#I respect your right to hold your own beliefs of course hate that old man all you want☝️😔 but I dont wanna see it...

[allgremlinyaps]

shut UPPPPPPPPPP 😭 as always, this post was not an invitation for all that

[writingonesdreams]

Only the most powerful

Summary: Zephyr gets valuable training lessons from his father. Backstory piece.

Author's note: I was thinking about key moments that decide character personalities and shape their beliefs in life and this came out. Plus my uncle has been teaching me some self-defense and these are literally techniques taught for fighting situations.

The night Zephyr came home with a bleeding nose and a black eye, his father took him crying from his mother's arms and threw him into the dojo.

Zephyr could only blink with one eye in surprise. For all authority and respect he owned his father, he never knew him to he a cruel man.

"Take your position and fight me."

How was Zephyr to explain to him that it wasn't failure of skill that caused his injuries?

The truth was, the three boys that robbed him had worn-out clothes and desperate looks and he felt sorry more than he felt afraid.

"Don't stare, boy. Get ready." Zephyr couldn't read his father's steely face.

Trying to ignore his aching back, throbbing ankle, he stretched his bruised arms and steadied his pose.

The cuts on his face were still bleeding.

His father ferocious attacks quickly made him forget his discomforts.

He fought and strained, and got his fair share of kicks for the eye he couldn't see from and the wobbliness of his movements. He was tired, hurting and slugging, and found himself struggling on his knees in short time.

Zephyr was only 8 years old, so of course his father didn't fight him as an adult man but fitting to his skill. But he fought him seriously, not in the playful way of mornings or the focused tired evenings, but like during a duel with onlookers to teach.

This was all the harder, since Zephyr rarely lost, rarely had to fight with pain like this.

"You have to force yourself through the pain. How well you manage it is how strong your will is." His father guided. The tone still wasn't right, but at least he was still getting advice.

Zephyr trying to calm himself enough to get up. He truly did. But the ankle wasn't holding and his breathing was too quick for a longer breathe to give him any strenght.

"Get up, boy."

Zephyr bit back the tears and stood up, swaying on his feet. It wouldn't last long and he prepared to nose-dive back to the ground, had a strong firm hand not caught him by the shoulder.

"Listen. I'm not mad you lost. Neither am I upset you felt bad for those boys."

Zephyr took a sharp breath and refocused his remaining eye on the blurry figure in front of him. So he knew?

"You have a gentle soul. But you have to understand something. Only the most powerful can afford to be gentle, for right decisions are always more difficult to make."

He hated that he winced, when his father touched his cheek. But his crazy heartbeat began to slow down and the world stopped tilting to the side so much. His father's hand held him in place.

"To use this magic, you need full control over your body and soul. You need balance and inner resolution and the will to stand any pain."

Zephyr nodded.

Father caressed his cheek and then ruffled his hair. Then he stood up.

"Get ready for another round. Grit your teeth and take the pain. Make peace with it."

Finally taking a deep breath, the boy found his feet and straightened his back.

"You will be the strongest so you can be the kindest. For there is no peace without the threat of violence, there is no fairness where people can't be firm, and there is no change if you can't win."

Zephyr readied himself back into a battle stance. More lose and relaxed. He would not just defend this time.

"Always strike first. Ask questions later. Never hesitate. If you are wrong, you will apologise. If you are right, it will save you from ending up beat up on the floor, easy target to break or worse."

He wet his lips and focused his mind, reading his father's steps as he circled around him like a shark.

Always strike first.

And so Zephyr did. He always did.

[theseerasures]

a yearning nation’s blueeyed pride

honestly there is just like. no point as of Witch (if not earlier) in thinking about Marrow and Winter as following along the same defection path, and downright facile to compare the two in terms of who is “closer” to defecting and therefore “less problematic” (even setting aside that making value judgments along those lines in fiction is...never that straightforward), when the narrative has emphasized REPEATEDLY how they are on entirely separate tracks in terms of character and role in the Atlas military.

seriously, it’s like saying “this orange is bad because you can’t eat the peel like you can eat an apple skin”

so like, yes, Marrow is the one who has verbally expressed his misgivings, and has clearly articulated scruples (as opposed to just the dial-up noise) and will blurt them out any second now as soon as he gets a word in edgewise. but also: Marrow HASN’T gotten a word in edgewise (except with Winter, fancy that), and has done approximately fuck all to actually subvert the system that he is growing to hate. both his theory and lack of praxis are tied into Marrow’s relatively low, overlooked position in the Atlas system, and feed into the fact that for Marrow the project of Atlas is not personal.

Marrow joined the military on ideological grounds. he clearly does want personal connection, but that has been denied him at every turn, largely by his teammates, largely by his partner, all of whom use him to enforce their own struggles with the clash between political duty and personal grief. he has been alienated by the system he upholds, which started even before we meet him. this makes it much harder for him to rebel in deed, because he doesn’t have a lot of power to begin with and he knows the system will not protect him if he does; at the same time, that relative powerlessness and isolation keeps his investment in Atlas abstract, uncomplicated, and much easier to dispel. Marrow is still with Atlas because he has a job to do, because it’s his duty, because he is still clinging to the Atlas military’s illusory altruism. he wants Penny to come with them so she can save Atlas. his protestations at seeing Team FNKI, that they are “just kids,” comes from the belief that it is categorically wrong to send children into battle. what is keeping Marrow from defecting is belief, and once the belief is shattered--like, say, when his boss’ new ingenious plan is to Nuke the Poors--there is nothing keeping him around.

and once his path is set he will not waver, because Atlas, by design, has no hold on him materially or personally (outside of his own life, which he was already happy to dedicate to a cause). Marrow then, is the limit case of Atlas being hoist with its own petard: an exemplar for how it gives its people nothing while demanding everything, but also an exemplar for how quickly the entire system folds in on itself when the veil is lifted. when Marrow defects (and it IS when) it will represent Atlas as a whole defecting from itself, even if we don’t see it visually--from the civilians, to the enlisted soldiers, to perhaps even members of Marrow’s own team.

NONE of the things i just mentioned really apply to Winter, because there is nothing about Atlas that is not personal for Winter.

i have no doubt that Winter is in some ways invested in same abstract principles that swayed Marrow, but that is constantly overridden by the fact that Winter has family at all sides of this, even before everything fell to shit, and the narrative will not stop reminding her.

“what about your sister?” “would you say the same thing if it was your sister inside?” her father was gunning for a seat on the Council. the man who took her in is essentially Head of State. Penny has made herself Public Enemy Number One, and Weiss is actively abetting her. even Whitley has now thrown himself into the fray, unbeknownst to her. and another person might be better at compartmentalizing all this the way Winter clearly wants to, and stick to the party line, but Winter cannot, because the more i watch her the more i’m convinced that the current crisis in Atlas is just a microcosm of the real issue, which is to say: everything is personal in Atlas for Winter, because everything is personal for Winter.

at a moment-to-moment level, and especially when backed into a corner, Winter defaults not to ideology but her tightly coiled lattice of personal relationships. and this makes perfect sense, because Winter grew up in a household where she had to perpetually crisis respond, and then she never stopped. Marrow does what he does because he believes in the dream, in making the world a better place, and therefore it is more difficult in some respects for him to defect, because it involves taking a long hard look at and then rejecting the structures he bought into and made himself complicit in. once lines are crossed and he DOES do that, though, he’s home free. for Winter, there are no lines to cross, because all Winter wants in the end is to throw her arms around everyone she cares about and drag them to safety. to keep them there, closely held, where she can see them and make sure that they stay safe.

but what’s tricky about Winter--what’s fascinating to me, what Jacques tried to beat out of her, what James alternately capitalizes on and tries to quash, what she resents about herself--is that in times of crisis (which for Winter is again ALL THE TIME), “everyone she cares about” becomes everyone, so that suddenly she takes a shine to the General’s war machine, so that she’s risking her life to give Penny and Fria a few more seconds of time, so that she’s stepping in front of Elm’s incoming fist, so that she’s letting JYR go rescue Oscar. Marrow has ideals he values, but at her core Winter has nothing but the people, who are real the moment she sees and feels them--real enough to defend, or defend against.

Winter jealously protects her web of people, but that web will also spiral out to infinity if she lets it--so she doesn’t. she has adamantly refused to move out of the mode where she lives present-by-present, only reacting to what is right in front of her, what she has been told, weighing her own life against the people who are closest, and no more. this is unquestionably a trauma response, but it’s also reinforced by 1) her choice to become a career soldier, and 2) the fact that Winter actually HAS quite a bit of power, and she knows that. but she has never trusted herself with any of it, largely because her hypervigilant response to situations has only ever been chastised instead of rehabilitated. Winter knows the weight of her name and her position, but she constantly tries to ignore it, or run away from it, so that she is only ever the heiress, the second-in-command, and never the Queen. she cannot be a leader until she is Good (that is to say, perfect and rational), so she tries to obliterate her power the same time she obliterates that pesky personhood: remaining still for as long as possible, avoiding situations that she knows will prompt action and choice, and when absolutely pushed to think through her power, moving the pieces around with extreme caution, hoping that the world won’t be burnt black by it.

Marrow and Winter are fundamentally at opposing ends of the personal-political bleed, and the story could NOT telegraph it any more clearly than their conversation in Witch, where Marrow makes a personal plea to Winter so that she can make a call far beyond just that, and she refutes him, by reminding him of his obligation to Atlas in the form of impersonal duty.

i’ll conclude by pointing out that there is something very interesting happening with Winter right now, that exceeds her power in-universe. because even as a Schnee, as Ironwood’s protege, what Winter can do is limited (partly because she limits herself), except for how the story has resolutely centered her actions and MADE them significant. in the course of this war Winter has let herself make exactly two choices--both of them noninterventionist, easily justifiable, and not meant to take any ideological stand--and they ended up altering the entire fabric of the war with Salem. all because she loved her sisters more than her duty. all because she was shown a slim chance to save the kingdom and a fourteen-year-old boy, and she thought just for an instant, what’s the harm

(and James Ironwood will never know. that even with his plan, his bomb, all his ships, all his soldiers...he was no match for her. his loyal lieutenant. the only child he will ever have, who has only ever called him “sir.”)

it is not about what Winter COULD have chosen in those moments, if she had the ability to stop Penny and Weiss from leaving, if JYR were even Oscar’s rescuers, in the conventional sense. it is about the fact that she DID make those choices, and the story has made them reverberate, in spite of the fact that she did not mean for them to. Marrow’s story is about being neglected and overlooked by the system, the moment of recognition that it needs you more than you need it, that there are so many more of you, and together you can stop chasing the dream and make your own. Winter’s story cleaves to the heart of not just Atlas, but the RWBY monomyth, which goes something like: stars are like us. the world was created because two brothers could not get along, and sundered because a woman could not cope with her grief. just because you move closer to the elite, to the center, to the top, to the sublime, it does not mean that you move farther from the fallible. we are all, at our deepest layer, people.

but the world does not tremble any less for it.

[kookiepredictions]

Jungkook Ideal Type

This was a request so I thought I’d start from here.

Jungkook has high expectations in terms of ideal type because he actually has very small expectations from them. This is obviously confusing so I will explain.

As mentioned in an earlier post, in a relationship, Jungkook is a very giving person. He hardly ever thinks about what he can get from the person he loves. Most of his fantasies are about what wants to give to them. However, he is pretty aware of this personality trait in himself and knows that it is something that can be easily manipulated. This is why his screening process of letting people in is so strict and fussy. He wants to make sure that the person who will be the subject of all of this generous affection, is someone who naturally understands what he needs without him having to ask or demand, because it’s not his natural personality to ask for anything. Even if he needs something, which everyone does, he will just keep it to himself and stay hurting on his own when no one understands it. He is quite aware of this whole process and cycle and therefore feels that he needs to be extra careful of who he brings into this. This is why his ideal type personality traits are so nit-picky-like. They mainly cover the aspects of the ability to understand his own personality traits, which are complex and quite confusing, often even to himself.

Now getting to the specifics, the previous point leads to the most important characteristic that Jungkook wants in his partner: someone who understands him in all his myriad moods. When Jungkook is in his best form, he is the best partner, friend, son, brother, colleague that anyone can even hope to have in a lifetime. But no one is always is their best form and Jungkook is no exception. But what sets him apart from most people is that he has a general awareness of this, and therefore knows that when he goes into his dark place, he is also a really difficult person to handle. And he thinks it would take someone exceptionally understanding to stand by him in those moments. He fears that anyone who gets into a relationship with him only for his good, brighter moments, will stand to be shocked at his not-so-bright moments and then will start unloving or possibly even hating him and it will leave him with a heartbreak that he will never recover from. It’s also a possibility that he has already had an experience of this kind and therefore is even more careful about who he chooses now.

Jungkook has an innate ability of aesthetically appreciating beauty and his head is bound to turn at the sight of someone pretty, but the majority of it is in a more artistic manner, so the subject of beauty can be a woman, or a man or an object or anything else, without always having a romantic or sexual connotation. So although he is a “man” man who enjoys looking at beautiful people with the occasional thought of “smash-worthy” in his mind, he’s also the type to judge a face on its closeness to the golden ratio. It’s just the artist in him lol. When it comes to relationships, Jungkook is definitely the type to find someone a lot more beautiful when he develops feelings for them. Someone can look really average in the books, but if Jungkook is in love with them, they are the MOST BEAUTIFUL person in the world and no Maxim cover model can ever compare to them in his eyes.

Having said that, he appreciates a person who takes care of themselves. It’s an often misunderstood demand because people might think he wants someone skinny and perfect but his mindset behind it is really his own principle of prioritizing health and fitness in life. It’s something he does for himself because he believes it to be important and right. Therefore someone he would spend his whole life with should naturally prioritize this as well, because he doesn’t want to spend his whole life convincing or arguing about something that should be considered as a necessity. However, he doesn’t have a set body type that he idealizes. For him, the personality trumps looks and if he does expect his partner to look a certain way, especially now that he is a famous idol, it’s because he knows that whoever will become his partner will be subjected to a lot of judgement and criticism from really harsh people and the media, so he feels that someone who naturally has an understanding and love of their physical upkeep, will not have to go through an unnecessarily rough time adapting to these societal demands. Interestingly though, personally, Jungkook is a lot more lenient about his partner’s looks. Being a K Pop idol has actually desensitized him to physical appearances because he constantly sees both the before and after glam-room changes, and he now values the things that do not change with or without makeup. Even at his age, he’s the type of mature who knows that no one, no matter how beautiful, will always stay looking the same way, and that if one’s love is dependent on such a fleeting thing, they will never find true fulfillment in life. Peep the old interview in Sydney where BTS members were asked to describe their ideal type in one word and Jungkook said “nice girl”. He has the makings of being the type of husband who, you know how women’s bodies change when they give birth, would shower even more compliments about how great they look so that they don’t feel insecure about themselves. The flipside of this is that if he ends up disliking someone, they’d better run for the hills because Jungkook will say and do everything to make them feel worse about everything about themselves even though he actually doesn’t mean it nor does he consider anyone unattractive for their physical appearance. He tends to be a lot more critical about his own looks that others’.

Besides being someone who can fully and patiently understand him, Jungkook has no other “demands” from his partner. He’s flexible about everything else. It’s just that understanding Jungkook automatically means that his partner has to have a set of really complex and nimble personality traits themselves. Patience and empathy are key elements here. Don’t be too quick to judge him. Like any other 22 year old, he’s in a stage of forming and crafting his own life view, so there are plenty of rough edges that show through without him intending as such. Be willing to listen to his viewpoints without instantly adjudging him wrong. Be open-minded as well as aware of your own limitations. Are you judging him because he is wrong or are you judging him because of your own limitations in thoughts and beliefs? There is that little window of exchange that Jungkook opens and if he feels violated off his own freedom of thought and speech, he quickly shuts it down. On the contrary, the more space he is given to be himself and figure things out for himself, the bigger that window gets and eventually one day, there is no wall at all.

Jungkook admires someone with their own goals and ambitions. It doesn’t have to a very big goal, it just has to be your own and something you are really passionate about. He doesn’t expect his partner to be a hugely successful anything or bring in a lot of money to the table. Jungkook tends to hold this concept that he has to be the bread-earner of his family, so he doesn’t depend on anyone else for his own material needs (kind of a reason why he moved out of his home to follow his own career path so early in his life), so it’s really not about the money or the status. Rather, because of this wanting to be the provider, he tends to feel insecure if his partner is a little too passionate or successful in their own career because then he starts to worry if he will ever mange to match up to that, but that is a minor egocentric blockage that he has to work on which I feel like he will. The reason why he wants his partner to have their own passion is because Jungkook himself doesn’t work solely for money. He works (or at least really wants to) for his ideas and visions. And he needs someone to understand the importance of this in his life.

Although he seems quiet and introverted, Jungkook really enjoys a good conversation. His Aquarius dominated chart really shows through here. It is a stimulant for him to the point that it can be foreplay lol. Jungkook doesn’t engage in any and every conversation because 1) he’s not interested in superficial small talk all the time, and 2) it’s sad really that he has been, for the most part of his life, not taken seriously for his speaking or even thinking skills. He’s been more treated as this person with the “body” and everything a body can do (I’m mostly talking about singing, dancing, exercise, but yeah what you’re all thinking about as well), so he keeps the “mind” part more to himself and only opens up when he feels like he won’t be judged or belittled for what he has to say, because secretly though, he knows that he’s a lot smarter than a lot of people around him. But since he has been directly or tactically told to shut the hell up all his life, he now does it on his own without having to be told. But of course, he wants the one he chooses to spend his whole life with, to be someone who wouldn’t do that and with whom he can have many hours of conversations with.

This directly says that his ideal type can’t be someone who is overcritical of them. That is because Jungkook is overcritical of himself and what he needs is someone to balance that out by encouraging and motivating him to see his better side, and even when he needs to be corrected or critiqued, which he actually wants his partner to do for him, it has to be with genuine love and understanding and not with the intent of insulting him. His own mind and self-talk is pretty demeaning to himself that erodes his self esteem every day, and he doesn’t need someone to add to that.

He likes someone who speaks with love and gentleness but he can also tell when someone is being a fake sweet talker so don’t try that on him lol. He likes honesty with respect. Also when he said in his interviews that he wants someone who can teach him new things via a relationship, he wasn’t lying. A lot of things he wants in his ideal partner are also things that he wants to learn for himself. So if he wants his partner to be honest and respectful, it doesn’t mean he only wants them to be that way while he gets the clean chit to do whatever he wants. Rather, he wants his partner to be that way because he wants to learn to fully embody those qualities too.

Jungkook has a very dominant masculine type personality, and deep down, he longs for that to be balanced. This is why he actually craves for someone with an equally strong personality as his own, who won’t be daunted by the strong aspects of him, yet be fluid enough to fill in the cracks and crevices as needed. The yin to his yang. Like I said, Jungkook’s ideal type right now is flexible for the most part. It is less of ticking from a list of “I want this and this and that” or how she looks and is on the outside, and more of who will best match and adapt with his personality which is also changing every day. This “match” also has to be beneficial for his partner because he believes that an ideal relationship is about the happiness of both people, and when he’s interested in someone, he’s often obsessed with the thought of whether he can keep them happy. So his ideal type is someone who not only fulfills him, but someone whose needs he can fulfill as well.

[mooncxmm]

Todo's Petal

You rest your back against the roughed up bark of the old Sakura tree and let a relaxed sigh. You tilt your head back and squint up at the swaying flowers.

It feels like you're in your own little peaceful beautiful world, until footsteps snap you back into reality. 

Looking at who was walking up to you, you see it's the love of your life, Shoto Todoroki.

The half n' half male approaches and stops in his tracks as he's right in front of you.  “Petal… You actually came. I’m glad.” He spoke in his monotone voice.

“Of course I came, Sho. I wanted to see what you wanted to talk about,” you said softly.  You watch your boyfriend sit down next to you and look up at the pink flowers.

"Petal I just want to apologize for not spending as much time with you anymore. Nakamura-Chan is really all on me and has me on a leash," your beloved explained. 

"Nakamura-Chan this, Nakamura-Chan that… you know, I'm really sick and tired of hearing that bitch's name," you mumble under your breath. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Shoto said, looking at the ground covered in cherry blossoms. “I don’t want this to happen either. You know I'm against it, too.”

“You know I’m against it, too,” you mocked. ”If you were so against it, we wouldn’t be here in the first place."

Todoroki just looked at you in shock. He knew how you could get when you were upset but damn. 

"You know if I see that bitch being all lovey dovey with you again, I'm going ape shit on her ass," You bluntly put that out there. 

Todoroki's eyes widened. As he knew you showed your emotion with your eyes, he knew you were dead serious. 

“I know you’re upset, but please don’t do that,” he said. You could tell he was shaken after what you said.

