I know.”

Ritsu went through with his plan a month later, to find out about a Megumi Furuya who died at the age of twenty. And about what Shigeo had always known.

“You didn’t tell me,” he said to Shigeo, and it sounded like an accusation.

There wasn’t really anything to tell, mostly because he didn’t remember much: he was eight when the occasional tests stopped. He was declared healthy. The hospital hadn’t questioned it much, because he was one of the youngest one to be diagnosed with Hanahaki, and the symptoms didn’t show too clearly at that age. They had chalked it up to a misdiagnosis and let him go.

Ritsu had a better idea of that, Shigeo thought. He, like Shigeo, had a different viewing angle at the world than the common people. Human error meant a lot more to them.

Ritsu didn’t ask him more about it. The only thing he asked was whether it had hurted, and Shigeo’s honest answer was that he didn’t remember. That was how he cured himself of it.

Hanazawa invited Shigeo out for a walk on a weekday when Black Vinegar middle school was under quarantine. He seemed a bit tired, but got his energy back after a strawberry parfait.

Shigeo showed him the field next to the train station. “It’s even more beautiful than what I imagined,” Hanazawa had said, and Shigeo was glad of it.

They sat on the grass in silence. When the sky shifted to a violet-tinted orange, Hanazawa told Shigeo, “ There’s this art cafe I think you’d like, but an incident happened there last week. It’s been closed since then.”

“What was the name?” Shigeo asked.

“Higashi. It was on the news that morning.”

The name was white to his senses. Shigeo remembered it. Tulip.

Hanazawa waited a bit before continuing. “He fell asleep at a booth in the corner. He brought his wife’s framed picture with him. The flowers covered the whole booth.”

“It sounds like you were there when it happened.”

Hanazawa nodded.

There was a beat of silence between them, and then Shigeo asked, “Did it scare you?”

“No, actually,” Hanazawa laughed. “His head didn’t even explode. It just got engulfed in tulips, and then it was gone. I think the flowers absorbed all of it or something. Took only a minute.”

For the first time, Shigeo imagined the scene fully.

“It was a quiet way to go,” Hanazawa said from next to him. “But I think it’s better than some deaths I’ve known.”

The death rates slowed down for a bit when the third year came, but the silence never really left.

Ritsu’s researches trailed off slowly since he got the knowledge of Shigeo’s old condition. Shigeo was neither glad nor worried of it, but he did take notice. He had an idea of what Ritsu might be thinking of - events that happened near each others raise the idea of them being linked to each others in one way or another.

He himself didn’t know the concrete answer, if he was to be honest to himself. Maybe his power did burn the illness out. Maybe the pain did come before his control was torn away from him and not after. Maybe his lungs did burn and the flowers did come up, but just never made it out. What he knew was that the flowers were attached to a piece of the affection he had and what came with it, and some of it was burned off along with them. Like a table losing a leg, he was on the brink of toppling over for a while; but in the end it grew back.

Maybe it could work that way for Kadan too, he thought. Maybe they could burn out the pain, and if they were lucky the emptiness would fix itself.

He didn’t know how many people would take that chance.

Hanazawa started hanging out frequently at the Office. He behaved, so Master Reigen didn’t complain. He was always there when Shigeo came by, strained smile and hands balled up on his thigh.

They didn’t really have conversations anymore; it felt more and more like Hanazawa was content with just Shigeo’s presence. He sometimes tagged along when they went out for a case, but left them to their work mostly. “My power’s not worth much when I can’t concentrate,” he said with a wink when Shigeo asked him. Shigeo let it go.

On a day when Hanazawa wasn’t there, Shigeo told Master Reigen about his old condition. “I’ve heard talk of Hanahaki,” Master Reigen said thoughtfully, “but never much. This is a big deal, Mob. Maybe we can help someone out with it.”

Master Reigen’s optimism carried them on to their next cases, and sooner rather than later, someone came by because of unbearable headache. Her name was Saeki. “I got spikes at night when I sleep next to my wife,” she told them. “It’s bad enough to wake me up. I’m tired of this.”

