#I’LL COME UP WITH PROPAGANDA WHEN I HAVE THE MENTAL ENERGY

[twigstarpikachutroll22]

VOTE POPPY

Round One: 1B

[adarlingwrites]

Dormouse

Summary:

After playing a game with two of The Beach's most dangerous members, the dormouse gets her tail caught by a tiger's paw.

He’ll make a wildcat out of her.

Author’s notes: Huge spoilers for episode 8 and the manga.

TW: blood, references to past self harm.

Edit 5/5/2021: Fleshed out a scene involving Aguni and Yamane’s arm injuries.

VI

propaganda is in our flesh and blood and we rejoice in the control of others / euphoria – poisoning the minds of the future / and it is turning our kids to murder, to murder

A few floors below them, as Last Boss trails his fingers behind Yamane’s legs to point out a few more arteries, their chief converses with his friend, a secret no other Beach members knew.

“That girl is concerning me,” Aguni admits, crossing his arms. “Accepting her in the military sect might have been a mistake. The kid couldn’t even kill without the guilt gnawing her alive. She’s innocent compared to the likes of Niragi.”

“But isn’t that a good thing, Mori?” Hatter asks, leaning back into the sofa and putting his arms behind his back. “She’s a stabilizing element. It might help you with keeping the violent members of the Beach in check by having someone with her restraint around,” he continues, chuckling as he puts his feet up on the coffee table between the sofas. “Plus, it’ll help me sleep better knowing that the military sect of our utopia has members who aren’t simple, mindless killers.”

Aguni’s brow furrows. “Takeru, I’m afraid she’d become more like those two who took her here. I asked Saiko what she knew about that girl. That girl has problems that could drive her over the edge.”

At Aguni’s response, the Hatter smiles and moves to sit next to his friend. “Reminds you too much of yourself?”

Aguni merely nods.

“Remember that quote by Gandhi that I said to recruit the first members of the Beach, Mori? ‘Be the change you want to see in the world.’ Do what you can to help her stay sane.”

Nodding, he pats Hatter’s back.

Above them, another militant was heading towards the balcony. “Last Boss, there’s- whoa. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

The other man stopped in his tracks when he saw the silent militant kneeling in front of a woman.

“I-it’s not what it looks like,” Yamane blurts out, stepping away from the tattooed militant.

The interrupter gave her an awkward nod and rubs the back of his head. Seeing Last Boss with a woman came as a surprise to him; the tattooed man was known for keeping to himself instead of sleeping around like Niragi. Last Boss turns around to give the interrupter a sour look.

“There’s a group of traitors who kept their cards from the previous game. We gotta get rid of them,” the man says, averting his gaze from the two of them.

Last Boss unsheathes his sword, and he turns to Yamane, motioning her to follow.

“Wait- me?” Yamane asks, blood running cold.

“Part of our duty is to discreetly kill traitors,” the other militant says. “Didn’t they tell you that when you came here?”

Gulping, Yamane wordlessly follows the two. It’s finally sinking in; her role in the military sect meant dealing with not just most physical games, but these ugly matters as well.

They walked all the way to the basement, and the other militant waited outside, keeping watch. There were three people kneeling, eyes and mouth bound by duct tape. Their arms and legs are bound as well. Yamane recognizes one of them as the medic that helped Sunohara treat Last Boss’ injuries.

“Go ahead,” Last Boss tells her, kicking a bucket in front of the captive.

Yamane freezes at his command. Eyes flicking towards the captive, she could see the sweat dripping from his skin as he struggled in futility. The taller militant advances on her, tilting her chin with his fingers, and the words don't come to her.

“Put what I taught you into practice. This is the perfect opportunity.”

The dormouse’s only response is a slow, nervous nod. Her small fingers reach for the dagger from her holster, and she kneels behind the bound medic, who was thrashing and sobbing as her other hand pushed his head down.