"No promises boo," you say nonchalantly. Your blood was boiling. All the times you had to watch Nakamura be all up on your man, touching him and shit, it was living hell for you.

"Baby look at me," Shoto said softly. He reaches for your cheek, but you slap his hand away, making him frown.

"I don't want your Nakamura germs," you say straightforwardly. 

"Baby, please don't be like that," Todoroki pouts.

"Baby, please don't be like that," you mocked. 

"Petal," Todoroki said firmly. 

"Don't 'Petal' me," you said. 

"It was all a lie when you said you loved me, wasn't it!" You shout in frustration. You slowly feel yourself lose your composure, your anger slowly increasing.

Todoroki's eyes widened. Did he just hear you right? He knew you didn't like the situation you were in at all but he didn't think you were doubting your guys' relationship. Did he do something wrong? Was it all his fault? Immediate guilt overfilled his soul and mind.

"Petal I-" Before he could even form a sentence you just shut him up real quick. 

"No, just stop! I'm sick of this! I can't take it anymore. I'm about to lose my shit!" You yell at him before bursting into tears. 

Todoroki's heart broke into pieces as he watched your tears stain your cute cheeks. He didn't mean to make you upset. None of this was supposed to happen. 

“Peta- Y/n...I’m sorry,” he said, you can hear his voice cracking, choking even. 

As you sob, Shoto leans towards you, grasping you with his arms, holding you tight. He just allowed you to punch his chest as you cried and shouted out threats towards Nakamura who wasn't even there. 

"It's not fair! Not fair! Not fair! Why don't you just tell her that we're in a relationship already?! Please! Just end it with her!  Who cares about your fucking father?!" You cried. You were just so tired of this whole situation. 

Todoroki just held you and took it all in. He started to apologize over and over to you. He was so sorry that he had put you through this. He felt so shitty for doing this to your guys' relationship. 

“If you hate him so much, why can’t you just tell him no? The one time you really need to?” You said through tears. “Why is this happening? Why is this the thing you can’t bring yourself to do?”

“I'm scared for both of our safeties,” he blurted. “I kept this up with Nakamura for as long as I did for us.” He looked a bit ashamed.

"What the fuck do you mean you're scared for both of our safeties? What do you mean by you did this for us?" You asked. 

“I didn’t know, or even expect, that Nakamura would…” he trailed, “I didn’t expect that Nakamura would threaten to hurt you.”

You freeze. That bitch really threatened both you and your boyfriend. Ah hell no. She's definitely getting a beat down now.

In the midst of all of your confusion, Shoto's phone had a bing, and you could’ve guessed who it was.

*Nakamura<3 sent a message:*

‘hey! I noticed you were looking a bit down recently and I wanted to treat you!! meet me at that restaurant near your house, we can get some cold soba, i know you love that stuff!!! <33’

Confusion is gone, regret is in. You didn’t know what to do after your fit. His reason wasn’t something that you were really expecting.

“Shoto I…” you trail. ”I’m so sorry.” The embarrassment you felt was immeasurable and the regret was overwhelming.

“It’s okay Petal, I know this is something I should’ve said sooner so we could put an end to this but…the thought of Nakamura going through with it,” he exhaled. You could hear his shaky breath. “It frightened me beyond belief. And if she really did do it, I don’t know what I would have done with myself.”

You frown as you wrap your arms around his waist. "Sho it's okay… she can't hurt me. You know I'm a big girl. I can handle myself," you reassure him. "I'm a crazy bitch, I know how to handle myself," you joke.

Shoto chuckled and he nodded his head. He buried his head in the crook of your neck and he plants gentle kisses on the skin of your neck. 

You started to giggle a bit, since your neck is ticklish. "Sho! Stop it!"

Shoto chuckled once again and he moved and kissed another spot on your neck and gently nibbled down on your skin. 

A faint moan escapes from your lips. "Baby…" you whisper. 

Shoto let out a curious 'hm' as he was making love to your neck. He was really into it as well.

"I swear if you leave a hickey on me…" you mumble. 

Shoto growls at you playfully. He pulls away from your neck and asks,"What if I did?" 

You pout your lips and you poke his cheek harshly. "Sho sho!" 

"Okay that's enough. Let's go to the restaurant and meet up with Miss Nakamura," you say as you push away Shoto and crack your knuckles. 

Shoto pouts as you push him away from your neck, his sweat drops when he hears you cracking your knuckles. Shit was about to go down. 

The way to the restaurant wasn’t too far from the park you had been at, and the excitement of beating down Nakamura was getting to you; making you speed up your pace, basically dragging Shoto.

“Finally! The moment I’ve been waiting for is coming!” You said in a mix of giddiness and aggression, looking like a mad man speed walking to your destination.

“Slow down a little, Petal,” Shoto chuckled, you could tell he was stumbling over his feet a little from the pace of speed.

You could just see the restaurant in the distance. Oh gurl you were r e a d y to beat her ass. You were holding Shoto's hand, dragging him to the restaurant but in your other hand, you had a fist. Your knuckles were white from how tight your fist was. 

Once the restaurant was in your view, you licked your lips as you saw a certain person standing outside of it. You let go of Shoto's hand and sprinted towards them. 

"What the fuck?! You crazy bitch!" 

-

The sun was setting, and the wind was blowing gently. The sky was the most beautiful thing you had seen, a mix of orange, red, yellow, blue, and even the clouds looked a beautiful shade of pink. Undoubtedly, today was probably one of the best you’ve had in a while, and nothing could ruin it.

“Thank you for taking me out Sho,”You said, a giant smile plastered on your face.”I know I’ve been a little rash, everything just hasn’t been the best lately.”

“It’s okay, Petal, I get it,” Shoto said, he had a gentle smile on. Your heart has never felt this warm and you know it’s because of him. How could you have been so lucky to find someone who understood you so well? Someone who basically knew you inside and out?

While walking, you could see his black roofed house. Even though this was one of the most beautiful sceneries you could possibly witness, all you wanted to do was get to his place, plop down, and rest your footsies.

Like the gentleman you knew Sho was, he pulled the slide doors open for you, obviously to let you in first. And to your surprise when you had taken your first step, you saw Enji. And he wasn’t alone.

He had a petite brunette girl with golden yellow eyes, and you had no idea who she was.

After you had technically stepped into the house, Sho was a couple of seconds after, making a joke on the way in. Once he turned around from closing the door, you could see he was just as startled as you were. 

"Father, who is this girl?" Shoto asked as he took off his shoes. He places his shoes next to yours. 

"Hikari Nakamura met my son, Shoto Todoroki, your new boyfriend," Enji said bluntly. 

Both Shoto and you froze, in shock. 

This hurt you so badly. You knew and respected that Shoto wanted to keep your guys relationship a secret but this was bad. 

[deborahdeshoftim5779]

Merlin & Arthur’s friendship: clichés versus reality (Part II)

Following on from Merlin & Arthur’s friendship: clichés versus reality Part I, here is part II. 

CLAIM #3: Arthur *constantly* denied that Merlin was his friend

This claim assumes that Arthur was 1)- serious when he did deny being friends with Merlin and 2)- unwilling to change that viewpoint.

Arthur had no need to either deny or admit to being friends with Merlin. Even when he said in episode 2x13 that, “I know I’m a Prince, so we can’t be friends,” the implication is that he does want to be friends. After all, he was insisting that Merlin confide in him. This pattern would repeat in many episodes to come. 

Bear in mind that Arthur has described other people as friends, too. This includes people we never saw onscreen. A clear example comes from episode 5x05, when Arthur was so moved with grief by Sir Ranulf’s death that he personally led a collection of knights to bring the sorcerer Osgar to justice. He explained to Gwen that “...he was a friend. We knew each other as boys.”

So why would Arthur have trouble admitting that Merlin was his friend? The viewpoint that being more arrogant and prejudiced in the earlier seasons, Arthur would not admit to friendship with a servant, does not hold as much water as some think. As early as episode 2x05, Arthur called Merlin a “true friend”, because he (mistakenly) thought that Merlin was criticising Lady Catrina on his behalf. 

Admittedly, the best examples of Arthur accepting Merlin as a friend come from Seasons 4 and 5. 

In episode 4x01, Merlin said, “I always thought that if things hadn’t been different, we’d have been good friends.” Arthur’s response? “Yeah.” During the crucial episode 4x03, Merlin sat outside the throne room all right, facing a crossroads between the end of his dreams and remaining loyal to the king. Of course, Arthur had no idea about this, but he appreciated the gesture. “You are a loyal friend, Merlin.” In episode 4x05, Arthur called Merlin “old friend”, which is self-explanatory. 

It’s also worth noting that even after claiming in episode 4x05 that he didn’t need friends, when Merlin later said, “I’m your friend!”, Arthur did not disagree. 

Now, I could cite the example of episode 4x07, where Arthur said to Merlin, “I’ve had my heart broken once today. I don’t want to lose another friend.” Self-explanatory. But was this proof of their friendship? No. Arthur was essentially threatening to end his friendship with Merlin if the latter continued criticising Agravaine. Later, in episode 4x11, Arthur again threatened to banish Merlin for the second time (thus ending their friendship) if he accused Agravaine of treason again. This once again shows how Arthur associated loyalty with family first. 

One of the best examples comes from episode 4x13: “I came back because you’re the only friend I have, and I couldn’t bear to lose you.” Is Merlin Arthur’s only friend? No. However, out of all Arthur’s friends, Merlin was his best friend, and losing almost everyone and everything else made him realise that yet again. 

Then we have all the actions which prove Arthur considered Merlin as a friend. 

For example relied on Merlin’s opinion, as Princess Mithian rightly observed in episode 4x11. “One thing I’ve learned since being here is that Arthur values your opinion above almost all others.” 

He complained about Merlin’s periods of silence and broodiness, like in episode 3x05: “Come on: I’m missing your usual prattle!” In episode 3x09, after noting that Merlin was upset, he said, “For goodness’ sake, what is your problem?”

Another example comes from episode 5x01, where Arthur noted Merlin sitting outside the camp and took the time to find out why he was “so upset”. 

The example from episode 5x05 is self-explanatory: “Seriously, I haven’t seen you smile these past three days.” Arthur relies on Merlin’s cheerfulness to remain optimistic, because he faces the constant threat of death. Notice that shortly after Merlin’s sombre mood, Arthur stopped dismissing Osgar’s warnings about The Disir.

As if this were not enough, look at Arthur spending downtime with Merlin. A great example comes from episode 3x04, where Arthur decides on “a nice, cold tankard of mead” after hunting. In episode 3x13, both were sitting on the courtyard steps discussing the future of the kingdom. Even despite his strenuous denials and ingratitude in episode 4x05, you can see Arthur gesture for Merlin to sit down the morning after they captured Caerleon.

What about all the hunting trips? Arthur knows that Merlin hates hunting (in fact, he takes pleasure in this fact), yet still brought him along, as episodes 1x13, 3x04, 4x11, 5x03, and 5x11 show. 

By far my favourite example comes from episode 5x12, when Arthur and Merlin were playing dice at the tavern. (I don’t know iwhat this game was called.) In my view, this happened regularly. Why else would the common people watch and laugh while Merlin poked fun at their king? (Percival’s face was classic.) And why was Arthur playing against Merlin? When did Merlin learn how to play dice? Who taught him? When? 

Obviously, I do not know, but it’s worth asking. 

Despite being speechless after Merlin “won” the game, Arthur let Merlin “win” all of his money. (Clearly, Arthur was the better player: “Feel free to retire at any time.” The king only used theatrics to get the right dice roll, while Merlin cheated with magic each time. If Merlin hadn’t “coughed”, then Arthur would have rolled correctly a second time. Hence why Arthur said beforehand, “Enjoy this moment, Merlin… while it lasts.”) 

Look at Arthur, who was dressed in a plain shirt, rather than his armour and cloak. When we put this scene in conjunction with episode 3x04, where Arthur again wore plain clothes, we can see that he enjoyed these moments of normality. “There’s no better place to measure the mood of your people than the local tavern… I’m just a simple peasant like everybody else.”

So where is this strenuous denial? Nowhere. Arthur never constantly denied that Merlin was his friend. Nor did he only admit this in secret, otherwise the great dice scene in episode 5x12 would never have happened. Sure, the people might have been astonished to see their great king playing against a servant, but they must also have known that if Arthur allowed himself to be “beaten” at a game by his servant, the latter must be his friend. 

CLAIM #4: Merlin was usually/always (in the) right

Wrong. Being right most of the time does not mean being right all of the time. Merlin failed to realise this, and consequently made grievous errors throughout the series. The most grievous errors came when he tried to fight against death. Episode 3x05 shows this; all of the grief and pain suffered by Arthur, Gwen, and Uther stemmed from Merlin mortally injuring Morgana in a bid to prevent her from killing the king. 

He effectively ignored the warning to “use what you see for good.” 

Then we have the example to end all examples; Merlin’s recklessness, presumptuousness, bold-faced hypocrisy, coldness, prejudice, and most of all, jealousy towards Sir Mordred. 

Even as early as episode 1x08, Merlin almost let the boy Mordred die on account of a prophecy. At least back then he questioned it before hiding in bed like a coward. Mordred also blamed Merlin for Uther’s carnage in episode 2x11, though in the case of that episode and episode 2x03, I think Merlin’s actions were no worse than presumptuous. 

It gets far worse in episode 5x02, when Merlin yelled, “You should have killed him!”, to which Arthur rightly said, “What is wrong with you?” Mordred saw that he could not jump across the gorge, so he surrendered and walked away. (He probably knew that Arthur would arrive in Ismere soon, as his later conversation with Morgana demonstrates.) 

Later on, Arthur gave Merlin another strange look after Merlin said, “I told you, you should have killed him when you had the chance.” How could someone usually so compassionate insist on executing a man who stopped threatening them?

Remember how Merlin reacted to Arthur killing Caerleon in episode 4x05, despite having plenty of evidence that Caerleon was a threat to Arthur’s life?

By the way, episodes 5x01 and 5x02 are my favourite examples of Merlin being horrendously wrong. Other episodes include 5x05, and the crucial errors he made in episode 5x11. (I watched most of episode 5x11 last Sunday, and I was floored. It shook me more than 5x12 and 5x13, which I had also been avoiding for years.) 

Going back to episodes 5x01 and 5x02 (because episode 5x11 is too depressing): if Arthur had listened to Merlin’s “advice”, he would have abandoned his knights to a slow death in slavery. He would also have committed murder, simply on Merlin’s say-so. If you kill someone who is defenceless and has surrendered, that is murder-- regardless of whether, like Merlin, you are desperately scared of a prophecy and speaking without thinking. 

Also, if Arthur had rushed back to Camelot on Merlin’s say-so, he might well have been assassinated by Ruadan. 

Most of all, almost everything that Merlin “advised” violated Arthur’s core beliefs-- the very beliefs that made Merlin respect Arthur in the first place. It’s astonishing that Arthur had to explain no less than five times that he would never abandon any of his men, otherwise he would be abandoning his own values and the values that built Camelot. 

So desperate is Merlin to fight against death that he either quietly ignores this advice, or claims he agrees, only to try dissuading Arthur later on. 

Just to be clear: I perfectly understand that beneath all Merlin’s horrible advice and prevarication, he does not want to lose his friend. 

However, just watch Merlin’s marvellous inconsistency throughout episode 5x01. First, he plays Devil’s Advocate by asking Arthur, “Do you really think Gwaine and Percival could still be alive?” Arthur says he has to find out, because they are knights of Camelot. Merlin says, “I understand.” Of course he did. 

Bear in mind that this happened before Merlin learned of the prophecy. Some have therefore asked what made Merlin unwilling to look for the missing knights, who were his friends. 

In Annis’ castle, Merlin said, “I’m not sure we should go to Ismere.” On the other hand, Arthur, acting on reliable information that Morgana had rounded up slaves, took this as a sign that his mission was right. Merlin tried arguing, then gave up. One might assume that after two rational explanations, Merlin would see reason, particularly since even Kilgharrah could not confirm that the fated battle would take place. 

But no. After the knights left Annis’ lands, Merlin complained again that Morgana was “powerful… dangerous.” So, Arthur explained yet again that “no matter what lies ahead of me, I won’t abandon them.” Merlin respected this answer, because he said, “I understand. I wish I didn’t-- but I do.” (Why does he wish he did not understand why Arthur would risk his life for all of his soldiers?) 

But the very next day, after the ambush, Merlin turned to rage: “The two of us against Morgana, are you mad?” He tried stopping Arthur from going any further. So Arthur explained himself again. Consequently, Merlin continued following Arthur. 

The very same night, he once again insisted that, “We have to turn back.” Arthur explained himself yet again, and Merlin promised to “protect you or die at your side.”

Which one is it? Not to mention that in episode 5x02, instead of apologising for his carelessness, Merlin said, “And I told you to go back to Camelot.” This is silly, given that Arthur had already refused to return on numerous occasions until he had rescued his men, assuming they were still alive. 

The most hilarious example comes later, when Merlin says, “We can’t let them hand us over to Morgana: we need to get out of here, we need a plan.” But when Arthur comes up with that plan, what does Merlin say? “You’ve got to be joking!”, “You should have killed him!”, “Next time, we might not be so lucky.”, “We’ll never make it in there.”, and “How did you talk me into this?” 

Again, which one is it?

I know why Merlin behaved this way, of course. However, there’s a difference between the noble goal of protecting your friend, and ignoring everything and everyone else in order to reach that goal-- particularly through controlling means. Throughout the series, Merlin’s biggest fault comes from his controlling tendencies, which always backfire. And he never learns.  

In this way, Merlin shackled Arthur with unrealistic expectations about a Golden Age based on prophecies that he could not verify. Somehow, this Golden Age had now become evading Arthur’s death. He wanted Arthur to share that belief. Worse, even while his motives came from a noble goal, he treated other people as expendable. 

Another example of Merlin’s absurd reasoning comes from the fateful episode 5x05. Putting aside the fact that Merlin tried claming that sentencing Mordred to die was an acceptable price to pay “for Camelot”, he also previously claimed that, “I do care. About who you are, Arthur. Who you are destined to become.” 

This makes zero sense, given that Arthur had already taken the throne and “brought peace to the kingdom” (episode 5x03). What more did he have to achieve? It depends on who you ask: bringing back magic, uniting the five kingdoms, eternal peace, avoiding the prophecy about Mordred, bowing to the Triple Goddess, being the greatest king this land has ever known… 

Can you see how unrealistic this is? Moreover, can you see how Merlin used Arthur as a vehicle of his own unrealistic ambitions? This is why the Golden Age never happened: it was a myth. It allowed the Druids, Gaius, Kilgharrah, etc. to live vicariously through the new king. 

Bringing back magic was impossible while Morgana continued using it for great evil. (And the Triple Goddess, who complained about Arthur persecuting sorcery, allowed Morgana to continue that evil conduct.)

Arthur did take considerable steps to uniting the kingdoms, particularly when he signed a treaty with King Odin in episode 5x04. But eternal peace? Impossible, otherwise episodes 5x01 and 5x02 would not have happened. 

The unbiquitous prophecy about Mordred was never backed by evidence, leaving Merlin in a state of constant paranoia, and causing him to make horrible errors. This despite the fact that, by his own admission, “I like him [Mordred] myself.” [1]

Bowing to the Triple Goddess was nothing but blackmail using Mordred’s life as a bargaining chip. This once again shows how many sorcerers had caused chaos and misery. Remember, this same Triple Goddess used torture techniques such as controlling people’s minds using the Fomorroh, as Morgana explained in episode 4x06. 

While I believe that the persecution of peaceful sorcerers was wrong, Arthur had no quarrel with the Druids (episode 5x11), and he still had good reason for banning sorcery (also explained in episode 5x11). Nobody, not even Merlin, gave him a reason to change his mind. Kara definitely did not, for she wasn’t executed for being a Druid: she was executed for murder and attempted murder. 

As for being the greatest king this land had ever known… Well, Arthur appreciated that statement in episode 4x12. However, when Merlin spoke of the greatest kingdom in the world in episode 4x13, Arthur said, “You’re making this up.”

In episode 5x01, Merlin claimed that, “Arthur, without you, Camelot is nothing.” Arthur disagreed, saying that abandoning his men was worse than surviving Morgana. Even in episode 5x04, Arthur accepted his death. “So be it. But understand this, Odin: you kill me, and you’ll have all of Camelot to answer to.” Odin was astonished that a king could have such confidence in the face of death. 

The most important example comes from episode 5x13. Merlin said the same thing about Camelot being nothing without Arthur, to which the dying king said, “There was a time when that was true. Not now. There are many who can fill the crown.” And of course, he gave the royal seal to Gwen. Can anyone argue with this? 

I guess you could say that Arthur didn’t believe his own hype.