Master Reigen looked at her carefully before asking questions. “Have you been having trouble breathing lately?”

Miss Saeki shook her head. “No, I don’t think so… You think I caught Kadan?”

“I’m not ruling it out, but even in that case I might be able to help you. The troubles with breathing come later than the headache, so we can’t confirm anything yet. Have you been doubting you wife’s fidelity?”

Miss Saeki was stunned into silence for a moment. “What? I— no— why are you asking this?”

“I don’t ask unnecessary question, Saeki-san,” Master Reigen said, tapping his finger on the desk. “So please answer truthfully.”

It took Miss Saeki a while to be able to say the words out loud. “Ye— Yes. I have.” She grimaced as the sentence left her mouth. She was sweating.

She and her wife were scheduled for another consultation the day after. With both of their agreement, Shigeo and Master Reigen did what they could. While Master Reigen performed, Shigeo put his hand on Miss Saeki’s. He gripped firmly on the flowers - geranium - and tore them out. They withered into dust.

Miss Saeki was crying when he signaled Master Reigen to stop. Her tear smelled of flower. “It’s gone,” she said when they asked if she could still feel the headache, and a smile tentatively bloomed on her lips.

They watched it wither when she looked from them to her wife.

Hanazawa was there with them that afternoon. He was quiet through the whole process.

Ritsu heard of that event from Hanazawa, in a morning when they were coincidentally at the same place and without Shigeo.

Shigeo found him in his room reading through records of Hanahaki he copied from his in-and-out visit at the hospitals. There were pollens and contagion and development scribbled in his notebook, and red lines running between them in confusion. Shigeo didn’t know what to do more than to leave Ritsu to his thoughts.

All Ritsu could figure out after that night was that the later into development the illness was, the deeper the flowers took root, but it seemed to always be around a concrete feeling. It wasn’t a satisfying deduction by any mean, but he traded it with Hanazawa anyway. They talked in silent voices through the morning.

The six o’clock news that evening bought them some informations on the process of finding a cure for Kadan. “At least they’re onto something,” Mom said, but they were wary of hope yet.

“The scientists at Kanto Health Council HQ hope to fully engineer a cure based on their already ongoing research of Hanahaki,” the news lady on the TV said. “Until there is more update on the situation, please follow the established health code strictly to avoid contracting this disease.”

They were silent after that.

Hanazawa kept his calm facade, but only barely. Shigeo could tell that the pain was tearing at it. They went to a park near the Office - that was as far as Hanazawa could make it before he needed to take a break - and sat on the grassy hill near the lake, basked in the silence.

“It can’t possibly be worth more than your life,” Shigeo said to Hanazawa. He was quiet in response.

Only when they stood up to go back did he say something. “I can’t imagine a life without it.”

“You did live that life once,” Shigeo pointed out. “And there’s a chance that whatever affection you’re feeling will come back. You’re closer to me when it comes to power, maybe it’ll work for you as it did for me.”

Hanazawa smiled. “You know I wasn’t afraid before, Kageyama-kun,” he said in an even voice. “Now I am. The me before you could never have admitted this in any circumstances, and I’m afraid of that as much as of this damn disease right now.”

Hanazawa didn’t wake up from his nap two days later at the Office. Shigeo and Ritsu came by after a call from Master Reigen.

The scent of lilac was overwhelming when they walked in. Shigeo was tense with guilt. He recounted every moment he could have just gotten it done that he could remember since they tested the cure, went through them silently in his head as they sat down on the floor next to the couch where Hanazawa lay. Suddenly all of them seemed more plausible.

“He was in love with you,” Ritsu mumbled to himself, turned the clue over and over to find a solution. “Maybe just a confession… maybe that’d be enough. Maybe just affection towards him can override…”

“It’s not gonna work, Ritsu,” Master Reigen said, closing the door. “It depends on him. He knows Mob’s answer already.”