A gasp escapes Yamane as Last Boss knelt behind her as well, wiry arms guiding her, and his hand over hers. Warm breaths on her neck and his proximity made Yamane feel the heat surge between her legs again, mind muddled by a cocktail of fear and lust hormones. The dagger presses into the victim’s skin, and with Last Boss’ guidance, they make a quick slash to the artery, blood pumping and draining out to the bucket.

“Good Yamaneko,” he whispers, not letting go of her despite the deed being done. His scent engulfs her, and Yamane chokes back a moan, disguising by clearing her throat.

“Let’s move on to the others,” she whispers, moving away from him.

Later that night, in an attempt to purge the mental image of slicing three people’s throats, Yamane’s feet bring her to the loud merrymaking at the pool. She grabs one drink, and sits in a corner. It helps that her status as a militant meant people left her alone.

It didn’t stop Sunohara from sitting next to her, though.

“You really shouldn’t be drinking alcohol while you’re taking tramadol, you know,” she casually mentions, lighting a cigarette. Smoke wafts to Yamane’s face and she waves it away with her free hand. “I thought doctors advise people to stay away from cigarettes, why are you smoking?”

Sunohara laughs. “Touche. I guess I can’t stop you. Just don’t drink before a game. It’ll make you drowsy.”

“Sure, I’ll keep it in mind.”

In consideration, Sunohara blows the smoke away from Yamane’s direction. “So, what was your game tonight? You had so much blood on you.”

“A Spade.”

“I’m not surprised,” Sunohara comments, taking another hit of her cigarette. “Physical games tend to get messy. Though, Heart games can get messy too.”

Now Yamane’s interest is piqued. She never had a heart game before. “What’s in a Heart game?”

“Ah, never played one before? Heart games play with, well, your heart.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Yamane replies, taking a sip of her cocktail. “What do you mean by it plays with your heart?”

Sunohara flicks her spent cigarette away and crushes it with her sandal. “They’re psychological, the type that uses your emotions to make a fool out of you. They mislead you into thinking that you’d have to do something terrible, but losses can be avoided if you think things through and don’t let your emotions get the best of you.”

“You sound like you’ve seen a lot of Heart games, Sunohara,” Yamane comments, setting her empty drink down.

“Not really. Just two. When you’re a doctor like me, you need to be calm in an emergency. Assess the situation properly, and give proper treatment. I just applied my experiences.”

Sunohara stands up to shake off the ash from her coat, and gives Yamane a smile. “I need to go. My assistant disappeared on me and I need to check the medication supply.”

With that, she sets off. Yamane gulps the last of her drink, and guilt drops like a heavy stone in her stomach. That assistant must have been the man she executed.

Drowsiness settling in, she needs to rest for the games. Unlike when she was surviving on her own, Beach members play them every night regardless of how many days they have left on their visas. Yamane lies on the bed, but her body is still buzzing. She recounts her experiences for the day, and her mind wanders back to the time she spent with Last Boss.

Against her better judgment, her fingers trail downward to the waistband of her shorts, and she pulls them off of her legs, underwear coming off with it. A string of her juices coats her finger as she glided it against her folds.

The little dormouse pleasures herself that night thinking about the tiger above her, fantasizing about him doing unspeakable things to her body. She comes quietly, intensely. Then, she drifts off, the post-orgasmic bliss calming her down.

The next morning, she wakes up feeling worse.

Sluggish, she climbs out of bed, and goes to the bathroom. The blood had come off of her clothes now, so she scrubbed them, rinsed them, took them out of the sink and hung them to dry. In the middle of hanging up her skirt, her stomach rumbles. She forgot to eat last night.

At the lobby, the usual banquet is set out for the residents. Yamane takes all the food she can fit on a plate, goes back up to her room, and eats in peace. She’ll need the strength and energy to survive tonight.

She didn’t know if she should be dismayed or relieved that she’s not grouped with Niragi and Last Boss in the game tonight. Instead, she was grouped with Saiko, Sunohara, Aguni, and another Beach member that she hasn’t spoken to yet. One of them wears a plain white hood, a distant, sly look on his face. They all went through the laser grid, and there were enough phones for ten players.