Indeed, Arthur felt satisfied about what he had achieved in his life. “Everything you’ve done, I know now. For me, for Camelot. For the kingdom you helped me build.” (Episode 5x13). That was it. Arthur knew that he had changed Camelot for the better, that Merlin killing his half-sister had brought “peace at last”, and that he owed Merlin an unpayable debt for helping him to achieve all of these goals. 

Why did Arthur accept the certainty of his death for so long? Because he believed his cause was right, and his death would help save the lives of thousands in Camelot. Dying in service to Camelot was his real destiny. It was inevitable, and to him, it was the most honourable act he would ever undertake. 

You cannot know how great you will be until you die. “That’s the way things work, I’m afraid. You get the glory when you’re not around to appreciate it.” (Episode 4x06). At that point, you will never see your legacy. Merlin either did not know that, or he did not want to know it. 

Arthur’s death ultimately serves as the greatest evidence that Merlin was wrong the whole time.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART III

FOOTNOTES

[1]  I don’t doubt that Merlin liked Mordred. In fact, the scene in episode 5x05, where Merlin buried Osgar, shows how difficult it was for him to maintain his mistrust when the druid was so polite and perceptive. So why the contradiction? Why claim you like someone, yet insist that they would commit regicide? The answer is that Merlin used the prophecy as an excuse. In fact, his prejudice against Mordred had more to do with jealousy than the prophecy. After being involved in an attempt to trade Arthur and Merlin as slaves to Morgana, Arthur knighted the druid for one noble act. Did Merlin aspire to be a knight? I don’t know. He definitely wanted that same level of trust and respect given to Mordred, though, and knighthood created a bond that a servant could not have.

[nothisis-ridiculous]

Take Me Home Now: Chapter Five

Chapter Five: All My Memories Gather 'Round Her

Set after the events of ME3.

A rewrite. Ao3.

FemShepxKaidan

He ruffled her hair.

Again.

It was a mistake letting her hair grow back out, now clocking back in at impressive two inches Jane was growing used to the platinum blonde locks. Sure, there were some off-handed comments, but a stern attitude dissuaded most of the direct jokes. Well, for most, it did. Roy was always an exception when it came to her.

Annoying geezer.

But was it a sense of direction or trust that guided her to follow through his every command? It was true Jane had been wary at first- she had seen first hand what the power of being made a defacto leader could do to someone. Abuse, rape, and murder. Here, at least for the time being, Roy kept his head. Even begrudged the position. Not that he shared it pubically, only mentioning it in passing to her, but she understood the burden all the same. Jane had lived it: rejected it. It was a strange sense of comfort to follow, better that the man leading was becoming a dear...

She couldn't; she had to reject that notion.

"I know you're there."

The whir of the door a dead giveaway when it came to being followed. Jane's hypervigilance had only increased with her time spent outside active combat. Sure, she still found herself battling at least on a biweekly routine, but it was nothing compared to her time on the Normandy. That person spent more time in cover than under covers.

The mousy-haired girl stared up at her, brown eyes hard and unyielding. Hell, this kid was scary.

"Do you need something, Evelyn?"

The girl harrumphed, "what are you doing?"

Leave it to the lady carrying a dying plant around to be the most suspicious thing going on in the compound, "Spectre business."

Evelyn's, not Eva's, glare worsened. Her cheeks and nostrils flaring.

"What are you doing?" Jane replied in the same smarmy tone.

"My job," she returned matter-of-factly, "even if I don't like it, and even if Papa says you are sick."

"What, are you like, three? You don't have a job."

"Seven. And yes I do! Pater gave me one," the kid smirked, sticking out her tongue.

"And what's that? Being precocious?"

"Pre- what?" Evelyn stammered.

"Being a shit," the swear already escaped before it could be altered. Thus, reinstating the belief that children did not belong around her in any capacity.

Her furrowed brow gave way to a secretive smile, "Pater said someone needed to watch you. Seems stupid, but Papa said we all have to do things we don't want to right now."

Of course, Roy would.

"You're weird," the girl stated plainly, "your face is kinda glowy, and you spend a lot of time with those aliens."

Back on Earth, it wasn't hard to forget that First Contact was a meer thirty years ago. Not that it was blame for their attitudes, but most of the humans had a hard time trusting the aliens. It was only made worse when the squadron of Turians joined them, piling them on top of the loud and aggressive Krogan; most of the natives were uncomfortable. Already the Turians and Krogan had old beefs to settle, and the dash of human fear for the Turian species quickly started a lopsided triangle. At least the Krogan adage of 'seek the enemy of your enemy, and you will find a friend' came to the humans and krogan developing a tenuous alliance.

"Those aliens are nothing to be afraid of," Jane chided gently.

The kid neither gave up nor responded, instead following the woman through the hall and into the open atrium. The place had boomed in population, the mall teeming with signs of life that would have echoed its days before the war. Voices, distant music, and the general clatter of movement greeting them from outside the confines of the sealed hallways. Once Jane could walk through here without watching a step, now she dodged other people, weaving through the crowd with ease and speed intended to dislodge her charge.

Evelyn was spry, knocking into the lady as she unexpectedly stopped. She peeked around her, watching as the red Krogan started to cheer loudly. Another alien, smaller and with a grey carapace charged at his elder, the two rather than colliding ended the charge with a weird arm hold. For a moment, the two crests rested against each other, sharing a few soft and private words.

Even weirder was The Recruit, looking over the scene sadly, a hand held over her heart. Her jaw flexed, another sharp and illuminated line flaring vertically up her cheek—another note to add to the log.

"They look so mean," Evelyn complained, unsure why Jane would be watching this sadly. It was frightening, to her they were great brutes that usually ended up destroying something.

"They really aren't," Jane countered softly, a slight crack in her voice, "if one gives you an attitude, a head butt will set them straight."

She did like that this grown-up did not treat her like a child, unlike the rest.

Both of them tensed at the appearance of a green-shelled krogan; the arrival of the male ended the short embrace between the red and grey one. Then, as usual, the aliens returned to their fierce and violent natures, turning the greeting into a shoving contest.

"Don't fu-," the adult caught herself this time, "leave him alone. He's trouble."

Jane strode forwards, picking up her pace. It was no longer weaving through the crowd, as so much a straight charge across the atrium and to the access corridor that leads to the western parking lot- deciding they wanted to stay out of the way for practicality and ease. The Turians chose to take up the ramp as their headquarters. And this is where Jane headed for her errand.

Yeah, make me, make friendly with the Turians. Screw that they respect the chain of command more than a friendly face, all arguments Jane had tried in vain against the LT to get out of this assignment,  watch me fuck this up over a plant. Jeez, why not let them grow their own garden? Fuck if I know what I am doing.

But he did have one counterargument that made complete sense and was entirely of her own fault. She was the known member of the humans in residence to have any formal diplomatic training. She was still kicking herself for that slip of knowledge.

"You should head back home," she murmured to her back, "boring adult stuff. You won't miss much."

The baggy military rags were not enough protection from the spring chill, but she would press on. Clipping up the three-story climb to reach the perched Turians. The 'outpost' could overlook the entire mall with well-placed postings, which the military-minded turians had already accomplished within hours of selecting this area as a base of operations. The forward guard used to seeing the Recruit hardly blinked, only balking in their subtle way at the package tucked into her arms.

"Recruit," the LT wasn't the only one called by their moniker, the pinkish hued Turian gave something equivalent to a grin eyes wandering down to the plant the human carried, "another issue?"

Jane pushed the plant on the turian, "pretty much. I don't know shit about these plants."

"I grew herbs in my kitchen, I'd guess too much sunlight?"

"Makes as much sense as anything else. We've learned they can't be next to potatoes, now they hate the sun," Jane glanced down at her arms, "and I forgot to wear gloves. That's disappointing- I had plans for those hands tonight."

Silva's mandible vibrated, "there are other ways to relieve tension."

So begun the dance. It always started clean, water running over her arms, a quick quip about the luxury of running water, and the application of ointment. The all too gentle rub of talons across the top of her knuckles, a lingering glance Jane couldn't quite bring herself to notice, and finally a cocky declaration of future victory.

The Commander enjoyed the relaxed regulations of the Turian military, not that Alliance would have ever forbidden forbidden a friendly sparring match it felt much better to let off some steam without fear of repercussion. One didn't have to play nice. Fringe pulling, blows below the belt, untamed aggression was all too welcome in the turian fighting cage. While today wasn't a dirty fight day, Jane was all too eager to move.

Silva made the first jab, and the Recruit absorbed it with a smile.

"The LT is going to have my head one of these days," the Turian went in for the next blow, this time the human dodged, "I'm even going soft on you."

"Come on, Shepard," Garrus mocked, weaving below her fist, "stop dancing around."

Roy didn't appreciate the fighting, even after learning they were all in good sport. The punishment of latrine duty was now part of her chores, for how much she heeded his grumbling. He blamed the bruises for too many things- headaches, sideways glances, the lack of respect she commanded for herself. Why did he care? She never asked, never expected it. But he never told her to stop, so she wouldn't.

"I can't always make it take easy on you, Vakarian," Mary retorted, sweeping out her leg to purchase at a braced turian.

The female turian's claws grasped into her arm, but she was ready, twirling around and planting her elbow into a painfully rigid chin sending the offender reeling back a couple of steps, "that's one advantage of an exoskeleton."

"Or are we afraid to bruise our pretty face in case the Major struts on by," Garrus teased, barely inching past the biotically charged fist going for his scarred mandible, "unless he doesn't know about our little fight club?"

"At least I can roll."

"I wouldn't worry, Shepard," if the Turian were human, his eyebrow would be cocked and a flashy grin across his face, "it's so much better when they are angry."

The turian cackled; today the hits were much easier to connect. Or was the human not trying? She could be like that, destructive. Silva kept the hits low and softened the severity in which she delivered them. Jane struggled to keep her hands where they belonged, one threading and rubbing through her hair each time they disconnected to reset their stances.

"Like I care what the M-" her friend's stern glare shut her down, "don't jealous Gar-Gar."

Jane tumbled to the ground, nose trickling the strange red color. It was time for this fight to be over, the human shook underneath her grasp. But the too expressive species wore a brave face, "Jane."

"Two hundred years later, and still nobody talks about fight club," Mary after close inspection, did notice that the Major strutted, "I'm disappointed I wasn't invited." The handsome human specimen winked at the Commander, his sideways grin all-knowing.

"It's fine, probably enough for the day."

The female moved out of her grasp, turning around to wipe at her face. Silva pretended not to notice Jane went for her eyes first.

"Well, that was quick," the turian was a little disappointed, "you're different for a human."

Jane deaned to turn her head back for that comment, cocking an eyebrow at her, "you must not have left Palaven, or whatever your colony was, much."

"No, ma'am," the turian hesitated, "at least, the rest of your group doesn't seem interested in us."

"How would you feel if this was Palaven?"

Her mandibles vibrated.

"Now add your species being attacked thirty years ago by this species you suddenly have to get along with," Jane smiled softly, she was too harsh, "plus we're a bunch of cranky jerks."

Silva laughed deeply, "and add a war that has crippled an entire galaxy, it is a wonder we aren't all fighting."

"It's the krogan," Jane mused.

"Spirits bless, the krogans being the most level-headed."

"After Tuchanka, they probably feel at home," damn her words, "it was the Salarians all along."

"I mean, that's some deep level conspiracy, but it checks out," her companion tried to keep up the fading mood.

"Just give us some time; we're people of action only that really means something," to which race the words were meant for was moot.

[twoidiotwriters1]

Written In The Stars CII (Harry Potter xF!Oc)

A/N: You definitely won’t trust now, but I hope to see y’all in two weeks anyway, please don’t hate me -Danny

Words: 5,048

Series’ Masterlist

Previous Chapter // Book 5

Listen to: I Only Wanna Talk To You -by The Maine

Chapter Thirty-Seven: A New Vow.

Many things changed as the school year came to an end, none of them was good. 

Students would avoid her in the halls, they would stare at her and Harry carelessly, some frowning, some just plain scared. That wasn't new and it didn't hurt her anymore.

What hurt her was the way Harry grew distant out of the blue. He wouldn't touch her, not even sit beside her on accident. He would talk to her as if nothing had happened but she could see it in his eyes, some kind of distress, she had the ugly feeling that he resented her.

Mel was talking to Erick one morning in the courtyard, where they used to hang out during her first year. She was there to deliver Dumbledore's message and to thank him, it was their first time talking since the first task.

"I don't know what I would've done without the watch... it saved us."

Erick shook his head. "I merely confirmed his suspicions, Dumbledore was already looking for you when I got to him."

"You got him when I fainted during the task, you stood guard outside the tent while we were inside and I was..." She didn't know what to call it, her first thought was always directed to the word 'dying' but she knew now that those weren't her feelings, it was Harry who'd been dying, not her.

"You looked possessed. I thought you were... that you had..."

"That I was crazy," Mel sighed.

"...How's Harry?"

"We don't talk about that," Mel frowned, not wanting to go there. "Dumbledore has a message for you."

"Tell me."

"You won't like it."

"Try me."

"He said you could be of help," She replied carefully. "That if you're willing, you could join us."

"For what?" Erick asked in puzzlement.

"He didn't explain... said you could search for rogues."

After ten seconds, Erick spoke timidly. "Rogues like me?"

"I think so..."

"He wants me to dig around, see if any other Slytherin shares my... views."

"He kept saying how we have to stick together," Mel shook her head. "I think he's expecting us to try harder next year, unite the houses while we can..."

"I..." Erick started to stress. "It's too dangerous for me, you know that. Half of my friends come from Death Eaters or you-know-who's supporters. It's like walking on thin ice."

"You don't have to do it," Mel said promptly. "I know how your parents feel about this, and if they catch you doing something like that, trying to speak in Dumbledore's favour... I know that in comparison to me, you're on your own. I can't make you risk your well being like this."

Erick stared at her, he remained silent for a while, Mel didn't know what to do.

"Did you know, Miss," He finally uttered, "that Rapunzel isn't saved by a prince?"

She tilted her head and waited for him to finish.

"Found her way out of the mess, rebuilt her life on her own," Erick continued calmly. "I believe we'll do too."

"Bin havin' a cuppa with Olympe," Hagrid said as they settled around his table. "She's jus' left."

"Who?" said Ron curiously.

"Madame Maxime, o' course!" said Hagrid.

"You two made up, have you?" said Ron.

"Dunno what yeh're talkin' about," said Hagrid. When he had made tea and offered around a plate of doughy cookies, he leaned back in his chair and examined Harry and Mel closely. "You all righ'?"

"Yeah," said Harry.

"All right," Mel smiled.

"No, yeh're not," said Hagrid. " 'Course yeh're not. But yeh will be. Knew he was goin' ter come back. Known it fer years, Harry. Knew he was out there, bidin' his time. It had ter happen. Well, now it has, an' we'll jus' have ter get on with it. We'll fight. Migh' be able ter stop him before he gets a good hold. That's Dumbledore's plan, anyway. Great man, Dumbledore. 'S long as we've got him, I'm not too worried."

Mel looked down to her cup, frowning.

"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," He said, patting her shoulder gently. "What's comin' will come, an' we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did. Yeh did as much as yer fathers would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."

They smiled, the very first glimpse of their old self coming to the surface.

"What's Dumbledore asked you to do, Hagrid?" Harry asked. "He sent Professor McGonagall to ask you and Madame Maxime to meet him — that night."

"Got a little job fer me over the summer– Secret, though. I'm not s'pposed ter talk abou' it, no, not even ter you lot. Olympe — Madame Maxime ter you — might be comin' with me. I think she will. Think I got her persuaded."

"Is it to do with Voldemort?" "Migh' be," Hagrid grimaced. "Now... who'd like ter come an'visit the las' skrewt with me? I was jokin' — jokin'!"

Mel's eyes found Harry's and he quickly averted his gaze. She frowned, a resolution already forming in her mind that she would clear things out with her best friend before they were back home.

She walked into his room when she knew he'd be alone packing up his things.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?" He said, gaze fixed on his trunk.

"I want to talk to you. You're the only one I want to talk to, but you keep avoiding me..."

"What d'you mean?"

"Can you at least look at me for just a second?" She frowned.

Harry did as told, his face remaining neutral as Mel approached. She looked into his eyes and pulled him in for a hug.

"I'm sorry," She mumbled against his shoulder. "Whatever I did– Please don't be mad. I swear all I wanted was to help you–"

Harry stepped away from her, not returning the hug.

"What're you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about! You don't... you won't–"

"I'm not mad at you!" Harry said exasperated. "Don't you see this is all my fault?"

Mel blinked.

"What?"

"I saw the bruises... What happened to you during the time Voldemort got me– you could've died!"

"Harry," She looked at him in disbelief. "You could've died."

"This is about you," He replied firmly. "It's my fault. I've dragged you to all of my mistakes and you end up hurt–"

"Those were my choices–"

"It was never your idea," He stated. "Dumbledore said that we're too close..."

"No! That's not... I did all that because I need you to be–"

"This was a mistake," Harry was breathing heavily, he was in distress. "What we did was a mistake."

"What, exactly?" She said in a shaky whisper, knowing where this was going.

"You know," His eyes hardened.

"That's rubbish!" It felt like holding sand, desperately trying not to let him slip away from her fingers. "This is not the solution–!"

"I don't think I ever liked you for real," He blurted out, "it wasn't my choice..."

"What?"

"I... I mean it," He turned around, hastily packing the last bits of clothing. "I think it might be the lifeline stuff... didn't like that you were getting close to other people– It sounds selfish, but it makes sense... some kind of instinct– doesn't mean it was real..."

"Harry, don't be stu–"

"I don't want you," He insisted. "I can't have you."

"Glasses–"

"My name is Harry!" He yelled, turning to face her. "Stop calling me that! I hate it! I hate the stupid nickname and I don't like you!"

Mel felt cornered, Harry had never spoken to her like that before. He turned back and slammed down the lid of his trunk.

"Just leave me alone." He said, abandoning the conversation as well as the room.

She stumbled back to his bed, falling heavily on it. Without being able to control herself, she burst into tears.

Mel avoided him for the rest of the term, spending most of her free time with the twins like the old times. It was good for her spirit, they knew how to make her laugh. During the feast she was seated between them, Dumbledore stood up to give his farewell speech and they fell silent.

"The end of another year. There is much that I would like to say to you all tonight," said Dumbledore, fixing his eyes on the Hufflepuff table, "but I must first acknowledge the loss of a very fine person, who should be sitting here, enjoying our feast with us. I would like you all, please, to stand, and raise your glasses, to Cedric Diggory."

And so they did. Every student in the room.

"Cedric was a person who exemplified many of the qualities that distinguish Hufflepuff house. He was a good and loyal friend, a hard worker, he valued fair play. His death has affected you all, whether you knew him well or not. I think that you have the right, therefore, to know exactly how it came about... Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort."

George looked down at her and put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"The Ministry of Magic does not wish me to tell you this. It is possible that some of your parents will be horrified that I have done so — either because they will not believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, or because they think I should not tell you so, young as you are. It is my belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies, and that any attempt to pretend that Cedric died as the result of an accident, or some sort of blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory. There is somebody else who must be mentioned in connection with Cedric's death," Dumbledore went on. "I am talking, of course, about Harry Potter."

She refused to look for him and kept her gaze on the old man ahead.

"Harry Potter managed to escape Lord Voldemort. He risked his own life to return Cedric's body to Hogwarts. He showed, in every respect, the sort of bravery that few wizards have ever shown in facing Lord Voldemort, and for this, I honour him."

She lifted her goblet and said his name, but found herself saying it with a new resentment that had never been there before. It didn't feel right.

"The Triwizard Tournament's aim was to further and promote magical understanding. In the light of what has happened — of Lord Voldemort's return — such ties are more important than ever before. Every guest in this Hall, will be welcomed back here at any time, should they wish to come. I say to you all, once again — in the light of Lord Voldemort's return, we are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided. Lord Voldemort's gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust. Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open. It is my belief — and never have I so hoped that I am mistaken — that we are all facing dark and difficult times. Some of you in this Hall have already suffered directly at the hands of Lord Voldemort. Many of your families have been torn asunder. A week ago, a student was taken from our midst."

Her fists were closed tightly, there was still a faint greenish shadow were the bruise on her forearm had been days before.

"Remember Cedric. Remember, if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was good, and kind, and brave, because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. Remember Cedric Diggory."

" 'Arry!" Fleur Delacour was hurrying up the stone steps, Joseph was beside her.  "We will see each uzzer again, I 'ope. I am 'oping to get a job 'ere, to improve my Eenglish."

"It's very good already," said Ron clumsily.

Mel had her attention on Joseph.

"It was nice," Mel smiled fondly. "You're ten times funnier than your cousin."

Joseph laughed.

"Don't judge him too hard, it's the way he's been brought up. He used to be a lousy kid, very loving too... people grow out of it, unfortunately."