Ritsu heard it, but he kept muttering to himself. His hands came up to cover his eyes tiredly.

If only there were a bit more time, Shigeo thought. Suddenly he was so sure of that. If only I had a bit more time.

“Affection,” Ritsu mumbled. “Lilacs. Acceptance. It’s acceptance - it’s an established balance— of— overthrown affection. Maybe if we upset the balance…”

Master Reigen put one hand on his shoulder. “Do it, Mob.”

If only, Shigeo chanted.

The sky was pink when he dove in. It took him a moment to realise that was just the lilacs.

He joined Hanazawa in an overgrown patch.

It was silent under the pink sky.

“If you burn the flowers,” Hanazawa said, “there will be nothing left.”

Shigeo didn’t want to believe him, but his voice was honest. There was no facade here.

I took him longer than it should have to say the words, but he did in the end. “It could have happened, Hanazawa-kun.”

Hanazawa laughed, tiredly, humourlessly, bitterly.

“You’re scared,” Shigeo got the words out. “I’m scared too. Finally I’m scared of this. I think it's guilt and regret I’m feeling. I don’t want this to happen.”

“Why?” Hanazawa asked, hiccupping. “I’ve already figured it’s not that bad a way to go. As long as I get to— I get to keep the affection. I would have been fine with it.”

“We wouldn’t have,” Shigeo said. “Master Reigen and Ritsu and me. If only I could have a bit more time.”

“If only,” Hanazawa echoed. “If only.”

They stayed there for a long time before he said anything more. “I’m scared to take the chance.”

The lilacs started to simmer. The sun was up, slowly.

Shigeo nodded.

“I am too. But you’ve made the choice already.”

Hanazawa was crying when Shigeo finished. It took him another three hours of sleep to wake up fully.

“You said something about the balance,” Shigeo said when Ritsu looked at him at one time in that afternoon. “Maybe that’s what it was.”

They went out for dinner after that. Master Reigen brought them to a ramen shop he discovered a while ago while on a case. It was thankfully still open amidst the rampant health crisis. They were silent through most of it, Hanazawa focusing more on his food than any ongoing conversation. It gave Shigeo an odd, barren peace.

Hanazawa still smelled of lilac months later, whenever they met. Shigeo grew used to it as they sat in silence, the morning report sounding from the radio in the living room. The streets were always a bit more deserted than it used to be when they walked it, each following their own thoughts. They didn’t avoid the incident sites anymore.

A cure was found by the end of the third year, and Hanazawa got it. Sometimes later a vaccine was developed too, and soon Kadan withered.

Kojiro Shimizu and her husband was buried next to each other. People remembered the location, as if it was a warning about the faulty design that allowed a person to die of heartbreak. They covered her tombstone with roses.

Shigeo and Hanazawa stopped there one afternoon when they went out for a walk. Hanazawa brought roses with him. “I can’t remember the pain,” Hanazawa said after having put the flowers on Kojiro’s tomb. They chased away the lingering scent of Judas flowers. “Sometimes I think it should be there, but it’s not, and I feel like it’s not right like this.”

“That was how I was cured,” Shigeo told him, and it seemed to be good enough of an answer.

They sat there for a while, under the golden twilight.

“Thank you,” Shigeo said to him when they stood up. “For being not afraid with me. And then for being afraid with me.”

Hanazawa smiled.

Together, they walked down the hill.

[hellofastestnewsfan]

The former U.S. Poet Laureate W. S. Merwin died last week at the age of 91. His writing career was exceptionally long and decorated: It spanned nearly seven decades, generated hundreds of poems and translations, and garnered rare honors, including two Pulitzer Prizes and a National Book Award. But even in the early years of his career, with dozens of poetry collections and awards still ahead, Merwin’s writing for The Atlantic was weighted with melancholy expectations of a premature ending.