Soon, other participants arrived.

This game takes place in a hospital, and various implements are laid on the table. Yamane takes note of them; stress balls, large needles, blood bags, scalpels, and buckets. Sunohara was eyeing them as well, deep in thought.

In the middle of the room was a large electronic weighing scale.

“Registration closed. There are currently eight players. Difficulty: Five of Hearts.”

Ice runs through Yamane’s veins. Just last night she was talking to Sunohara about Heart games, and here she was.

“Game: Bloodletting. Rules: There is a bomb in this building. Players must spill enough blood to defuse them all. Time limit: thirty minutes.”

“Spill blood? This should be easy,” Saiko comments, loading her gun.

“Game Start!”

At the cue, Saiko shoots an unaffiliated player dead. Yamane’s eyes widen in surprise, while Sunohara screams, bracing herself against a medical gurney. Aguni is quiet, looking at the corpse, while the man with the white hood rolls his eyes. The others were too shocked to say anything.

“Not enough blood is spilled,” the robotic voice announces.

“Dammit!” Saiko shouts, shooting another player dead. The other one tries to flee, but she makes quick work of her.

“Not enough blood is spilled,” the robotic voice continues.

Saiko points the gun at Sunohara, but Yamane shoves her aside. “Idiot. It didn’t work the first time, what makes you think that it’ll work the fourth time?”

“Huh. Will you look at that. A militant that isn’t entirely stupid,” the man in white comments in a sing-song voice. Saiko turns to him and points her gun. “Would you rather I shoot you, Chishiya?”

“Saiko. Enough,” Aguni commands, crouching to look at the fallen man. “Your strategy clearly doesn’t work.”

Collecting herself, Sunohara sighs. “This is a Heart game. The rules aren’t what they seem. Look around you, there are implements for blood transfusion, and a weighing scale in the middle of the room. The game’s name is ‘Bloodletting’ too.”

“Let’s use the dead’s blood to fill the buckets then,” Aguni suggests. “How long does it take to drain the blood from a man his size?”

“A man that size looks like he has about 1.5 gallons of blood. That’s roughly 5.6 liters, enough to fill ten blood bags, which holds 525 milliliters of blood,” Chishiya comments. “The heart pumps five liters of blood per minute, but that man is dead.” 

Saiko and Yamane look at him with bewilderment. “He’s a medical student. I was his senior,” Sunohara comments sheepishly. “But, still, each transfusion would last eight to ten minutes, and that’s on someone alive. There wouldn’t be enough time for us to drain all their blood before the building blows up.”

“It’s still worth the try,” Yamane comments, taking a bucket. She kneels in front of one of the dead players, takes a deep breath to steady her hands, and applies what she learned from Last Boss the night before, the blood spilling into the bucket. Horrified, Sunohara could only watch as Yamane worked. Aguni takes a scalpel and starts to drain the other dead player as well.

“Twenty minutes remaining.”

The doctor takes a steadying breath when she takes a scalpel and kneels. The rest follow suit except for Chishiya, who merely observes. Soon, they were moving buckets of blood to the weighing scale.

“Not enough blood is spilled,” the robotic voice chimes in, and Saiko groans. Sunohara is nervously eyeing the militants, including Yamane, while Chishiya smirks. Impatient, Saiko points her gun at Chishiya again, and Sunohara gets in the way, eyes defiant.

“Get out of my face before I blow your face off instead of his,” Saiko hisses, but Sunohara remains firm. “Stop. I’m not letting anyone else die. This is a Heart game! It’s deliberately fucking with your head to make you think that killing each other is the only solution.”

“There’s something in the rules you’re all overlooking,” Chishiya comments, unfazed. “The rules said players must spill enough blood.”

Upon hearing his remark, Yamane has an epiphany. “Maybe it meant that we should all fill a bag?”

Chishiya smirks.

“Ten minutes remaining.”