"Will I ever see you again?"

"Maybe," He smiled sweetly at her. "Take care, will you?"

"Yes."

"Will you watch after my cousin too?"

"Not like I have a choice..."

He chuckled. "See you, Mel."

"Good-bye, 'Arry," said Fleur, turning to go with Joseph. "It 'az been a pleasure meeting you!"

As Mel watched them leave, she had the reassuring feeling that maybe Erick wasn't entirely on his own after all.

"Wonder how the Durmstrang students are getting back," said Ron. "D'you reckon they can steer that ship without Karkaroff?"

"Karkaroff did not steer. He stayed in his cabin and let us do the vork." Krum said behind them. He looked at Hermione. "Could I have a vord?"

"Oh... yes... all right," said Hermione.

"You'd better hurry up!" Ron called loudly after her. "The carriages'll be here in a minute!"

"Oh shut up, Ron," Mel scolded. "Let her have one moment in private with him."

"What, is not like she'll be missing him lots, they didn't even date."

"You don't need to date someone in order to miss them," She snapped. "Or like them, for that matter..." She felt Harry purposefully look away as she spoke. When Krum returned, he talked to them.

"I liked Diggory. He vos alvays polite to me. Alvays. Even though I vos from Durmstrang — with Karkaroff."

"Have you got a new headmaster yet?" Harry asked.

Krum shrugged. He held out his hand as Fleur had done, shook Harry's hand, and then Ron's. Ron looked as though he was suffering some sort of painful internal struggle. Krum had already started walking away when Ron burst out, "Can I have your autograph?"

Hermione turned away, smiling at the horseless carriages that were now trundling toward them up the drive, as Krum, looking surprised but gratified, signed a fragment of parchment for Ron.

The trip back was good enough, even if Mel and Harry couldn't look at each other in the eye. Dumbledore's speech had given them energies, and just like he'd said before, they still had to remain together, for the greater good.

"There's nothing in there," Hermione signalled to the Daily Prophet Harry was staring at. "You can look for yourself, but there's nothing at all. I've been checking every day. Just a small piece the day after the third task saying you won the tournament. They didn't even mention Cedric. Nothing about any of it. If you ask me, Fudge is forcing them to keep quiet."

"Of course he is," Mel scoffed, "he's an idiot, but not that kind of idiot."

"He'll never keep Rita quiet," said Harry. "Not on a story like this."

"Oh, Rita hasn't written anything at all since the third task," said Hermione delightedly. "As a matter of fact, Rita Skeeter isn't going to be writing anything at all for a while. Not unless she wants me to spill the beans on her."

"What are you talking about?" said Ron.

"I found out how she was listening in on private conversations when she wasn't supposed to be coming onto the grounds," said Hermione.

"Oh, right!" Mel said. "What was that about?"

"How was she doing it?" said Harry.

"How did you find out?" said Ron.

"Well, it was you and Mel who gave me the idea, Harry."

"What? How?"

"Bugging," said Hermione happily.

"But you said they didn't work —"

"Oh not electronic bugs," said Hermione. "No, you see... Rita Skeeter" — Hermione's voice trembled with quiet triumph — "is an unregistered Animagus. She can turn —" Hermione pulled a small sealed glass jar out of her bag. "— into a beetle."

"You're kidding," said Ron. "You haven't... she's not..."

"Oh yes she is," said Hermione.

"Holy Godric," Mel laughed loudly for the first time in days.

"That's never — you're kidding —" Ron mumbled, examining the jar.

"No, I'm not. I caught her on the windowsill in the hospital wing. Look very closely, and you'll notice the markings around her antennae are exactly like those foul glasses she wears."

"There was a beetle on the statue the night we heard Hagrid telling Madame Maxime about his mum!" Harry exclaimed.

"When you fainted there was a beetle in the curtain as well," Mel replied, her eyes fixed on the tiny creature. "And when I talked to Cedric before the first task..."

"Exactly. And Viktor pulled a beetle out of my hair after we'd had our conversation by the lake. She's been buzzing around for stories all year."

"When we saw Malfoy under that tree..."

"He was talking to her, in his hand. He knew, of course. That's how she's been getting all those nice little interviews with the Slytherins. They wouldn't care that she was doing something illegal, as long as they were giving her horrible stuff about us and Hagrid. I've told her I'll let her out when we get back to London. I've put an Unbreakable Charm on the jar, you see, so she can't transform. And I've told her she's to keep her quill to herself for a whole year. See if she can't break the habit of writing horrible lies about people."

"Hermione, I love you," Mel grinned.

The door of the compartment slid open.

"Very clever, Granger," Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were standing there. "So, you caught some pathetic reporter, and Potter's Dumbledore's favourite boy again. Big deal." He stared at them with bright eyes. "Trying not to think about it, are we? Trying to pretend it hasn't happened?"

"Get out," Harry tensed.

"You've picked the losing side, Potter! I warned you! I told you you ought to choose your company more carefully, remember? When we met on the train, first day at Hogwarts? I told you not to hang around with riffraff like this! Too late now, Potter! They'll be the first to go, now the Dark Lord's back! Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers first! Well — second — Diggory was the f —"

It was as though someone had exploded a box of fireworks within the compartment. Blinded by the blaze of the spells that had blasted from every direction, deafened by a series of bangs, Harry blinked and looked down at the floor.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were all on the ground and they were on their feet, all four of them having used a different hex. Nor were they the only ones to have done so.

"Thought we'd see what those three were up to," said Fred entering their compartment.

"Interesting effect," said George, examining Crabbe. "Who used the Furnunculus Curse?"

"Me," said Harry.

"Odd– I used Jelly-Legs. Looks as though those two shouldn't be mixed. He seems to have sprouted little tentacles all over his face. Well, let's not leave them here, they don't add much to the decor."

Ron, Harry, and George pushed them out into the corridor, when they straighten up, Ron turned his head slightly towards her.

"Er... Mel?"

She walked out of the compartment and found Erick standing there, looking down at the three Slytherins.

"Oh," She smiled. "Hello. Don't worry boys, I got this."

Erick had a sort of exasperated look on his face.

"Why don't you turn around and forget you saw this," George ignored her. "We promise not to hurt you if you do."

"You promise not to hurt me?" Erick let out a dry laugh. "Right..."

"He's not here to report us," Ron said, pushing his brother back into the compartment. "Listen to Mel..."

"Don't annoy her, the year's over and so is the committee," George insisted.

"George," Mel sighed. "It's okay."

"Listen, we can clear all doubts in a moment, but can I talk to her first?" Erick frowned. "In private."

The boys entered the compartment reluctantly, they had just closed the door when he spoke.

"I'll do it. Whatever Dumbledore wants me to do."

Mel was taken by surprise.

"Are you sure?"

"What he said during the speech... he's right," He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "It's time to make a choice."

"But your parents–"

"Don't have to know. If there's any chance that there are more people like me... if I can convince them... it'll be worth it, right?"

Before she could stop herself, she held his hand.

"Come."

"What?"

"Come in for a second, meet the Weasleys."

"So they can kill me? No thanks–"

"They won't," She dragged him inside. Everyone stared at them. "Erick won't report us."

"Good for him," Ron replied in disinterest.

"I think it's time we clear things up," She continued with determination. "Erick and I are good friends. He doesn't need to prove his loyalty to anyone, but he wants to help my uncle, so it'd be brilliant if you could, you know, be nice to him."

"No need to look so outraged," Erick said, staring at the twins' faces. "Being a Slytherin doesn't equal being a monster. I could've reported you to Professor McGonagall thousands of times during the school year but I kept my mouth shut. Why?"

"Because you knew we could've kicked your arse?"

"Very classy," He rolled his eyes. "I did it out of consideration for Mel. Now Dumbledore asked for my help and that's what I'll give. All I want is for you to stay out of my way and stop acting like I'm the danger. I assure you, Mel's the bad influence here. All I care about is being of use."

A heavy silence surrounded them as the boys processed the news.

"All right then, be of use," George shrugged. "Close the door and sit down, we've had enough visitors for today."

"Exploding Snap, anyone?" said Fred, pulling out a pack of cards. "Be of use, Flint, open the window before you sit."

"I'm going to regret this..." Erick groaned, doing as asked.

She purposely seated Erick between her and Harry for the rest of the trip.

"You going to tell us, then?" Harry said to George after a while. "Who you were blackmailing?"

"What?" Erick looked around in confusion.

"Long story," Hermione said over her book.

"It doesn't matter," said Fred. "It wasn't anything important. Not now, anyway."

"We've given up," said George, shrugging.

"Come on!"

Harry, Hermione, Ron and her insisted so much that Fred lost his patience.

"All right, all right, if you really want to know... it was Ludo Bagman."

"Bagman? Are you saying he was involved in —"

"Nah. Nothing like that. Stupid git. He wouldn't have the brains."

"Well, what, then?"

"You remember that bet we had with him at the Quidditch World Cup? About how Ireland would win, but Krum would get the Snitch?"

"Yeah."

"Well," He glanced at Mel, "The git paid us in leprechaun gold he'd caught from the Irish mascots."

"So?"

"So," said Fred, "it vanished, didn't it? By next morning, it had gone!"

"So I guess, you could say I told you so, Lady," George scowled. "We were idiots."

"But — it must've been an accident, mustn't it?" said Hermione.

"Yeah, that's what we thought, at first. We thought if we just wrote to him, and told him he'd made a mistake, he'd cough up. But nothing doing. Ignored our letter. We kept trying to talk to him about it at Hogwarts, but he was always making some excuse to get away from us."

"In the end, he turned pretty nasty," said Fred. "Told us we were too young to gamble, and he wasn't giving us anything."

"So we asked for our money back."  

"He didn't refuse!" gasped Hermione.

"Right in one," said Fred.

"But that was all your savings!"

"Tell me about it," George scoffed. "'Course, we found out what was going on in the end. Lee Jordan's dad had had a bit of trouble getting money off Bagman as well. Turns out he's in big trouble with the goblins. Borrowed loads of gold off them. A gang of them cornered him in the woods after the World Cup and took all the gold he had, and it still wasn't enough to cover all his debts. They followed him all the way to Hogwarts to keep an eye on him. He's lost everything gambling. Hasn't got two Galleons to rub together. And you know how the idiot tried to pay the goblins back?"

"How?"

"He put a bet on you, mate," said Fred. "Put a big bet on you to win the tournament. Bet against the goblins."

"I knew it!" Mel exclaimed.

"So that's why he kept trying to help me win! Well — I did win, didn't I? So he can pay you your gold!"

"Nope– The goblins play as dirty as him. They say you drew with Diggory, and Bagman was betting you'd win outright. So Bagman had to run for it. He did run for it right after the third task."

"My Grandad's a big fan of Zonko's," Erick mentioned casually, placing his cards on the table. "And he relishes on supporting young inventors, reminds him of the old days. If you send me samples I'll show them to him and he might help you... What? Don't look at me like that, it's not dirty money!"

"Sorry," Fred said, raising a brow. "It's weird to see you acting like... well, like a good person."

"Unexpected, you mean," George suggested. "You have the looks of a conceited prat."

"Give it time," Mel muttered.

"Shut it," Erick nudged her arm. "Anyway, I better leave and finish my rounds before we arrive... I'll write if anything comes up, Mel."

They waved him goodbye, the twins looked at her with their eyebrows raised.

"What?"

"Nothing," Fred smirked. "Bad influence you are then, aren't you?"

"You've corrupted Slytherin's Prince!"

"Careful Harry," Fred teased. "Don't let him get too comfortable or he'll think he's got a chance!"

"Shut up," Mel interrupted harshly. "Erick doesn't like me that way..."

"Sure thing, and Krum's nothing but a good mate to Hermione," George grinned.

"Fred — George — wait a moment."

She heard Harry said after leaving the compartment. She froze, curiosity winning over her.

"Take it," He said, and she could hear the distinct sound of coins inside a sack falling onto someone's hands.

"What?" said one of the twins.

"Take it. I don't want it."

"You're mental–"

"No, I'm not. You take it and get inventing. It's for the joke shop."

"He is mental."

"Listen, if you don't take it, I'm throwing it down the drain. I don't want it and I don't need it. But I could do with a few laughs. We could all do with a few laughs. I've got a feeling we're going to need them more than usual before long."

He was giving them the tournament's money. Her heart did that odd flip it hadn't done in days.

"Harry," she kept hearing, "there's got to be a thousand Galleons in here."

"Yeah, think how many Canary Creams that is– Just don't tell your mum where you got it... although she might not be so keen for you to join the Ministry anymore, come to think of it..."

"Harry–"

"Look, take it, or I'll hex you. I know some good ones now. Just do me one favour, okay? Buy Ron some different dress robes and say they're from you."

Harry left the compartment and faced her. There was a moment where she caught a glimpse of something, for a second he looked like he wanted to speak. It disappeared right away though, taking all her hopes with it. He scowled and walked past her without uttering a word.

"See you, Harry," said Ron, clapping him on the back.

"'Bye, Harry!" said Hermione, and she did something she had never done before, and kissed him on the cheek.

"Harry — thanks," George muttered, while Fred nodded fervently at his side.

Harry winked at them, turned to Uncle Vernon, and followed him silently from the station. There was no point worrying yet, he told himself, as he got into the back of the Dursleys' car.

As Hagrid had said, what would come, would come... and he would have to meet it when it did.

Mel entered her mother's car in silence, she was still trying to understand how things had gone to the dogs between her and Harry so quickly. There was something pressing on her chest and she wasn't sure she wanted to plug it out.

Her mother spoke for the first time in the day.

"We're not staying at Privet Drive this summer."

"What?" Mel asked absently.

"We'll go there to get your clothes, then we'll leave first thing tomorrow morning to Remus' place," Her mother explained quickly. "I know you want to stay and make sure Harry's fine, but I have things to do and you can't be left alone–"

"Okay."

Her mother stared at her.

"What?"

"I know Harry's going to be safe, surrounded by muggles and all," She tried to keep her voice neutral. "If we're of use somewhere else, I want to go."

Emily knew right away that something was wrong, but whether if she thought it was about Harry or not, she didn't comment on it.

"All right. It'll be a long summer, this one..."

"Yeah," Mel looked out the window as the car left their parking spot.

The girl felt like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, she'd been dreading to go back and have no one to talk to but Harry. Not that he'd be visiting her house at all, but at least now she had an excuse to stay away from him. To leave him alone, just as he'd requested.

Mel thought, very bitterly, that her biggest dream and worst nightmare had come true at the same time. She made a vow not to wish for anything ever again.

Next Part —>

Taglist.

@dee123ksha​ @vampiregirl1797 @siriuslysirius1107 @stardusthigh @mikariell95 @vernon-dursley @thesuitelifeofafangirl @tomshollandz @kylosleftbuttcheek @reverse-hxlland @bloodorangemoonlight @omiwashere​ @t-rexs-world

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

I have a silly Napoleon ask for you: if he suddenly woke up in the present day what do you think he would a)like most about it b) like least about it c)get unreasonably addicted to d)decide to do for a living

hahah I’ve answered a similar one before here and here. 

Most Like About It: A lot, I think. Central heating. Guys, he’d fucking love central heating.

In general, he’d love most technological advances. Cars, planes, trains etc. like he’d be very into that. “Bertrand we’re going to ride the TGV all day every day. Look at how fast we are going! This is genius.” 

“Bertrand WE ARE IN THE SKY. This is AMAZING. We are going from Paris to Rome in a matter of HOURS. HOURS BERTRAND. WE DON’T HAVE TO CROSS MOUNTAINS.” (sorry just assuming this is exile Napoleon who woke up in modern day.) 

Public transit in general - the metro, buses - anything that makes life more efficient for people. Dishwasher, washers/dryers, modern electricity, laptops, printers, ball point pens etc. 

I suspect he’d be a big supporter of public health care and all the advances made on vaccines and medicine in general. 100% would hate anti-vaxxers. Pro-modern glasses (he’d get himself a pair asap. Then they’d explain contacts to him and I think he’d be like “WAIT NO, I WANT THOSE.” He would not be into lasik, I suspect). 

Modern hygiene! Razors, tooth brushes, floss, moisturizer - general daily body care he’d probably be keen on. (All that stuff we take for granted.) Though maybe not all of it, he was quite traditional in certain things (his penchant for older fashion, par exemple). Maybe he’d keep the old straight razor shaving approach. But modern dentistry would be a huge improvement and I can’t see him being against it. Especially as someone who had a tooth extracted in the early 19th century. 

‘Oh they give you pain killers now? Fantastic.’ 

‘Sir, we just numb the area where we are doing the work.’ 

‘So it doesn’t impede my awareness? Amazing. Please, fix all my teeth right now.’ 

He’d also support the greater access to education that exists, especially compared to his day. Also, streaming services. He would binge so many things. ‘Bertrand we are watching every thing this very soothing sounding British naturalist made about planet earth. Holy shit look at that they’re under water! They’re at the bottom of the ocean! Bertrand look at this. if only Josephine were here. She’d be so excited.’ 

Pro-zoom/Microsoft teams/facetime etc. 100%. ‘If I had this instead of people relying on my bad handwriting ...’ 

Oh, he’d like the EU as a concept. Except he would be very disappointed that France wasn’t at the helm. I think France’s position globally would disappoint him, overall. But yeah, the broad principles espoused by the concept of the European Union would appeal to him. 

Brexit though. Lol. I think he’d enjoy watching England shoot itself in the foot. But if you asked him for his opinion, as in “do you think the UK should do this” he would answer no. They should remain. 

He would like globalization, trade agreements, things like NAFTA, CETA etc. Supporter of big government. Reduction of religion in public sphere. Though would he be pro-banning visual manifestations of faith? (i.e. Hijab etc.) I don’t know. I doubt it. Simply because he was very focused on religion in government, so if churches aren’t involved in decision making, what citizens get up to on their own is their business (so long as you don’t cause problems). But I don’t know, he might be pro-it, because he was also into assimilation and creating a broad sense of a French culture. I could see him really going either way on it. It’d probably come down to whatever he thought would garner the most public support as a political move (since a lot of his more liberal moves as a leader were tied to understanding that marginalized communities would gun hard for him if he helped them). 

He would be pro-mask wearing for COVID because he wasn’t a fucking idiot and lived in a time when pandemics were still a real going concern. 

He would also probably like how comfortable modern clothing is. I don’t think he’d like how cheap and made-to-wear-out that most brands are, but he’d like the over all philosophy. Like Napoleon would dig t-shirts. Lounge wear. The fact that jeans have some stretch in them. That sort of thing. 

-- 

Least Like: I think he’d be very wary of the internet. For many reasons. For the lack of government control (Napoleon “What is a free press? never heard of her” Bonaparte). But also, because of the misinformation problems. The side effects many of us are now bearing witness to, and experiencing the ramifications of. 

He would dislike the whole fake news nonsense. Oh this man was a master spin-doctor, very good at twisting a narrative around to suit him, but he still did have respect for and a firm belief in basic facts. Especially fake news that usurped the sound advise of scientists and doctors (i.e. COVID nonsense). 

Free press, I think he would be wary of it. Mostly from a government control perspective. Like as a day-to-day citizen, since he wouldn’t be anyone in power in this hypothetical, I think he’d value it. He would do that disassocative thing he did when he talked about things in the abstract. That cold, calculating way he would position himself in a situation and be like “Ah yes, these are the things that need to be tamped down if you want control of a populace as a monarch”. Then he had his more liberal, call-back-to-that-misspent-jacobin-youth moments where his views shifted. 

I suppose it would also depend what age this hypothetical Napoleon is. He softened a lot in retirement exile. Napoleon at the height of his power, thirty-odd years old, different man to fifty year old Napoleon. 

Would not be into women in politics. He’d be like ‘Why is there a woman in charge of Germany? Also what happened to the Habsburgs? Where’s Prussia? Silesia? What the FuCk is happening in the Balkans? I’m very confused about Europe’s current geographic layout. ...Corsica...still doing you, I see.’ 

He’d dislike Trump and his cronies. As I wrote before: “ I think Napoleon would find Trump disgusting on a personal level. Uneducated, incapable of holding a real conversation, gauche, anti-intellectual, anti-fact-based discussion, anti-science, anti-art etc. He’d also feel that Trump is disgracing the position of President and that he is unworthy of leadership. Napoleon would also find Trump physically repulsive as he could be a wee bit shallow in some of his assessments (though, very early modern to 19th century to assume your physical appearance is a manifestation of your interiority).” 

Steve Bannon’s fiddling with finances? Napoleon would find that repulsive. Mitch Mcconnell disgracing his office by fucking around with constitutional loop holes? Napoleon would think it a disgrace. 