“Send me out into another life / lord because this one is growing faint / I do not think it goes all the way,” he wrote in “Words From a Totem Animal,” first published in the January 1969 issue. This feeling—that life, and with it the chance to reach some undefined goal, is slipping away—permeates his poetry. “A Door,” published in 1971, anticipates that “long after I have gone … / there in front of me a life / would open.” In 1967’s “Fly,” a pigeon is found “in the dovecote dead” before it can learn to fly or to protect itself. A sun sets; an era ends; a dark figure passes by. Meanwhile, Merwin’s speakers wait, often fruitlessly, for something essential to arrive.

Sometimes, the sense of loss Merwin writes of doesn’t come from death, but simply from standing still in a moving world. In “Chord,” published in The Atlantic’s July 1987 issue, he envisions progress outpacing another poet, John Keats, who “lay with the odes behind him” as “an age arrived when everything was explained in another language.” In his reflective 1967 poem “In the Winter of My Thirty-Eighth Year,” Merwin describes his own hollow sensation of being left behind by the march of time:

There is nothing wrong with my age now probably It is how I have come to it Like a thing I kept putting off as I did my youth … Of course there is nothing the matter with the stars It is my emptiness among them While they drift farther away in the invisible morning.

Yet Merwin’s work finds meaning in the apparent emptiness of lost time and fruitless striving. Writing about Merwin’s 1970 poetry collection, The Carrier of Ladders, in The Atlantic, the magazine’s poetry editor, Peter Davison, observed: “As [the] title reveals, a man who carries a ladder holds not only the rungs and sidepieces but the spaces between them, and the ladder enables us to use those very spaces to rise.” Merwin built rhythm and structure not only with words, but also with white spaces by omitting punctuation. He marshaled frustrated moments of stillness toward action and clarity of feeling.

[Read: W. S. Merwin’s poems of ethical care]

Even as the goals in his poems go unrealized—the sound isn’t heard; the door doesn’t open; the pigeon doesn’t take flight—some understanding or hope often grows out of the attempt to achieve them. In the middle of his search for a unified self in “Words From a Totem Animal,” he considers: “Maybe I will come / to where I am one / and find / I have been waiting there.” It’s a pattern of circularity that recurs throughout his poetry. In his 1995 poem “Green Fields,” Merwin describes a farmer who holds on to his belief in heaven as the world around him deteriorates, and ultimately finds in the afterlife an echo of his earliest years:

the wall by his bed opened almost every day and he saw what was really there and it was eternal life as he recognized at once when he saw the gardens he had made and the green fields where he had been a child and his mother was standing there

In 1999’s “Term,” Merwin writes a similar ending to the search for just the right word: “who would ever have thought it was the one / saying itself from the beginning through / all its uses and circumstances to / utter at last that meaning of its own.” Again and again, his speakers seek an elusive revelation, only to find that what they sought was present all along.

In a sense, the familiarity of these endings renders futile all the searching and waiting that Merwin describes; to return to Davison’s metaphor, the poet climbs a ladder only to come back to the same place. But the ending also redeems the empty steps that came before it. If Merwin, at 38, regrets putting off his life and letting the stars drift away from him, then discovering a heaven that reflects his childhood or a perfect word that he’s always known gives new significance to those apparently hollow or unremarkable experiences. Instead of climbing over his past toward a higher point, he sees his whole past elevated to the height he aspired to reach.

He also finds a kind of melancholy hope in the promise of continuation—of the climb going on, in a sense, after he’s left the ladder. A door opens in the space he no longer occupies, or Keats’s poems are still read in an age with a new language. In “Direction,” first published in 1979, Merwin wrote about a lecturer imparting wisdom to his students, “giving them his every breath        to take with them like water / as they vanished / nobody was coming back that way.” And in 2001’s “In the Open,” he imagined looking up at the night sky and seeing long-dead stars that “by then / were nothing but the light that had left them”—a light “that had traveled so long ... / to become visible / to us.”

Merwin’s body of work remains, after his death, as its own hopeful continuation. The poet is no longer writing, but he’s survived by his poems: his own kind of light, traveling beyond him into the dark.

from The Atlantic https://ift.tt/2TWgnSp