Sunohara rushes to gather the blood bags and stress balls, giving them to the remaining players. “We better hurry,” she says, panting. “Hold out your arms,” she instructs. “Chishiya, don’t just stand there, help me!”

He gives her a cheeky smile and gets to work.

Plunging the needle in Yamane’s arm, Chishiya gives her a look. “You’re too clever for this lot.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she responds. “Let’s just focus on the game.”

“Fair.”

Soon, everyone had their needles inserted in their veins. “Now what?” Saiko asks, scowling.

“Squeeze those stress balls!” Sunohara directs, and everyone starts. Slowly but steady, they all fill a bag.

“Five minutes remaining.”

“How long does this take again?” Saiko asks, still hard at squeezing. “Eight to ten minutes,” Sunohara replies, eyeing the weighing scale.

“Three minutes remaining.”

At that point, Yamane was cursing, bag filled only three-fourths of the way through. She looks to the other players’ bags.

“Two minutes remaining.”

Aguni is first to finish his bag, and Sunohara promptly helps him move it to the weighing scale. Chishiya follows, then Saiko, then Sunohara. Yamane’s bag still isn’t full.

“One minute remaining,” the robotic voice chirps again, and Yamane curses. “Hurry the hell up!” Saiko yells, distressed.

“Thirty seconds remaining.”

In desperation, Yamane grabs her bag, puts it on the scale, and takes one of her daggers to slash her arm, blood spilling on the weighing scale.

“Enough blood has been spilled. Game Clear. Congratulations!”

Collective relief rushes through the group. Yamane should be relieved herself, but now, blood continues to spill from her arm. “S-Sunohara, I won’t stop bleeding,” she gasps.

Cursing, Sunohara scrambles to find supplies to help stop the flow. But the pressure wasn't enough; Yamane continues to bleed all over the table. Aguni steps in, meaty palm pressing against the wound. As he kept the pressure on her arm, he notices a few scars on the surface of his underling's skin. Multiple stripes lined up on her wrist, and it only took one look for him to realize that they were self-inflicted. Sensing the discomfort in Yamane's gaze as she watched him stare at her scars, Aguni looks away.

Once the bleeding stopped, Sunohara treats Yamane’s arm, wrapping a bandage around it. “You’re lucky,” Sunohara comments. “The cut wasn’t deep enough to sever your radial artery. A little deeper, and you would be dead in two minutes.”

“Let’s go,” Aguni grunts, collecting the card from the round table that always shows up after a game.

Before they leave, Yamane eyes the bodies of the dead players Saiko shot, and she feels less horrified. Desensitized.

As soon as they arrived in the Beach, she passed through the pool, most of the Beach residents already hard at partying, and Yamane couldn’t stop the dread from creeping up her spine. These people probably saw other people die in a game tonight, yet they’re more than happy to forget all that with a drink and a good fuck.

“Maybe I should try drinking and fucking my sorrows away like them,” a small part of Yamane’s psych tells her. But her own thoughts are interrupted by the rumble of her stomach.

The blood loss made her ravenous, and she went directly to the banquet. Yamane didn’t even take the food back to her room; she just picked up whatever she found appealing and started eating right there. Biting into a chicken leg, Yamane didn’t care for what the onlookers thought. Sauce pooled in the corner of her mouth as she polished off the chicken, not a single shred of meat left on the bone.

“Yamaneko.”

Abruptly, she turns around to see Last Boss giving her an amused look.

Almost choking, Yamane forces herself to swallow the meat in her mouth. She couldn’t look him in the eye after pleasuring herself at the thought of him the night before. “Last Boss. Hey.”

She moves aside to allow him to gather his serving too. Yamane follows him afterwards to a secluded area afterwards, and he seemed to tolerate her presence, allowing her to sit next to him.

“Thank you for last night,” Yamane tells him. “It helped me clear my game tonight.”

Last Boss only stares at her as she ate, which made her self-conscious. She slowed her chewing, and when he didn’t stop, she turned to face him.

“Yes?”