He had a lot of respect for America’s experiment with democracy. Like, quite a lot of respect. So I think he’d be vastly disappointed in not only the person occupying the white house, but also a lot of the apathy in voting that is going around. (Yes, this coming from a [mostly] absolutest monarch, too.) But Napoleon valued and respected the notion of civic duty. If you live in a democracy, you have a duty to participate. To opt out is to shirk that duty which he would find insulting and distasteful. Because, I would argue, he was very much a believer in people doing right by their fellow citizens. 

--

Get unreasonably addicted to: MODERN BATHS. HE WOULD NEVER LEAVE THE BATHTUB. THEY CAN HAVE JETS AND EVERYTHING BERTRAND THIS IS GREAT. 

Also central heating. Saunas. Jacuzzis. He was like a wee lizard seeking warmth at all times. 

I think he’d be into driving. I don’t know if he would be good at it. Don’t let Napoleon take the wheel, guys. But if someone else was driving he’d be that person “go faster. you’re driving like my grandmother.” And gods, he’d do dumb shit like drive like a maniac around the arc de triumph six times in a row because he’s an adrenaline junkie and a risk-taker (it’s that bored ADD brain of his). The autobahn would be his dream. 

I think he’d be super into epic fantasy series. Like the big sweeping ones like Lord of the Rings. I think less so GRRM because GRRM is unrealistic and Napoleon is pedantic. Especially about politics and war. Exhibit A: consider Napoleon’s very detailed nitpicking of Virgil on his inaccurate rendition of Troy from a military perspective. Therefore, I suspect GRRM’s lack of accuracy in how society works, how war works, how politics works, all the plot holes and illogical character decisions, would drive him up the wall. Napoleon liked Homer because he could tell Homer had been to war. And you can tell Tolkien has been to war. Also LOTR hits all those notes of high-hearted emotion and big sweeping scenes that Napoleon so liked in Ossian and the Illiad etc.

All this to say, overall, as a genre, I think those big, sweeping fantasies with lots of plot, politics, intrigue, soaring battles, great heights of emotion - he’d love that. It would hit all of his buttons for what he liked in fiction. Lots of emotion, lots of action, lots of big scenes, lots of crazy shenanigans. This can also be applied to Sci-fi. I think he’d be a big nerd on that too. But the science would have to make sense. 

I think he’d be into Star Trek, particularly Picard, if only for the philosophical aspects of it. He liked those sorts of questions and hypotheticals. So I think he’d binge all of The Next Generation (among other seasons). 

--

Do for a living: Teach? God knows. This is Napoleon from 18-something who just woke up? He could be paid for consultant work for historians and film crews and the like, I guess. Just to tell them how accurate stuff is. Of course, be wary, this is Napoleon I Am A Spin Doctor Bonaparte. 

I think he could lean into writing histories - particularly the classics, early French and European history - that sort of thing, where he already has a strong background in it and it wouldn’t require him basically learning an entirely new trade. Like, will Napoleon ever fully be a natural with computers and cell phones? Probably not. Could he be like your old school Professor emeritus who still churns out papers and does 90% of it the old fashioned by-hand way? Yes. And Napoleon had a bunch of histories planned on St. Helena that he wanted to write, so I think he could do that. 

As this is literally Napoleon Bonaparte he’d get a book deal in seconds. There’d be a bidding war over it. 

--

Thank you for the ask! This was very amusing :D 

[himbowelsh]

i keep seeing your valetine’s day prompts and i adore them! if you haven’t already, could you do one for the ginger father figure dick winters? thank you for making so much content!!!

valentines day alphabet  ( accepting! )

A   :   AFFECTION.   how does your muse show affection?

Dick is very careful with his affection; he’s naturally restrained, so the liberal physical contact so popular with some men doesn’t come easily to him. He can’t just...  hand out hugs or compliments like they’re candy, because that’s not how he was raised, and not how his brain was wired. Dick’s affection has to be earned. Once someone’s crept their way into his heart, however, it’s always there   ---   in little smiles, dry teasing, the way he’s able to be at ease around someone in the quiet moments. Dick’s affection is a tranquil thing, but it leaves the recipient feeling like the most important person in the world.

B   :   BOUQUET.   does your muse like flowers? which ones are their favourite?

He’s a traditional man. Maybe he can’t raise a garden himself, but he’ll get a nice bouquet for every occasion.

C   :   CHOCOLATE.   does your muse like chocolate? which one is their favourite?

He read somewhere that dark chocolate is healthy for you, so he tries to eat it sometimes, but can’t stand the taste. Not much of a chocolate fan  ---  but has a weird soft spot for peppermint bark.

D   :   DATE.   what is your muse’s ideal date? where / who with / etc?

No dinner and a movie for him  ---  he’d like to do something that’s not so predictable, something that offers the chance to get to know his date better. Dick might take them for a walk around the local trails, soaking in nature; or he might try for horseback riding, just to see how his date handles themselves. If they’re not a natural rider, even better, because he can help them  (and maybe it’s also an excuse to get closer). Dick wants to see a different side of his date, the side they’re not always able to present to the world. This isn’t first date material  ---  for the first few dates, he takes them out for respectable dinners and movies   ---   but, given the choice, he’d prefer something a bit adventurous.

E   :   EMBRACE.   does your muse like hugs? what are their hugs like?

“Dad Hugs” are the best word for them. Dick’s hugs are steady and comforting, however infrequent they come around. He’s not much of a hugger, so...  he’ll only really hug if someone needs it. Like, “borderline sobbing” needs it. Even then, he might settle for patting their back. Dick feels awkward giving hugs, but actually has a talent for them.

F   :   FLIRT.   is your muse good at flirting? how do they flirt?

Oooh, no. No, no, no. Don’t leave this man alone to flirt, because he physically can’t do it. The closest he ever gets to flirting is his banter with Nixon, and that’s just because they know each other so well. There’s not a flirtatious bone in Dick’s body. He’ll literally go up to someone, stone-faced, and be like “hello, my name’s Dick, would you like to have dinner tonight?” That’s the best he’s capable of, and anything smoother might injure him.

G   :   GIFT.   is your muse good at gift - giving or do they struggle to get it right?

He’s...   very practical with his gifts. Weirdly practical. He’s given almanacs as gifts before. He bought his sister a box of pencils once. He nonironically buys socks? (They’re an important thing to have, especially in the winter! All the Easy men know the importance of socks!) He won’t get something anybody hates, but his gifts are certainly nothing to get excited over. Sometimes, of course, they can be very heartfelt.

H   :   HEART.   is your muse quick or slow to give their heart away?

He’s not slow, he just...  doesn’t make a habit of it. Dick’s a private person, so before he gives his heart away he’d have to really get to know someone. He’d need to feel like he had a measure of them, and they of him; he wouldn’t really give his heart away until he began imagining a future together, a next stage from wherever in the relationship they’re in now. (He doesn’t realize just how much Nix means to him, for example, until he starts thinking about what rent must cost in New Jersey.) When Dick starts planning, he’s in for the long haul.

I    :   I LOVE YOU.   does your muse find ‘i love you’ easy or hard to say?

He doesn’t say it often  ---  it’s much easier to show, instead of tell  ---  but when he does say it out loud, he means it sincerely.

J   :   JEALOUSY.   does your muse get jealous in a relationship?

Nah, not really. He’d annoyingly levelheaded about things like this, and never the first to jump to conclusions in any situation. Dick has...  good self-esteem? (What kind of witchcraft?) Moreover, he trusts his partner implicitly, and it would take a lot for him to even consider they might be unfaithful to him. Dick would have to see his partner literally on top of someone to truly feel betrayed.

K   :   KISS.   is your muse a good kisser? why / why not?

He doesn’t have a lot of experience; that’s the only thing that separates a good kisser from a great kisser. Given practice, Dick could easily be a great kisser. As it is, he’s unsure of himself, seeking guidance from his partner before crossing any lines they’re uncomfortable with. He’s very careful with them, as though they’re something fragile; his hands remain in a gentlemanly location at all times, even if a determined partner is trying to get him to lose his cool. He keeps to the lips, not exploring anywhere else, but his kisses are...  intent, determined, and always heated by a smouldering flame that hints at something more.

L   :   LOVE.   who does your muse love?

Dick is very closely bonded to his family and his community; that’s simply the way he was raised, and he can never deny the influence they’ve had on his life. Dick loves his parents deeply, and would do anything for his little sister Anne; he loves the family he stayed with overseas, the Barneses, who practically became surrogate parents to him; he cares deeply for his men, and his friends even moreso. Nixon holds a very crucial place in his heart; even if he were to get into a romantic relationship with someone else, so long as he’s nearby, Nix would be a very persistent third wheel, and Dick wouldn’t mind it. He’s simply...  used to having Nix there.

M   :   MOONLIGHT.   is morning or night a more romantic setting?

Why does this man have so much energy in the mornings? Is this...  is this legal? Is he okay?

N   :   NAUGHTY.   what is your muse like in bed?

He’s got a lot of self-control; even in the bedroom, he can’t relinquish it completely. Dick doesn’t like to come undone. It would take a lot of effort from his partner  ---  and even then, he’s mostly silent in the bedroom, letting his fierce grip on his partner’s body and the tiny sighs that pass his lips do all the speaking for him. Now he’s free to let his lips wander, and they do, all over his partner’s body  ---  he’s a kisser during sex, and will gladly kiss any exposed area of skin. A generous lover, always placing his partner’s comfort over his own. Not always sure what he’s doing, but makes up for it by having very steady hands. Willing to explore more kinks than one might think, even if he hasn’t revealed (or discovered) his own yet.

O   :   ODE.   does your muse have a way with words?

Not really. He’s...  straightforward in his speaking, without many embellishments. Dick can speak his heart perfectly well, but never says anything he doesn’t mean. Writing is a whole other tray of crackers; he can agonize over a paragraph for ages, and it’s definitely not a skill that comes naturally to him, but he tries.

P   :   PARTNER.   what does your muse look for in a partner? looks / personality?

Dick wants someone clever, with an inquiring mind and a multifaceted view of the world. Someone...  who challenges him in ways he didn’t realize he needs to be challenged, and who doesn’t admit defeat easily. He’d do very well with someone with a firm set of beliefs, or at least morals which guide them; as someone with a solid sense of his own identity, he might like someone the same way. Maybe a little bit messy, to counter his organization; a little funny, to measure out his dryness. Someone with a smile that can make the sun shine brighter on darker days. Someone who wants peace, above all other things, and can always look ahead into a future where the world is kinder.

Q   :   QUESTION.   would your muse ask the big question or expect their partner to?

No, he’ll ask  ---   honestly, the other way around never crossed his mind. Dick’s very straightforward about it, and fights off the Anxiety Bear with a stick until finally popping the question. After all, if he wasn’t sure his partner wanted this too, he wouldn’t ask; he waits until the time is right for them both, until they’re at a stage of life when getting married feels right. Then, over dinner, he’ll casually pull out a ring, and just ask right there at the table   ---   will they have him?

R   :   ROMANCE.   is your muse a romantic or a cynic?

He’s...  not certain, to be honest. Romance feels like an enigma to him, and there’s always the nagging thought in his mind that he’s not doing it right  ---  Dick Winters isn’t built for flights of fancy. He likes to get flowers, he likes to look after his partner...  but he doesn’t have the imagination to plan big romantic adventures.

S   :   SWEETHEART.   did your muse have a childhood sweetheart?

Honestly, he didn’t even date in high school. The closest he ever got...  oooh, he doesn’t like to talk about this. He had a cousin. A distant cousin, twice removed, but their parents were close and they lived close by so they were the nearest family members... Grace was in love with him, but Dick politely did not return her feelings. When Grace, as a precocious five year old, declared she and her four year old cousin were destined to get married, Dick just blinked at her and didn’t argue. Unwilling to upset his cousin, he never pulled away from the kisses on his cheeks, and let her drag him around as her “suitor” for a year before she eventually got bored with it. (And that’s the story of Dick’s first failed marriage.) His parents fondly bring up this story at family gatherings, embarrassing grown-up Dick and Grace to no end. He’ll never let Nix hear about it, because the jokes would be endless.

T   :   TRUE LOVE.   does your muse believe in true love?

He honestly wouldn’t be able to say. Love...  isn’t so complicated, in Dick’s mind. Either it is, or it isn’t. Any form of love can be true love if it matters enough to someone...  and if love is real, then obviously true love must be as well. Why set a certain type of love apart from all the rest?

U   :   UNREQUITED.   has your muse had their heart broken?

Nix once ate the last biscuit in the officers’ quarters before Dick could get one, and he took it pretty hard. (Lowkey no, he’s never been in love enough to break that way.)

V   :   VALENTINE.   how does your muse feel about valentine’s day?

He never celebrated it as a kid, and never had anyone to celebrate it with growing up, so...  it’s not something he’s thought much about. Will labor for hours trying to get reservations at a nice restaurant, though, if that’s what his partner wants.

W  :   WEDDING.   would your muse get married? why / why not?

Yes, of course. He honestly never considered anything else. That’s just...  the way it’s done, isn’t it? You meet someone, you fall in love, you marry, you raise a family...  Dick has a conventional view on romance, and it would take an outside-the-box partner to get him to see differently. While he craves a peaceful, quiet life, that doesn’t necessarily involve romance; he’d be a happy man if he never married at all, but should he fall in love with someone, he’d naturally proceed to marriage after a while.

X   :   XOXO.   does your muse use / like pet names?

Not very good at them, usually doesn’t try. He shortens people’s names when he’s especially fond of them (”Lew”/”Nix”) but that’s as far as he’ll go. Pet names always feel awkward on his tongue. (Some days, he’ll splurge on the occasional “sweetheart”, but that’s it.)

Y   :   YOURS.   does your muse get protective easily?

For sure. Part of Dick’s job is sending people under his command into dangerous situations, fully aware that they could get injured; he’s learned to numb himself to the desire to protect the ones he loves most, because in many cases it’s just not possible. Doesn’t mean that instinct isn’t still there, though. Dick will try to diffuse a tense situation however possible, be it talking it through or separating the conflicting parties. He won’t start swinging, that’s not his style...  but Dick’s got an air of authority, and will use it to quietly intimidate the hell out of anyone messing with the people he cares about.

Z   :   ZZZ.   how many people has your muse slept with?

Haha...  hah...  ha. Hah. He’s, uhh, he’s...  look, you know, he’s not going to answer this. He’ll just give that patented Dick Winters Look and walk away without a word. What is the answer? That’s no one’s business but his own. (Pro tip: ask Nixon, because he’s the only one on earth who’s got the facts.)

[davidmann95]

Might as well get this out of the way... RWBY is Disappointing and Here’s Why: thoughts?

No interest. I guess I’ve mostly heard that hbomberguy is good, but I don’t care to listen to 2+ hours about how a thing I like is bad actually; I’ve gotta exceptionally despise something to care to listen to that about something I hate. Plus from what I’ve heard he spends most of it talking about the first two seasons not working, and that along with the Faunus allegory ultimately spinning into extremely dicey respectability politics are my main issues with the series anyway, so why spend the time going “I already know this and agree with it, but it brings me no pleasure to hear it reiterated”? Pretty much every complaint I’ve seen about it from assorted corners of the internet in the last year or so that I started paying attention falls anyway into either those categories, or anime nerd nitpicking about power scaling/disagreeing with plot decisions or character motivations/not seeing for the forest for the trees regarding character development, so I just don’t really care. This is something where I’m mostly content to just enjoy the thing on my own rather than taking up the banner of defending it from all comers.

everythingsucksbutthatsokay said: I want to like RWBY, but it just has not grabbed me any of the times I’ve tried to start it. The character designs and fight choreography are awesome, but the characters and storyline just don’t hook me. What is it about the show that made you keep watching?

I’m not surprised it hasn’t grabbed you, because I’m gonna hit you with what’s apparently considered a Hot Take among the longtime RWBY fan community: those first two seasons ain’t very good, which is a situation only tenable because they’re only a couple hours apiece and still breezy enough fun. I only started watching it because I heard “Hey, Marguerite Bennett, who I quite like, is doing a miniseries for DC based on that internet kinda-anime I’ve seen references to and a couple cool fights from on Youtube. Well, it’s free online, what the hell”,* and it was exactly good enough to occupy my attention on the treadmill watching it on my phone without caring enough yet to switch to my laptop. It isn’t until season 3 that the plot seeds and character threads start to come together into something really engaging (and not until season 4 that they switch from the original extremely dated visuals to the current graphics system, even if the choreography from the early parts still holds up), but once it did I unexpectedly found myself profoundly taken with it.

* And then of course the last physical issue of that was cancelled due to the cornoavirus comics industry hiatus; I, a dope, will get the trade, because I liked it and I want it all in one format.

It is when it comes fully into its own a story about pain - abandonment, disaster, political terror and paranoia, endless generational war, oppression, inadequacy, abuse, displacement, long-term emotional trauma, unfair responsibility, and the losses of every stripe of loved one - and how people live with theirs and work to do the right thing and care for one another with that weight bearing on their shoulders, or fail to with monstrous consequences. It actually strikes a very similar chord to me as Kingdom Hearts even if it’s the slightly more ‘grown-up’ take, with its archetypal character templates and old-school fantasy worlds (even if it’s an old-school fantasy world in this case that’s progressed into flying cars and cellphone territory ala latter-day Final Fantasy) and unabashed emotional sincerity. It’s just that for the most part instead of struggling with relatively abstract notions of personhood or literal inner darkness, the people here are outright dealing with death and shame and resentment and uncertainty, even if it’s just as earnest as its counterpart in its belief that those challenges can be overcome, in this case through the power of love or friendship or pride or principles or simple respect for your fellow man or punching a fool with a shotgun blast. Also there are gauntlets that make punches shotgun blasts, and dogs are occasionally fastball specialed at robots, and there’re rock-pop tracks about food fights and fucking up fascists.

So I’d recommend either watching those first two seasons as basically background noise TV or make a marathon night of it, and then give season 3 a real chance to win you over. It’s far from flawless by any metric, but it becomes something really special given time to grow. And don’t forget the little character shorts that go before some of the seasons, they’re not super-important but they do flesh things out.

[crimsonfluidessence]

Prompt 2: Sway

It was a strange feeling, being able to shift one’s skin like Esredes could. One moment it was soft, and the next, the texture of leather. One moment, he could have a tail, or horns, or wings- and in the next have no sensations of them at all. But his affliction was not the only way Esredes shapeshifted, even if he wasn’t aware of it. He had learned the process in a different way, ever since he was eight years old. The world was interesting as an eight year old- so small, so centered, so simple. All he knew was his home, his parents, and some fellow highborn children. His brother hadn’t even been born yet. He knew a few things- he liked his mother’s cooking, he liked the board games he played for fun, and he felt warm and safe in the blanket of affection provided to him. But Esredes was of course, not created as a creature of simple harmony. There were natural disruptions bound to manifest in the child, and it came in the form of that fateful day he had blown up at another kid for insulting him and thrown a punch. Oh, he had never seen his parents that furious at him. It was a new level of sensation for him, and he didn’t like it. But there was no cutting off what was an inevitability- the feeling came again and again, and with it, something began to change in that blanket. His parents no longer looked and spoke to him in quite the same way, and while his mind could not fully comprehend the change, it felt it, and it did not like it. That child had learned the necessity of shapeshifting, but not how to do it. Not yet. That would be taught to him by two different individuals later, as they both stared him down inside his room as a teenager. “You’ve been out of control for too long,” one said. “And I know you think that we’ll give up like your parents did, but we have a different method. We are here to teach you proper responsibility, and you’re going to learn it the easy or hard way.” Ah yes, responsibility. That entity that had entered his spirit once it had been fully broken down from all those years of resistance, and merged itself with his very soul. It opened the child’s eyes, suddenly, begrudingly, things made more sense to him. For he was not created without a way to manage his own disruption of harmony. And finally, even though he had been testing out his affliction in secret for years now, he learned to truly shapeshift. It was a beautiful thing. When you took on another form, people reacted to you so much differently. His parents were no longer mad at him all the time, peers slowly came back to him after having shut him out. Even though part of his mind quietly protested to his new form, he never wanted to change back. This was… manageable. Everything would be fine if he just stayed like this. But one form was not enough, and Esredes did not learn this until he joined the Temple Knights proper. There was no form that he could take that would prevent enemies on the battlefield from targeting him, but there was one to learn for his behavior otherwise. A knight must be good and true, disciplined, unhesitant. He must conduct himself with honor, and be there for those who cannot be there for themselves… It was such a perfect form to maintain once he perfected it. Others looked up to and respected him, considered him a shining example. Oh, if only it hadn’t been forcefully destroyed. Without it, Esredes had no reliable backup. There was nothing to do but to refuse to take much of any form, to stare at the floor inside his tent and avoid any sort of social contact with the heretics outside. He couldn’t hide from them. They knew exactly who he was. And yet, he ended up changing again anyhow. This time it was not just peoples’ reactions to him at stake, it was his very life. If he exposed too much of his true self, so ugly and unpleasant, surely they would slay the beast. Esredes could not take the form like that of a gentle animal, cute and harmless, something that would easily ward off any thoughts of finishing the job, so he settled for the next best thing: withdrawn and obedient. It was imperfect, something transparent, something they could see right through, and yet it did the job. He was too quiet for anyone to talk to, any of those feelings of hatred and urge to murder within them surely had to be stopped from progressing. So he remained like this for a long time, until it fell away and rotted naturally like the remains of his previous self over the months of adjustment. And that blackened heart infused itself with a new and rising form of hatred. He took the mantle of that which he formerly hated when it finally harmonized with that which was rotting away, and went on to maintain it, except at night when he could not sleep. When a new opportunity for a heretic presented itself, he used it to his advantage. Tell me all about the hatred in your heart, young one. They’ve wronged me too, they’ve wronged all of us. Come with me, and I will train you into the warrior to bring about its destruction. And Esredes would earn their trust through that mutual understanding of suffering and hatred, he would go on to joke about Ishgardians in morbid manners, as if to forget for a moment the rest. That blackened heart came over the mood, unable to stop itself from festering and pulsating out into the mind. But not all who crossed his path were of that temperament. There were the recruitees who still held love for Ishgard. Believe me, I understand. It used to be my home too, and try as I may, I can never forget that. Don’t worry, we’re not as they claim. We’re here to end the fighting, end the suffering. We’re here to save Ishgard from itself, because we must be better than them and exercise restraint. It’s okay to believe in her, it’s okay to feel for your home. After all, he laid awake at night sometimes over that ability to feel. Then the next day he descended down to that door in the cavern, taking a dagger and laying eyes upon the next Inquisitor to come into his grasp. And when it was over, he came right back out to talk to one of his fellow harriers who still cared for Ishgard to open up about how much it hurt to be branded a traitor. Each day, in and out, he took mental note of who responded to which form the best, and he shifted between them with ease. So many people relied on him for proper presentation, and if he were to let something slip, the consequences were inconvenient at best and devastating at worse. The end of the war brought with it several new forms. Every day Esredes left his little home and walked out into the streets of Ishgard, which watched his every move with eyes waiting to destroy him, as if nothing was wrong, as if he was allowed to be there. Each day, he talked to his fellow Ishgardians, pretending he was just like them, that he ever could just be like them. He was but another ordinary man on the street, a friendly man who conducted himself responsibly, a harmless and casual presence in a tavern. He was the composed and serious assistant who held his tongue. And most of all, he was the perfect, shining, agreeable example of someone striving for the new age, someone who believed in fighting back against the deniers with public pressure, letting no more die, and wanted the same thing as everyone else. The proof that heretics should be allowed back, the example that turned all of his people into mirror copies of him in the minds of those he managed to grasp and take hold of. Every day, he had to focus, he had to appeal, for if he lost form for even a second, they would immediately turn away from the beast and run, and he would put himself ever closer to the edge. Just as long as he didn’t think about the list in his desk, it would all be fine. All must hold together until he once again entered the spaces of his own people, and go back to the morbid jokes and the violent remarks, the careful management of the shadows his group cast and their ability to hide in them, the desire to purge the wicked that was overwhelming some days. Tell me about your hatred. He repeated to the next potential recruitee to come his way in the city. Let me give you a safe space to be at home with it, to be understood, to let it out and talk all about how you want to burn this place down and send the Tribunal crumbling down into the abyss below. Whether it meant being the perfect, understanding advocate for salvation and goodness, or the man who could not let go of his own hatred who truly understood others’ darkness, he would play the part, he would take the form. All those goals to complete, all those images to keep up. All must proceed perfectly according to agenda. At the end of each day, Esredes came home and collapsed onto his bed, withdrawing into his own mind. No one was around to see him, no one would know what he saw at the end of the day. Each action, word, and version of his beliefs swirled around inside him like a chaotic storm. That dead and buried loyalist. The hatred crawling all around in his veins. The rational mind that could exhaust itself by rising above it… oh, and even that warm feeling, that nice warm feeling when his fellow Ishgardians reciprocated him that came immediately before the guilt which always accompanied it, and the unpleasant memories that ensured it would always be temporary. Esredes closed his eyes, for he could not see into the center of the storm. He did not know what laid there waiting for him, if someone were to ever strip him down to just the center. But perhaps some things were just not meant to be deciphered. Esredes knew one thing at this moment, and it was that there would be a tomorrow. And he would shift to his out and about form, and go about his day, for he had ambitions to rise to and people to persuade.

[starlene]

The night before Henry Jekyll's wedding to Emma Carew, John Utterson has to make a very difficult decision.

Wedding preparations

For as long as he could remember, John Utterson had dreaded Henry Jekyll’s wedding day.

It was late and John’s thoughts circled around the ceremony tomorrow. His shoes were polished, his suit brushed, his tie ironed, his hands shaking. Only one thing left to prepare anymore.

Or two, keeping in mind that he was supposed to be giving a speech at the dinner tomorrow. He hadn’t put any thought into that. If, by some miracle, the wedding day proceeded without incident all the way to that point, he could certainly improvise something about the bride looking radiant and the groom unbearably dashing and commendably non-murderous, so please have a nice rest of your life together, have my blessing to make plenty of babies and see you in hell.

At the moment, John was more concerned about the details of his outfit.

It was a ridiculous thing, really. John’s uncle had given it to him on his 21st birthday. Just the sort of gift you’d expect from Uncle Abraham, honestly, ceremoniously handed to him with a solemn speech about the importance of a young man arming himself against the forces of evil. As far as John was concerned, it was better to avoid places where you’d expect to encounter forces of evil altogether, so for years, the sword cane had stayed hidden in the back of his wardrobe.

This time though, he couldn’t really avoid facing the evil. And before morning came, he would have to make his choice: should he take the weapon with him to Henry’s wedding?

~

It was a true wonder John hadn’t gotten himself discharged from his work yet. Ever since his first meeting with Edward Hyde a few weeks ago, he had spent his nights worrying, unable to sleep, and his days resting his head on top of the ever-growing piles of poorly drafted wills and contracts that were taking over his desk.

Worrying – or, lately more often than not, wide awake with Edward Hyde in his bed.

It was nothing to be proud of, but after having opened his door to Hyde once, John had ended up welcoming him into the house nearly every night. It was not Henry, but it was the closest he was ever going to get, and since Hyde always initiated it… John didn’t have it in him to say no.

That didn’t mean John didn’t always feel terribly guilty afterwards. What was he doing, taking such risks and doing such things with the devil that was tormenting Henry? And, supposing Henry was in there somewhere, aware of what Hyde was doing, feeling everything – well, how could John ever justify his own actions to him? John was certain Henry wouldn’t agree to him using his body like this. In all likelihood, their meetings were just one of Hyde’s many ways of making life more miserable for Henry.

Still, John wanted it so much he always let Hyde in. Let him in and thought about Henry.

Upon their first meeting, John had been certain – had desperately wanted to be certain – that Hyde was a completely separate creature from Henry, a surplus soul possessing his body. Every time they had met each other since, it had become harder to hold onto that belief. John was disturbed by Hyde’s sense of humour. It was disturbing that the demon had a sense of humour to begin with, and it felt even worse to realise how familiar Hyde’s tone actually was. John could hear Henry in Hyde’s snarky, often scornful words. The only difference was that Henry never aimed his truly biting remarks at John, trying his best to make his friend laugh by describing others instead, while Hyde’s derision was usually directed towards him.

Besides the ways they moved and the ways their voices sounded like, there were two big differences between the two that John could notice, as far as he could notice anything while receiving Hyde’s full attention. Henry had shame where Hyde had none, and while Henry had always been temperamental and tactless, Hyde was downright cruel, both in his words and in his actions. Hyde couldn’t take no for an answer – not that John was in the habit of refusing him, but everyone has his limits – and while John was stronger and sturdier he was, the punches hurt all the same.

Despite everything, it terrified John to see how skinny Henry’s body had gotten, so he didn’t strike back.

~

On the nights that Hyde did not knock on his door, John had plenty of time to think about him.

Most nights, John thought about an article he had read in the newspaper, complete with a gruesome illustration, about a girl being murdered at a brothel and the murderer getting away unnoticed. A girl that looked, as far as you could tell based on the messy illustration of her mutilated body, all too familiar, in a brothel that John could well recognise.

How could it be possible that Henry had created something that was capable of such senseless, ultimate cruelty?

And could it be possible that Hyde would do it again?

John had a certain respect for Emma Carew. Sure, when Henry had first told him about her, he had wanted to tear her head right off for taking away the last sliver of a chance that John could keep Henry to himself. But, upon meeting her, it had turned out he had a very hard time actually hating Emma. She was too clever for that, too quick-witted and down-to-earth. John had a feeling that, had Emma been born a man, she would have made a better lawyer than he could ever become.

Had Emma been born a man, there would also have been no wedding to worry about.

And had Emma been born a man, maybe she would have been able to take Hyde’s blows like John did. As she was, with her short stature, John was not so certain.

~

The pre-wedding dinner that evening had been the most excruciating affair John had ever taken part in.

It was the first time he had seen Henry in weeks. Of course, he had seen his body – the thought of how familiar, in fact, he had become with Henry’s body made John’s face burn – but this was the first time in weeks he could see Henry in there. Could be sure that the body’s original occupant was in charge of it.

If John still had some doubt as to whether Henry was aware of Hyde’s doings, the way Henry turned red at the sight of him cleared that from his mind. Clearly he could remember.

Most of the evening was spent in agonising silence. Emma’s bridesmaids, Elsie and Clara, tried their hardest to tease the groom-to-be and to talk with Emma, but their efforts were met with stone-cold silence. Sir Danvers mumbled a couple of awkward sentences about young people and pre-wedding nerves and spent the rest of the dinner quietly fiddling with the stem of his wine glass. John, Henry and Emma spent their time by, in turns, trying to catch and trying to avoid each others’ eyes.

While the dessert was being served, Henry excused himself with some unintelligible words and rushed out of the house. No one knew what to say to that, so the rest of them continued spooning away at their puddings without a word.

As John was about to leave, Emma caught up with him in the empty hallway.

“John. You have to tell me what’s wrong with Henry.”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me. You have no idea how this feels like. First I don’t see Henry in weeks, then he comes here tonight, looking completely unwell. He doesn’t speak to me, and for half the dinner, you two keep exchanging weird looks, and then he simply runs away. Clearly you know something that I don’t.”

“I said I don’t know.”

“I said don’t lie to me!”

“Miss Carew… Emma… if you’re so worried about him, have you considered…”

“Now you’re going to suggest I should call off the wedding, right? You would think it’s that simple, wouldn’t you! For Christ’s sake. After what happened with Simon… I can’t. It would ruin father, it would ruin me! You understand there is no way I’d be getting a third chance at marriage after that, do you?”

A silence.

“It’s not fair! I’m supposed to be marrying him tomorrow, I’m supposed to be moving into his house to live with him for the rest of my life, but it’s like he doesn’t trust me at all. It’s clear he’s telling you something he’s not telling me.”

“He doesn’t tell me anything anymore either.”

“John, please be honest with me. Don’t tell me what’s wrong with him if that’s such a bloody huge secret, but please, tell me this. Do you think he is ever going to get better?”

A silence, again.

“I don’t know, Emma. I really don’t know.”

~

The clock struck three in the hallway. For a short little moment after the unfortunate dinner party, John recalled, he had considered telling Emma the truth.

Had he loved Henry any less, he would have told her.

What was there to do? If Sir Danvers knew his precious daughter was marrying a murderer, he would use all his influence to get Henry before a judge and a jury before the day was out. John knew that to speak of what he knew would be to condemn Henry to a certain death, no matter if Hyde ever came back or not.

But not to speak… Henry had clearly been smitten with the girl Hyde had murdered. Henry had been best friends with John since they were twelve years old, yet Hyde had threatened him with a handgun, had hit and disparaged him… What if it wasn’t Henry who stood by the altar tomorrow but Hyde, and what if Emma looked at him the wrong way? Or what if Sir Danvers got in his way, or someone else? What if Hyde didn’t arrive unarmed?

Could John stand there and watch and not do anything?

For as long as he could remember, John Utterson had dreaded Henry Jekyll’s wedding day.

Placing the sword cane by the clothes he would put on when morning came, he wished, for the millionth time, that the day he would have to attend his best friend’s wedding would never come.

[cowboykoschei]

Partners

Chapter One

Rating: Overall E, this chapter T

Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Kix (mentioned), Jotopa Kaid, Toby

Warnings/Tags: Eventual Smut, dehumanization of clones, mutual pining, a pair of idiots running around a jungle

Summary: Anakin calls up his friend and fellow Knight Jotopa Kaid to run "a little mission" with clone captain Toby and basically ruins both their lives.

--- Mission Start ---

Unlike most of his brothers, Toby looked forward to the dreamlike state of deep stasis. He did not enjoy the fact that, born and bred as he was to command troops, he was put up in storage when not in use. Ever since the first hint of beard stubble had dusted the edges of his jaw as a gangly limbed cadet, whenever he dreamed, he dreamed of her.

Dreaming was not something of which he put much stock. Often, it interrupted what could otherwise be a deep and restful sleep with things he would much rather not remember. Even when he was young, it was so. It was better to sleep hard and think of nothing than so lightly that your mind is free to plague you with nonsensical renditions of all your fears, insecurities, and mistakes rolled into some terrifying metaphor that might trouble you for hours or days after and possibly lower your efficiency rating.

But dreams of her…

Despite popular belief, there were women on Kamino. There was the female Kaminiise, of course. They were as professional and impersonal in their treatment of him and his brothers as their male counterparts. When they hit puberty, the long necks exhibited the same levels of generalized disgust at their bodily emissions as well as their frequency. The Kaminiise seemed especially horrified by the fact that their position over their human creations and overall role as oppressors did not preclude them from being subjects of crude humor and worse. As if any human male had ever been especially picky when it came time to jack it. Their trainers, who they collectively regarded with a mingled sense of hate, respect, and misplaced love, also received the same treatment.

Not even the women trainers whom he had grown up under, who were brutal and competent, terrifying and awful and beautiful in the way only Mando’ade could be, could hold a candle to her.

He dreamed of her hands most often. The first time he saw them (in what his studies and training told him must be a forest though as a gangly seven and a half-year-old he’d still never set foot off Kamino, and half that first dream he spent staring in amazement at everything around him, everything he could never have dreamed of imagining) he’d been struck by how much smaller they had to be than his own were. A deep, dark brown, so rich he immediately wanted to reach out and touch it, the bones of her fingers long and delicate and strong. Elegant, he thought, the first time he’d ever needed to use the word seriously, these must be the hands of a princess. And then he watched enraptured as those lovely, lovely hands shouldered a rifle and sniped a man from three hundred meters.

Other dreams, regrettably, were not as violent or visceral in their intensity, but as he grew, his appreciation for them increased. Toby liked to see the galaxy through her eyes. He enjoyed seeing the vaunted, columnated, and shadowed halls she seemed to dread entering a little more each time he visited her. He looked forward to dreaming because it meant he might get to watch her practice movements that were strange and familiar in a room that seemed older than the bones of the planet he had been made on.

At first, nearly bursting out of his skin with excitement, with longing, with the urge to describe each new and incredible image seared into his rib cage, he would crawl into his brothers’ tubes and tell them about her, the beautiful princess he saw in his dreams. Pyro, the oldest after him, would listen sleepily so long as Toby let him stick his face in his neck and cuddle and didn’t complain about drool. Kit would listen absently as long as he offered the blank expanse of his back as a sacrifice for her doodling while he ranted. Checkmate wasn’t interested in his princess so much as her surroundings, and he would interrupt Toby’s sometimes painstaking descriptions of the exact curvature of her hips to ask detailed questions about her surroundings. Snow only cared when he mentioned food. But that who Snow was period, so Toby was unrepentant and unresponsive to his vod’ika’s complaints about missed sleep. Lucky was his most sympathetic brother in all things, always forgiving him his many, many faults, so he didn’t often disturb his rest with this.

Bad enough to be saddled with an ori’vod such as himself; Lucky should at least be allowed his complete ration’s sleep. And of course, for Toby, there was no breaching the solid wall of disdain Joker and Blue had erected. Within a few years, he learned to keep mentioning her to himself and focused on overcoming the mountain of defects he was decanted with.

When Toby was nearly full-grown and in ARC training, he comforted himself at night by recalling the vivid flashes of her in what must have been a festival in a small village. She’d caught the briefest glimpse of herself in a hazy mirror in that thick crush of sweaty, celebrating bodies, and the impression of her body burned in his mind’s eye. But there was still so much he didn’t comprehend no matter how he turned it over in his hands. He understood the glimpses of her thigh he got as she slapped a bacta patch over a wound, the sounds of blaster fire, of measured breathing as she ran or jumped or leaped what seemed to be impossible distances. She was a warrior and a competent one by all accounts. He did not understand why these seemed to occur less and less the older he grew. Why did the sound of her laughter make his chest ache? Why did it hurt more when reproachful silence replaced her laughter? And why, no matter how hard he tried, couldn’t he explain any of it to his brothers?

Though he had very little to go on, Toby knew she was the most beautiful woman in the universe. He knew it like he knew the feel of his blasters, knew it as intimately as his face, and Toby knew that if given a chance, he would do whatever he could to hear that laugh again and ease the ache in his chest its absence created.

Neck still slightly wet, and his hair freshly shaved into his trademarked undercut, toweled dry but still damp and curling in the crisp, sterile air of medbay, CC-4267, Toby slowly pulled on his blacks and armor as his superior officer stood off to the side with the medic, Kix, and made small talk.

He hadn’t been in stasis very long this time, he thought quietly, putting away thoughts of her, watching the way Skywalker and Kix spoke with such easy familiarity and not even noticing the pang of envy that lanced him, applying himself to the ordinary tasks of cataloging his kit and body. He’d been in the stasis tank long enough for his wounds to close but not so long that his newly acquired scar had smoothed over. Several times in the scant hour he’d been conscious, Toby had to physically stop himself from fingering the thick tissue running the width of his nose, from grimacing at the way it pulled when he so much as twitched his mouth. It would take getting used to. Thankfully, that’s what buckets were for, and so far, no jetiise he had the displeasure of working with had been so desperate to see his ugly mug as to order him to part with it.

His kit was the same as the last time he laid eyes on it though someone, likely Rex for reasons Toby could never understand, had retouched the scratched and faded blue lines. All of it was standard issue infantry gear and had been brand spanking new when given to him his first days under Skywalker’s command. It had only been the work of a few missions to rectify that. His loadout hadn’t been all that different in the Guard, really, but it was more trouble than it was worth to try and blast all that distinctive red paint off the plastoid when he could be issued fresh. He was a new man. Shiny to go with his shiny new promotion and shiny new unit. In the end, all he’d been able to take from his native company was his kama and the pair of gloves a fellow lieutenant had surreptitiously stuffed in his pack.

The helmet, of course, was new and looked utterly out of place, but that was fine. It would match its owner in that regard. He’d have to go down to the armory to check out his deecees, but unless the blast that had cracked his bucket and given him his pretty new scar had also done damage to his blasters, Toby was sure he would be issued the same pair of 17s he’d carried since coming to the 501st.

He rolled his shoulders, irritated to find that they were already knotted up with tension, and started pulling his armor on.

—

When Jedi Knight Jotopa Kaid of the significantly diminished House Ordo was somewhere around twelve or thirteen years old, she began to have strange dreams. They came, as many odd dreams do to young and inexperienced Force users such as herself, right as her life was turning to shit. She found it hard to give much thought to the jolting sense of awareness of vague l o n g i n g, a hollow, itching pull in her chest that tugged with a dull sort of insistence always in the same general direction when her Master had just up and abandoned her. D’Aleric traded her away to a Corellian smuggler for a juicy piece of intel, and even with her sheltered Temple upbringing, she knew enough to be terrified by the long and considering look Choruk Vance gave her once her Master’s ship made the jump to hyperspace without her inside.

But the Force, and Choruk Vance, had something else in mind when the smuggler looked into eyes that, though frightened, still bravely met his own. It was not long before Jotopa found herself handed off again, this time to the Mandalorian, Asha Kaid, herself and her sabers swapped for some previously agreed-upon amount. Asha Kaid would bestow her clan name upon Jotopa. But in those early days, it remained a mystery how or why a Mandalorian would want a discarded padawan.

These events kept her from thinking about her dreams, but as weeks then months went by, it truly settled in that her Master had abandoned her. She may as well get the grieving process for her old life over with sooner rather than later, she began to retake note of them. They were nothing to write home about initially, impressions more than anything: of being submerged, of pale, statuesque beings walking to and fro, their forms hazy, a sleepy sort of awareness over everything. It was strangely soothing and familiar in an almost primal way. She paid it no mind, and the dreams were not such a frequent occurrence that it was worth interrupting the daily rhythms of learning what being Mando’ade meant, especially for her.

It was not so different in its way than her early years at the Temple had been though the lessons were learning her way around various types of blasters and blades, detonators and when to use them, when to stand and fight and when to save your strength for another time. Though, she knew better than to say so to Asha Kaid! Her mentor, quickly her buir, was a typical Mandalorian and would not have appreciated the comparison for all its accuracy. She kept her sabers and the skills associated with them sharp because the Force was another tool in her arsenal, and only a foolish warrior did not use every tool at her disposal.

The years passed with slow surety. Jotopa fought, she meditated, grew in the Force, and her murky dreams gradually expanded. Now there would be startlingly vivid flashes of the same group of identical faces, their brown eyes wide and old in their young faces, and when she would wake, something about the sight of their still baby soft hands disassembling rifles would disquiet her for the rest of the day. A week would pass or perhaps a month or two, or maybe she was seventeen now, a time when once again her life was going to shit. Her memory is a bit chaotic, but she sees them again, older now, but she’s sure it’s the same set of identical faces, the one that she knows lying down and humming soothingly to another one. Somehow, she knows that a live-fire exercise killed one of her special boy’s brothers.

She carries his grief on the back of her tongue, its weight as heavy as the presence of her Master come to reclaim her.

You don’t have to go, her mother said with the resigned air of a lifelong inmate. You don’t have to go back to the Jetiise, kebii’tra.

And just as resigned, looking not at her Master but through him, thinking instead of the golden-eyed boy in her dreams, she said, No, but I want to.

But going back to the Jetiise did not make her a Jetii. Not to her, and not to them. To be sure, to the Council it did, and in the end, it was their opinion on the matter that most counted, but in the final long year of her apprenticeship in which she and her Master did not pretend to have any illusions with one another, it was not so.

Do you think me cruel, Kadijah? D’Aleric’s question, like so many she could recall put to her as a young learner, did not warrant an answer, and yet the use of her birth name encouraged her to do so regardless. Her Master used it so casually, as though he was still worthy of the honor of knowing the young girl to which it belonged. As if that girl still existed. Typical Jetii bullshit, she thought, looking steadily into the crimson eyes and rich sapphire face that had looked into her own and found her wanting.

I think nothing of you at all, Master. She’d said with a small, deprecating laugh. Who am I to challenge the will of the Force as interpreted by my elders? She paused then, eyes dark and hard as unworked beskar. And you will call me Jotopa from now on.

A series of whistles and chirps from her astrodroid shook her from her half-dreaming, half meditative state. From the wide span of the viewport of her standard-issue starfighter, Jotopa could just make out the ruggedly elegant outline of the Resolute breaking up the uniform blackness of open space around it. Her droid, R6, well used to her mistress's ways, had dropped out of hyperspace farther away than was usual for most Jedi, and Jotopa didn’t think she imagined the wearied tone the droid took with her.

“Yes, thank you, R6; I can see we’ve made it. I wasn’t sleeping; I was meditating! Please, please: don’t let me stop you from hailing them! I don’t want to be on the receiving end of their guns either.” She said with a laugh in response to R6’s messages. The little astrodroid was a delight to a life spent so much skimming the surface of other’s turmoils. She rather hoped that she would be able to take her along on whatever “top secret, super special, you’d be doing me suuuuuch a huge favor, JaJa, pleaseeeee” mission Anakin had called her across the galaxy for.

The Force prickled across her skin, grew thick and heavy in her blood. A sense of anticipation that weighed almost as heavily as her curiosity as she landed in the large bay. Jotopa sat for a moment with the feeling, breathed deeply even as her eyes scanned across the familiar armored forms moving here and there a respectful distance away from her ship. Clone troopers, she thought, has it been that long since my mission with Lieutenant Thire? Maybe I’ll get to talk to one or two before I leave and find out how he’s doing. The feeling settled to a manageable level, and she opened the hatch, releasing R6 from her place. The little blue and pink painted droid wheeled around to where she was indulging in a full-body stretch on the wing of her fighter. Jotopa noted the trooper who seemed to be waiting patiently for her and tilted her head at R6.

“I don’t have to tell you, but see about getting a tune-up while I’m busy? Who knows what sort of trouble Anakin has in store.” She said to her droid before jumping down from the wing of her ship and approaching the trooper. She bowed to him in greeting, a move that, though he was completely encased in his armor, surprised him because when she asked if he was there to escort her to General Skywalker; it took him several seconds to process the question and answer in the affirmative.

The walk was mostly silent, which was fine by her; there was plenty to see. Boarding the Resolute was her first time on such a large ship, and the immensity of it, its incredible smallness in the grandness of the universe, was startling. The life energy of the troopers pulsed around her, bright as any star, and when she caught a look at a few of them without their helmets, she saw the same freshness of face that had unsettled and humbled her in Thire. And permeating all, the sense of anticipation thickened so that she could barely breathe around it. This is it, the Force whispered as they walked down hallways and took lifts. They were going to medbay, the trooper was kind enough to explain. He was fresh, she thought around the shouting in her blood, too young and earnest to die in a war like this. This is it. This is it. This is it, thisisitthisisthisisitthisisitthisisitthisis itthisisitthisisitthisisitthisistthisisitthisis

“We’re here, sir.” He said at the entrance to medbay, and behind the impassive face of his bucket, he was eyeing the details of her serene face, the rich dark brown eyes only outdone by the hue of her skin, her lush mouth, and the black, coily cloud of her hair framing it all, and he sighed, inwardly jealous of the vod who was assigned to accompany her on her mission.

“We certainly are. Thank you for guiding me, kotep’ad. I can take it from here.” Jotopa said absently, completely missing the subtle double-take the trooper gave her. Were her steps hesitant? No, nothing scared her, not since that night. Her steps lengthened. She could hear the low tenor of Anakin’s voice and could tell that he was in a good mood as he spoke to two others. His Force presence was as it always was: a red giant, swollen and pulsing. No. A more apt description would be a star on the verge of going supernova. A star could go millions, billions of years in that state, existing just on the edge until something tipped it over, and the resulting blast destroyed everything in its wake.

The medbay of the Resolute was moderately full, which told her that their last battle was recent but not terribly so. Most of the troopers in the beds were either sleeping or busying themselves with their datapads, but she could see sabacc cards and even a few poorly concealed dice bags. A few were well enough to sit with each other, a fact that one with heavy beard stubble and a healing slash across his eye seemed to regret as she noted him being bombarded by his very chatty bedmate. Jotopa was still stifling her laugh into her hand at the longsuffering look he shot her way when she passed him when she finally approached the row of bacta tanks and beds next to them.

Anakin was standing with his back to her, talking with a clone dressed in medical scrubs who she assumed must be a technician of some sort. Behind them was another clone, but she could only see his boots and the blue paint of his shin guards. This is it! Her blood was singing with the strength of the Force’s exultant song. This is it! Finally! Finally! It crackled over her skin, and her fists clenched around the wild desire to run and dispelled it. A sense of questioning, a tendril of sentience that most wouldn’t dare speak of: This is it, are you sure? Are you sure? Are you sure?

Those armored legs, the nervous tapping of fingers in a curiously red-painted gauntlet as he shifted slightly forward and a knee came into view.

Yes, she answered. Yes. Yes.

“I could’ve killed you ten different times by now, Anakin.” She said, grinning when he spun around, lively blue eyes wide and startled.

“Sleenspit, JaJa, you scared the hell outta me! Is it your mission in life to shave years off of my life, huh?” He asked, bundling her up in a friendly side hug. She rolled her eyes and tilted her head up.

“It wouldn’t be so easy if you weren’t so trusting.” She said pointedly, and now it was his turn to roll his eyes. Anakin was one of the few who had not shunned her when she returned to the Temple. Perhaps because of his pariah status, or maybe because they often ran into each other in the same deserted halls of the Temple, despite the vast gulf in their training though not their comparative years, the two of them had become fast friends. When she had been Knighted and took on the mysterious work of the Sentinel, he was one of the few she kept in contact with.

“Yeah yeah, you’ve said it a million times: a friend is quicker with a knife than an enemy. I hear you, O wise Jedi Master, I hear you.” Jotopa barely refrained from scoffing and instead glanced at the medic, who was watching their interaction with undisguised curiosity. Anakin still had her tucked loosely against his side, and his sturdy form blocked her view of the other trooper, the one the Force was leaping for joy around. Couldn’t Anakin feel it? Couldn’t he tell how special, how important that man was?

“Aren’t you going to introduce me? I know Master Obi-Wan taught you better than that!” She jabbed him gently in the ribs. With his flesh hand, he rubbed the spot where her elbow had dug into his side, his face relaying his usual crack about her sharp elbows. He nodded toward the young clone in the scrubs, a smile of pride lighting over his features.

“This is Kix, my Chief Medical Officer. He oversees any time any of my guys comes out of stasis, and this,” he said, (Finally! This is it! Finally!) stepping back so that the trooper sitting on the bed could be fully seen, “is Captain Toby. When I heard about this mission, I knew he’d be the perfect one to help you with it, JaJa. He’s great.” Anakin’s words seem to come to her from a long way off. She heard them, and she was sure she was saying something, but Jotopa couldn’t tear her eyes away from the man sitting on the bed. He was sitting at attention, his shoulders stiff with a tension that wasn’t noticeable in the politely attentive expression on his face. The thick scar that stretched across his nose looked fresh, still shiny in a way that explained the faint twitching of his nose, as though he wasn’t used to how it pulled at his skin. He didn’t look thrilled to see her. There’d been something akin to horror on that achingly handsome face for the briefest of moments, but when she queried, hesitantly, of the Force, she was nearly bowled over by the certainty of the response.

This is the one. This is the one you’ve been waiting for.

Well shit. At least she could breathe a bit easier now. After accepting the datapad with the mission details from Anakin, Jotopa turned and watched as he and Kix walked away with only the slightest hint of rising hysteria. Leave it to Anakin, who did everything from the seat of his pants, to use her utter shock against her and dump a mission and a strange man on her. She didn’t even know if he’d requisitioned a ship for them to travel in, and the mental image of her attempting to stuff the captain in her starfighter nearly made her choke.

“Ah, excuse me…? Knight Kaid, sir?” He asked, and Jotopa closed her eyes and inwardly swore. His voice! It was just like hangar bay trooper’s and like Kix’s, and yet neither one of their voices made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end. Perhaps from being in stasis? It sent goosebumps rippling up her bare arms. Hopefully, he wouldn’t notice. She forcefully released her anxiety into the Force and turned to face him. She’d met countless handsome men in her lifetime. He was no different, Force shenanigans or no, and she would not ogle him; she would treat him like the competent soldier he was, complete this mission, and that was that.

--

When General Skywalker told him the Jetii he would be working with was a good friend of his, Toby wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse. He liked his General and admired his courage and fighting spirit, but it didn’t take an incredibly smart vod to notice how much of a disaster the man was. And with Jetiise in particular, like attracted like, so he couldn’t help nor dispel the nervous jiggling of his leg that started up when it came through that the Jetii, Knight Kaid, had arrived and was making her way to medbay. At least in the Guard, you knew what you were getting into day to day with snooty senators. Each Jetii was as different as a fingerprint. Skywalker, kind in his awkward way, noticed his show of nerves.

“You don’t have to worry about a thing with Jotopa, Toby. She’s excellent; you won’t have any problems. If you two don’t come back as best friends, I’ll file my reports on time.” He said with his usual confident smile.

Kix snorted. “Better not then, sir. If the General starts filing his reports on time, Captain Rex might keel over from the shock to his system.” Toby huffed a laugh at Skywalker’s indignant exclamation.

He would have thought they would announce her presence over the ship’s comms, but she slipped in among them silent as a ghost. His first glimpse of her was around the startled twist of Skywalker’s body, a flash of dark skin and a cloud of hair, and then her voice, soft and husky and sweet even in the chiding tone she took with her fellow Jetii. There was a feeling, overwhelming and strange and familiar. He swallowed his heart back down where it had lodged beneath his jaw, unsure where to look and even more unsure why, and then there was nowhere to look but Knight Kaid because Skywalker was stepping back and introducing them. It was all he could do to sit at attention and keep the blank face that hid all feeling because it was her, the woman with the elegant hands, the princess he saw in his dreams, and dead stars; she was even more beautiful in person. Like Skywalker, she didn’t wear the traditional Jetiise clothing; instead, she wore a sleeveless black leather vest brightly detailed in red and pink embroidery. It was half unzipped and revealed a mesh undershirt. To keep himself professional, he looked instead at the well-cared-for utility belt around her hips. Toby noted her black spandex shorts covered by a delicately detailed kama made of sturdy cloth. Her boots ended at midcalf. His eyebrows twitched in surprise when she turned to watch Skywalker and Kix leave, and he spotted the cleverly hidden handles of two knives on them.

Now that the full force of her gaze wasn’t on him, he ran a gloved hand through his hair and reasoned with himself. Calm down, di’kut. You’re still loopy from stasis. It can’t be her. She’s a figment of your imagination, a product of getting knocked around too many times as a cadet. Don’t start acting like a karking lunatic around this Jetii and get sent off for reconditioning. It made sense. It made a ton of sense, just as it had when Joker, sick of hearing his talk about his dream princess, had first sat down and said it to him. Lucky had told Joker to leave him be. It was a harmless fantasy, a coping mechanism. Just his luck that his coping mechanism manifested herself right before his eyes. She was still turned, the datapad held loosely in her hand, her head tilted. He got the impression that she would be content standing there until the last star burned out.

Against his better judgment, he got her attention. She turned to face him, a soft frown pulling at her full lips, and panic surged up his spine. Had he already managed to upset her?!

“Captain? Would you do me a favor please?” She asked, and now she was at the edge of his personal space, just enough that he could log away in the back of his mind that she smelled like jasmine and vanilla and had to tilt his head up just slightly to meet her eyes. Her eyes were an even darker brown than her skin but just as rich, he thought. From a distance, they appeared black.

“Yes, sir. If I can, I will.” He liked the way her nose crinkled around the smile she gave him at his answer.

“I know it’s probably in your regulations, gotta respect rank and all, but at least when it’s just you and I, do you think you could call me Jotopa? I would appreciate it a lot.”

He didn’t know who the brave soldier it was who rumbled, “Elek, think I can manage that, sir,” in reply but if it earned him more of those looks, a look he wasn’t sure she knew she gave him, he was fine with the vod seizing hold of his faculties every now and again.

She cleared her throat and looked down at the datapad in her hand, her brows furrowing as she scanned the details of their mission. Suddenly, she laughed, the sound vaguely disbelieving.

“I pity the trooper tasked with putting this briefing together. They might as well have not bothered. The barest details are here: the planet name, coordinates, and our objective. I’ve done more with less, but this is ridiculous. And I still don’t know if Anakin got us a ship.” Toby bit the inside of his cheek to control his expression. She was grousing like an old field sergeant! And had the face to match! He recalled his earlier sentiment about Skywalker and his friends and bit his cheek harder.

“May I see the datapad, sir? I may be able to see if the quartermaster requisitioned any supplies for us.” She handed it over easily enough, an annoyed glint playing around her dark eyes, another fascinating expression Toby memorized and logged away in the back of his mind before quickly focusing on the pad. It was interesting having her eyes on him while performing one of the simplest tasks he knew. Something about the heaviness of her eyes, her gaze almost a physical weight: it scattered his focus like water through open fingers. But still, it wasn’t more than thirty seconds before he had the pertinent information pulled up.

“Here it is, sir.” He said, muting his amusement as much as he could.

“Where?” She asked, and now she was entirely in his personal space, bent over to scowl at the screen, her hair and its thousands of tiny coiling ringlets brushing his jaw.

“Ah, see? Right here, it says you were issued a small ship, one ARC-rated clone, and two months’ worth of rations, plus weapons.” He said, only daring to breathe again when she pulled back, a sheepish expression on her face. She half-turned, her hands clasped in front of her. He had the fleeting thought that she was upset. The surety of the notion prickled across his skin, and Toby shivered, unsure of what to do with the feeling or why he was feeling it. He cocked his head, considering. Should he say something…? But she was smiling at him, her posture calm and assured again, and he dismissed it as more stasis nonsense. She was fine. She was a Jetii, wasn’t she? Wouldn’t appreciate the undue concern from the likes of him, of that Toby was certain.

“I’m glad to see that our supplies are in order, Captain. If you’d like to say your goodbyes to any of your brothers and gather whatever else you need, I’ll meet you on our transport when you're ready?” Toby knew a dismissal when he heard one, so he nodded and stood. It wasn’t important for her to know that there were no brothers on board who cared much about his comings and goings, so he followed her out of medbay, went right when she went left, making his way to the armory to check out his DCs. They were the same ones. The armorer, Oops, held him for about fifteen minutes because she wanted to know just what he’d gotten into for the blasters to need the kind of TLC she’d had to put into them to make them serviceable again. Since she loved his babies probably more than he did, he did her the solid of telling her the story blow by blow. They needed to let the kid out to see a little action now and then, but she had the magic touch when it came to breathing life into weapons that looked beyond saving. He made a note to bring her something nice back from wherever the hell he was headed if he could.

“All set?” Knight Kaid asked when she spotted him heading up the ship’s ramp with his weapons and pack. He paused halfway up to see her walking his way, a backpack and cloak slung over her shoulder, and a pink and blue astromech droid following after her.

“Yes, sir. Ready to go when you are.” He said, still studying the droid. It was of the same type as Skywalker’s R2-D2 though he doubted Knight Kaid’s was near as modified. The little droid’s casing was mainly white and pink with blue detailing. As the droid and her mistress walked up the ramp, the droid beeped at him in a distinctly disapproving manner. Knight Kaid laughed.

“Captain Toby, this is R6-D4. R6, this is Captain Toby. He’s a vital part of this mission, young lady, so be on your best behavior. Captain, if you don’t mind raising the ramp? I’ll get us into hyperspace while you’re getting settled in your quarters, and then we’ll try and puzzle out what the kriff we can do.” She called from within the ship, and Toby was halfway through following her orders before the rest of her sentence fully registered in his conscious mind.

“Skywalker, what the hell have you gotten me into?” He murmured as he watched the ramp close and felt the rumble of the engines warming. The ship shuddered slightly as it became airborne, lifting up and away from the Resolute. Toby put his hand against the hull and closed his eyes, breathed slowly and deep to attune himself to the hum of this ship and these engines, breathed out again when he felt the gentle lurch once they made the jump to hyperspace. Only then did he find the empty room that was his and dump his helmet and pack. Toby would have to be careful. More careful than he usually was. There was something…

He hovered just inside the doorway of the cockpit. His steps were light and near-silent, but Kaid still spun around in the slow, measured way of someone who’d sensed his presence a long way off. Her expression was not as animated as it had been on the ramp or even in medbay. Still, he thought it was softer and more genuine now, the tilt of the faint smile on her lips more real than even the playfulness she and Skywalker had openly displayed with one another. He rested his weight against the frame, at a more relaxed position of parade rest, and the faint smile widened.

“Our objective is a world called Cassios-7. The scans are centuries old, the latest intel just as ancient. There are Temple ruins there, and you and I have been asked to recover the important artifact that has been minding its own business all these long years. Sounds delightful.” She said dryly, and he didn’t know what to do with the odd desire he had to laugh at her tone. Rather than heed it, he tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment. The beautiful Jetii’s lips quirked curiously at him before she continued.

“Luckily for us, Anakin wasn’t too terribly far off from Cassios-7 to begin with. We should be there within five hours. A few days, a week at most, and I’ll have you back with your brothers and all the comforts of civilization, Captain.”

“I can’t wait.” He said in much the same tone she had just used. She smiled widely and motioned for him to sit in the copilot’s chair. Toby moved to obey, masking his surprise. None of the other Jetiise he’d had the displeasure of working with since leaving the Guard had ever offered him a seat. As he gingerly eased into the chair next to her, he realized he’d relegated all Jetiise barring Skywalker and Kenobi as being on the same moral level as the snobby senators. They treated him and his brothers as little more than well-trained animals.

“I love your enthusiasm, Captain,” she quipped, her gaze casual but somehow probing even as she threw her legs over the arm of her seat, careless of the way the edges of her kama splayed around it to display the bare skin of her legs from mid-thigh to the tops of those sturdy boots.

“It’s one of my better traits, sir.” He said, proud of how evenly the words left him and glad for his helmet and the way it hid the direction of his eyes. It would have been harder not to look at the dark brown of her legs when they were in such close quarters. The only way to avoid it would be not to look at her at all, which would be rude. And obvious. Behavior like that would land him in the stasis tank, and he was so tired of that, so tired of being put in storage when he wasn’t in use, like a rifle that didn’t have an owner.

It was just that she was so pretty. It was just that when she used his name, it felt like she meant it. And that must be a trick, right? Some Jetiise power he was only just encountering: this ability she had to make him feel important just by looking at him and saying his name.

In his lap, his hands flexed as he tried to dispel the unwelcome tension in them. Just a few days. You can handle that, can’t you?

Their first view of Cassios-7 was as they dropped out of hyperspace and settled into lazy orbit around it to complete a few scans to update their intel. The planet was a sapphire jewel flecked with shards of amethyst and emerald, whispers of white clouds swirling at its poles and trailing like wedding veils behind the sparsely located but dense and steaming jungle island chains that were the main landmasses. The purple was floating remnants of destroyed Temples, this planet having, as Jotopa theorized with a furrowed brow and an exhilarated light in her eyes, been part of some ancient war and then lost to obscurity.

“I can only imagine that it’s all this fighting that’s awakened the artifact inside the remaining Temple structure,” she said pensively.

“So, we’ve been called here to retrieve it before the Separatists do and possibly weaponize it against us, sir?” Toby asked as he watched her hands move over the controls. She had slender, elegant fingers. Her movements were competent, the fingernails blunt and bitten down, though this did not negate his preceding opinion one bit. She had hands that looked like they knew their way around a blaster. He jerked his eyes up to her face, flushed to see her smiling at him with seeming pleasure at his comment.

“I believe so, Captain. You and I may be able to save a lot of lives by securing this artifact.” She answered, and he didn’t think he was wrong in identifying a note of melancholy in her voice. He filed the observation away, shifted his focus toward the glittering shards of Temple ruins sedately hovering on one of the floating rock isles. Jotopa locked in a course towards it and stood up to stretch.

“Alright, then! We’ve got a few minutes until we land, so I’m going-”

There was a strange jolt; that’s what the both of them would later recall. A jolt and a winding down sound and then the s i c k e n i n g lurching of the stomach as it rammed up past the heart and made a home next to the brain stem.

Falling, free falling.

Heaving breathing. The sound of his blood pounding in his ears drowning out everything for a terrifying moment before everything snapped into laser focus.

Knight Kaid’s hands grappling with the controls. Her eyes, fierce, determined, focused.

Silence loud with the sound of turbulence and rushing wind.

Green, so much fucking green, rich with brown and purple and the azure blue of the sky, and Maker’s tears, they were going to die, they were going to die, they were going to -

[trylonandperisphere]

ASK POLLY APR. 1, 2020

‘I Don’t Think I Can Handle 18 Months of Isolation’

By Heather Havrilesky

Hi Polly.

So the world’s falling apart. I’m seeing quotes from experts that predict this will go on for 18 months or more. I don’t think I can stand the stress and isolation all that time. I have mental-health challenges, so I think I might crack. And I’m not sure our infrastructure can endure it either. I have a medical condition that’s stable and doesn’t put me in danger of COVID-19. However, I worry the strain on the health-care system will take away my treatment, leading to a slow death. And then there are the usual worries about things like food. Will the supply chains hold up six months or a year from now? How do you see all this happening and not start looking for an exit? I’m willing to admit that I’m weak or entitled. People around the world deal with this all the time. I don’t think I have it in me. How do I find some strength and hope?

Feeling Weak

Dear Feeling Weak,

On any day of your life, a million terrible things could happen. Every morning, you have to force all of the awful possibilities out of your mind. You do this because there is no alternative.

I’ve always been a very fearful person. I’ve always been sensitive to the fragility of the human body and the myriad ways lives can be ripped apart. My dad died when I was 25 years old, and it made me even more fearful. Then I had a baby.

Imagining all of the bad things that could happen to the baby almost sent me over the edge. I felt like someone had removed my liver and now I had to hand my liver over to other people, and ask them not to drop it or neglect it.

One day I came home, and my husband was holding my liver in one hand while stirring a boiling pot with his other hand, all the while talking to my stepson in an animated, cheerful fashion.

I freaked out. “You are going to kill me,” I said. “Calm down,” he said. “Stop being so overdramatic.”

My heart started racing even more (Pro tip: The words “calm down” are never calming!), but I washed my hands and then took the baby away from my husband. And then through gritted teeth, I said something like this: “You are going to listen to me very closely. Don’t talk. Just listen. I am in a very, very particular, unfamiliar, fragile place. I have never felt this way before. I’m going to have to describe it to you. You are going to have to listen. You do not have to understand or believe that I am remotely sane. You can continue to believe that I am irrational. But if you do not listen closely and respect and honor my needs around this fragile feeling, this marriage will end. Period. This is not negotiable.”

I wasn’t someone who threatened to end my marriage, ever, just to be clear about that. I needed to communicate clearly that we were on perilous terrain.

We retreated to the bedroom and talked for a long time. I told him what I needed in order to raise a baby with him. He told me the reasons he thought I was nuts. I told him that I was fine with him thinking I was nuts. He could continue to do that. Of course my views were not utterly rational. Rational was not the point. Calming down was not the point. He needed to understand how high the stakes were for me. Even if there was a .0001 chance that my baby would drop into the boiling water, the stakes were too high for me to endure those odds. He didn’t have to understand my feelings, he just had to operate as if he had the same feelings, for my sake.

It took a lot of persuasive talk, and tears, to get my husband on my side. It was exhausting. But by the end of our talk, my husband got it. He agreed to behave in ways that were guided by high stakes and my irrational feelings and to never say the words “Calm down” to a woman whose liver you’re holding. And if ALL OF THAT sounds nuts to you, that’s okay. These were the conditions I knew I required in order to raise a baby with someone who was more careless than I was in every way. These were the things I needed in order to share a house with this man and trust him to raise a family with me.

After that, I felt better. And my husband never told me to calm down when I described the toddlers who get left in the car or run over by a clueless grandparent backing out of the driveway. He took on the low-odds possibilities until he was worrying about them himself. I turned him into a slightly neurotic, hyperaware parent. I formed him into a seismograph, in my image. Call it twisted, I don’t give a fuck. It worked. We were aligned. We fought less. We kept our kids relatively safe from harm. Maybe we became obnoxious. Maybe we were paranoid. I still don’t care. I didn’t feel alienated and alone in my marriage, because I dared to get very, very specific about my needs.

And once I knew I had someone on my side, I started to calm the fuck down. I made a resolution to keep all of the looming threats in mind without INTERNALIZING and VISUALIZING and LOSING SLEEP OVER the millions of ways a baby could die or become injured. Any time I went from safeguarding my kids to picturing something awful happening to them, I learned to stop myself.

Doing your best to avoid disaster is practical. Repeatedly imagining disaster, on the other hand, is wildly impractical. Once I realized how jittery and anxious I was feeling, I steadfastly refused to indulge my imagination when it came to my baby. I resolved not to become a pile of nerves quivering on the floor. I wanted to breathe and feel happiness and survive parenting without being transformed into a shadow of my former self. I wanted my kids to be aware of danger but not paralyzed by fear at all times.

Mistakes have been made, that goes without saying. But the decision to never fixate on terrifying outcomes when it came to my kids was very important. I could still fixate on bad outcomes FOR ME. But that was (and is) a world apart from doing it about my kids. Eventually I didn’t have to try anymore. The second I pictured something terrible, it was just: NO. CAN’T.

Everyone is different. Everyone experiences different conditions as threatening or scary or paralyzingly awful. We all have to respect these differences while relentlessly standing up for our own needs and asking for exactly what we want from the people who are closest to us. That means becoming a tiny bit shameless, I should add. It took a shameless amount of assertiveness and belief in my own particular sensitivities as a seismograph to ask my husband to behave as if he, too, were a seismograph. I had to get very specific. I also had to let go of the need to be right and seem rational. I had to own my role as the Chicken Little of the family.

“Pretend the sky is falling with me,” I told my husband, and he did. It was an act of love and solidarity. I was so grateful for it. It kept us glued together at a vulnerable time, when we could’ve fallen apart for good. I didn’t have to hate myself for being a chickenshit or a seismograph. I could relax because someone was on my side.

That story probably feels pretty divorced from your circumstances, but it’s not. For you to feel comfortable safeguarding yourself while also refusing to fixate on the millions of horrible outcomes that could befall you specifically and all of us generally, you need to stand up for the particulars of your mental health. You need to look closely at your specific emotional challenges as a human being, and you need to say: This is how it feels for me. I feel like I want to find an exit. I feel like I can’t survive this. I feel like I am not strong enough.

Here’s the suicide hotline for anyone who’s been feeling that way: 1-800-273-8255. Commit to reaching out to someone when you’re feeling bad. Everyone is struggling right now. We’re all in the same boat at some level. It’s important to understand that moments of extreme darkness will come and go, and things could get a million times worse and still be survivable. Put your faith in human connection: It makes all the difference.

If you have close friends or a partner or a family member who can listen to you describe your very specific Chicken Little–flavored needs and desires and align themselves with you, and show solidarity for your (sometimes irrational!) experiences of what this moment means, then call that person or those people. Open up to them, and explain your needs, and get them to understand.

But let’s be clear: Finding people who will join you where you are is very, very hard. It’s hard for all of us, always. If it feels impossible? Guess what? You’re not alone. Try your best. And if/when that fails, I want you to write everything down for you, until you clearly comprehend who you are and where you are and how you’re feeling right now.

This is not about descending into darkness in any permanent way, mind you. This is simply about painting a picture that someone else might understand, a persuasive portrait of how you’re experiencing this moment. This is you saying to yourself: YOU ARE HOLDING MY LIVER OVER A BOILING POT OF WATER. This is you crying and telling yourself: I DON’T KNOW IF I CAN DO THIS. DO YOU FUCKING GET THAT?

This is you making your needs crystal clear. This is you standing up for who you are, without shame. Does that really matter, all alone in your apartment as the world crumbles around you? YES, IT DOES.

This is you saying: I deserve to have my needs met. Think about all of the times you were treated like your needs were irrational, like you needed to calm down and shut the fuck up, like you needed to stop being so in the way, so inconvenient, so absurd, so laughable, such a wreck. I’ll bet you can think of a lot of examples.

Use this moment to get your own back. Take this opportunity to say to yourself: I don’t fucking care if I’m fragile and irrational. I’m going to honor my needs without shame.

Don’t skip this step, even if it seems beside the point. Honor your needs, without shame. That’s number one.

Number two is: Protect yourself. Take very good care of yourself. Feed yourself well, exercise, get plenty of rest. Stay aware of the threats so you can do your best to avoid those threats. Put energy into making yourself feel as healthy and resilient as possible.

Number three is: Resolve not to fixate on the millions of terrifying possibilities you cannot control. You can make this choice now because your peculiar needs matter. Remember? You’re honoring your needs without shame now. One of your needs is this: Avoiding the terror here. You said it to me for a reason: You aren’t strong enough to hold these terrors inside your head for 18 months. So don’t do it.

Are you strong enough to survive for 18 months in isolation? Yes, you are. You’re strong enough as long as you’re honoring even your most irrational needs without shame, being very safe and careful in areas that are within your control, and letting go of all of the circumstances beyond your control, as in banishing them from your fucking head permanently.

Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (Read it if bleakness makes you feel stronger. If not? DO NOT READ.) is about a man who’s struggling to survive in a post-apocalyptic world. As the man and his son travel south toward the ocean, looking for food and shelter, the man tries hard to avoid big questions and unknowns that might threaten his ability to survive. Because he has a boy to take care of, he becomes extremely practical. He protects his boy and he keeps moving forward, no matter what. There’s a sense of calm beauty underneath the horror of every word McCarthy writes. Showing up for whatever comes next is beautiful. You don’t have to be a hero. You just keep moving.

I probably wouldn’t have sat my husband down and insisted that my irrational view was going to need to be honored, back when we first had a baby together, if I weren’t convinced that our ability to raise a baby and stay together depended on it. It took something bigger than myself to force me to finally stand up for my very specific needs and persuade another, very skeptical human being to hear me out and get my back.

Today, you’ve been faced with a challenge that’s much bigger than any challenge you’ve faced before. The stakes are high. This enormous calamity dwarfs you and exists outside your thoughts and feelings completely. You have to treat yourself with extreme care under these conditions. This is an opportunity for you to finally stand up for what you need at every level, in a very concentrated and intense way that is fully justifiable and concrete. This is a chance for you to design a map that you can use to navigate this disaster and every other disaster to follow this one, guided by your very irrational, specific desires. This is your time to learn to blot out the parts of the world that are just too gigantic and out of your control for you to metabolize, and focus on what you can actually control and have influence over instead. You have to avoid big questions and keep moving forward. You’re about to achieve a sense of mastery over your life and your understanding of yourself, while letting go of what you can’t control in a permanent way. These high stakes are a blessing disguised as a curse. Take this blessing.

What sustains you? What can you create, every day, to bring you life, to build up your strength? What beauty is lurking underneath these terrors? As Ranier Maria Rilke wrote, “No feeling is final.”

The path before you is simple. You wake up in the morning and you put Chopin: Nocturnes in your headphones and you look for joy. You embrace every tiny glint of beauty and every scrap of hope hiding in this small, enclosed life. You surrender to the reality of this “borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it,” as Cormac McCarthy put it. You eat this divine silence, this dark longing, this lonely sweetness, this solitary dread. You sit in your quiet garden and welcome the weather, good or bad. No feeling is final. You are strong enough.

Polly

[tessatechaitea]

Justice Society of America #8

Oh no! Hate! It must be stopped!

That caption sounded sarcastic, didn't it? It sort of sounds like a centrist arguing against somebody saying something that nobody should be on the other side of. "Of course Black Lives Matter! Nobody is saying they don't! Why even bother bringing it up?! You're just causing trouble!" is the kind of thing that has made me hate people who identify as "non-political" or "centrist" or "libertarian" or "Proud Husband. Father. Christian." Nobody needs to hear from you if the only thing you have to say is that nobody needs to be fighting for the things they need to be fighting for! "If it's already a crime, why do we need more stringent laws for punishing crimes motivated by hate. Aren't all criminal acts hateful?" says the person ignoring reality for their own selfish interests of which I can't even begin to guess. Enough about people who have chosen to be non-people. Let's discuss a comic book from 1993 that probably takes a stronger stance against fascism than a frightening large number of Americans today.

This advert on the inside front cover would be better if the picture over "very rare" was a cow. I mean, it wouldn't work for baseball cards but I would like it better.

I think the best part about actually living in a world where superheroes are real is that day in 5th Grade when Hawkman and Hawkwoman visit your class to talk about Egyptian archaeology. The issue begins by catching up with Hawkman and Hawkwoman as they continue their quest to steal Egyptian cultural artifacts. You have to give them a pass on this though! In 1993, people just believed archaeology was a thrilling way to bring treasures into museums for everybody to share! It's not like we had hundreds of years to reflect on how terrible this practice was. You have to do some cultural math by subtracting the number of years Western culture believed whatever it did was right and just from, I don't, negative 100? Do you think we'll have learned some humbleness and respect in one hundred years? Most kids who grew up in the 70s wanted to be boring ass truck drivers but by the 80s, thanks to Indiana Jones, they wanted to be boring ass archaeologists. Kids aren't the greatest at determining what a fun adult job might be. Did you know there are people who get angry at the supposition that digging up and taking cultural artifacts and treasures from other countries to bring back to your own might be theft? Generally they're the same type of people who believe that all advances to civilization were brought about by white culture. They hold this opinion through absolutely no evidence at all. How do I know they don't have any evidence? Because if they looked for evidence, they'd wind up reading history and realize their claim was too ludicrous to continue defending.

You might think Hawkgirl is commenting on the gigantic sarcophagus the native archaeologists are opening but I know she's making an innuendo about Hawkman's cock because she's doing that thing with her hat where she lifts it up and down and waggles her eyebrows.

It's not really much of a joke though because nobody expects Hawkman's penis to be as large as a fifty foot long sarcophagus. I mean, I'm sure it's big but it's not going to be unwieldy! It's probably almost exactly the same size and shape as his mace. Interlude: here are some Facebook posts I made on several different July 26thes because I guess I think of it as a holiday to entertain my future self every July 26th? Whatever the case, I love Past Me more than Future Me and possibly even more than Present Me. Because of the Hays Code, Alfred Fatcock had to change his name to keep making films. How patriotic would you consider a person who got a flag pregnant? War Games is my favorite movie because it taught me that trying is pointless. The first item on my bucket list is to buy a bucket. End of Interlude. Can you tell I'm stalling because maybe eight issues of this comic book was too much? Here's an adult riddle: What's twenty-five feet long, wrapped in bandages, and has an eye in the middle of its head?

This guy's penis!

I don't recognize the guy with three eyes but I'm sure he's some immortal wizard named Amn Thoth or something. While the Carters discover ancient mummy curses, Johnny Quick tries to convince Rex that his hour of strength doesn't come from a drug at all but deep inside him. He doesn't need to pop pills to be a superhero; he just needs to balance his chakras and figure out his mantra. Then he'll tap into some deep spiritual part of himself that is probably just a meta(l)gene and whammo! Hourman is back and straight edge! But Rex doesn't buy it. Especially since learning his mantra isn't going to cure his son's cancer (which he got from taking Miraclo). Also in the hospital is Wesley Dodd who is doing therapy to recover from his stroke. Plus his friend Bishop Tumutuu who was some guy who fought against Apartheid. And because the Bishop is in the hospital, the white supremacists are gathering outside to not wish him well.

Shouldn't they hear what they have to say and debate them to better strengthen their own side of the argument on why all people should have equal opportunity with all rights and freedoms promised by this country?

I'm absolutely for freedom of all speech. But the problem that the American media and a lot of people on the Internet have fallen into is the idea that all speech needs to be discussed and debated equally. That's the whole "freedom of speech" trap. Whenever somebody on Twitter wants to debate some terrible topic that nearly all kind and forward thinking people realize is a monstrous and terrible idea and you simply mock them for their terrible beliefs or tell them to shut up, they think you're clamping down on their free speech. No, sir. You were able to say the stupid thing you wanted to say. What you actually want is for a Constitutional Amendment that forces me tor respect what you said and debate it as if the matter has yet to be resolved. The media does this all the time by allowing both sides of an opinion to debate which only legitimizes the side with the terrible take. Sure, we should allow racists to go on CNN and declare their stance on race relations. But the people on the other side shouldn't be debating that topic with them. They should just laugh at them and point and tell them how terrible they are. Maybe get some of that slime from You Can't Do That on Television for rebuttals. Freedom of speech needs way more mockery and far less debate if it's going to recover. Hourman responds to the white supremacists with a "None of my business!" because he's a terrible centrist who believes that if the status quo isn't making his life rough, why rock the boat? Also his son is dying of cancer so maybe he's a bit distracted. I shouldn't be so hard on him when he's wracked with the guilt of probably killing his son with his drugs. The white supremacists begin making trouble so it's time for the JSA to put an end to hate! Or will hate win out? I mean, this comic book was written in 1993 and I don't feel like hate has backed down.

Sure, he's against metahumans now. But just wait until one of them decides to wear on of those stupid hats and silly robes!

Watching the speedsters begin to get pummeled by the huge mass of white supremacists, Hourman accidentally balances his chakras! He's suddenly powerful without the drugs or the black lights or the Doctor Fate deep muscle massages! Now if he can convince his son that the power of Miraclo has been inside him all along, his son will have the strength to battle the cancer! Why did I use an exclamation point on that previous sentence when I don't really fucking care about Rex Tyler and his son! Hourman crashes out of the hospital window to save Johnny Quick. He lets Jesse do her own thing because he's heard about women's lib and also she's not an old man whose powers have significantly dwindled over time.

My adrenal gland just got bigger too!

In the end, the Bishop is saved and even Wesley Dodd joins the fight! Or he just absentmindedly shot off his sandman gun and coincidentally put the Bishop's assassin to sleep. It's hard to tell since he's still suffering from his retirement party stroke. The issue ends with Green Lantern surfing the television when he comes upon Carter Hall's interview program where he's interviewing the mummy they dug up, a man named Edmund Kulak. Since Green Lantern recognizes him, I guess he's one of the JSA's foes. According to the Who's Who, Kulak can use his third eye to cause everybody on Earth to hate each other. I guess that's why the white supremacists were acting up (and also wearing eyes on their hats and robes). Having a magical reason for racism is always a better comic book story than acknowledging a lot of people are racist of their own free will. Imagine all the angry letters that the pre-Comicsgate generation would have had to write in! "I'm not racist but I don't think you should portray all white people as racist because that is racist! Logic for the win!" That might seem like I created a 1993 Strawman but have you read the letters reacting to the Tales of the Teen Titans Spotlight on Starfire about Apartheid? My pretend letter was practically verbatim of one or two of the letters Mike Gold had to respond to on that series! Justice Society of America #8 Rating: B-. I think I've read enough old stories about old people fighting immortals. The whole mortality angle is really bringing me down!