Goosebumps ripple through Yamane’s skin again as the other militant brushes his thumb on her lips, towards the corner of her mouth. He proceeds to lick it off of his finger. Yamane’s entire face is red now, and she rubs the rest of the sauce off of her mouth with a napkin.

“Y-you could’ve just told me I have sauce on me.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he finally speaks up.

Yamane just knew that she was going to spend nights touching herself to the thought of him again. Several nights.

Four days later, after a Club, a Diamond, and two Spade games, Yamane is given her new player tag. Number twenty five. She’s slowly becoming a seasoned player.

Every after game, Yamane sought out Last Boss’ company more and more. Whether they spoke or just sat in silence didn’t matter. He hasn’t told her to go away once, so Yamane continues to spend more time with him. People started to talk. Not like Yamane cared; she endured all of that in the real world, it doesn’t faze her anymore in this strange land. Soon, the thoughts of home started to dissipate from her psyche, preoccupied with the games and the twisted sense of acceptance she received from her fellow members of the Beach’s militia.

A day after Yamane’s Spade game, she received her next team assignment. She looks at her slip of paper and proceeds to look for other members. Last Boss locks eyes with her, and holds out his slip of paper. They were grouped with a couple who couldn’t get their hands off of each other in the backseat as Yamane drove. Last Boss sits next to her in the front seat, eyes occasionally wandering to her.

Yamane pretended not to notice, locking her eyes on the road.

Soon, they arrive at the game venue.

A love hotel.

As the two other Beach players walked towards the venue, Yamane leaned against the car, eyeing the neon sign. “This… this probably won't be a Spade game, huh?” she mumbles to her companion, whose mouth was slightly open.

“Ever been to a place like this before?” Yamane asks him, wrapping her arms around herself.

“No.”

Yamane didn’t say anything else after that, proceeding inside the venue with Last Boss.

The signs led them to a large suite, where X-crosses are lined up. Smartwatches are laid out for the players, along with guns. Yamane and Last Boss pick up a phone, and proceed to wear the watches. On Yamane’s watch, an arrow pops up in the display, while a heart shows up on Last Boss’ watch.

As another pair gets in the room, Yamane inspects the guns, which had an arrow engraved on the handle. Her eyes flick to the restraints, and dread washes over her when she sees the heart designs in the red light.

“Please sort yourselves accordingly,” a sign on the table instructs them, and the players are done as they’re told. Last Boss went to the X-cross, which had automatic cuffs that bound his arms and legs. Yamane looks at him with slight discomfort, but he stares at her with a blank expression.

“Registration closed. There are currently six players. Difficulty: Nine of Hearts.”

The other players started to mumble amongst themselves, while Yamane’s eyes remained locked on to her fellow militant.

“Game: Desire. Rules: Arrows must take turns to confess their feelings to the Heart they find most desirable. Arrows must fire the gun at the Heart of their choice. Lying or failing to fire the gun would result in a Game Over. Time limit: five minutes.”

“Shit,” was all Yamane could say.

“First player: Daisuke Inamine.”

Yamane turns to the said player, whose tears are streaming down his face as he looks at his lover. “Shit, I can’t do this! I can’t do this,” he sobs, putting the gun down and running out of the room. A laser fired and killed him in an instant. His lover was crying and screaming, fighting against the X-cross’ restraints.

“Next player: Rina Yamada.”

Hands shaking, the other player picks up the gun, and points it at the boy she came to the venue with. “Hiro,” she starts, voice shaking. “I’ve- I’ve always liked you since middle school,” she confesses, sobs wracking her body. “I appreciate that you enjoy the bento I’d always make for you. I like how you’d always come to protect me from my bullies. I- oh god, Hiro, please, please forgive me.”

“Three minutes remaining.”

Hiro was looking at her with resignation in his eyes. “Enough, Rina. I’ve always liked you too. Please, do what you can to survive.”

Shaking, sobbing, Rina pulls the trigger, firing the gun at Hiro’s chest. She then tosses it away, covering her face as she wails.

“Next player: Minami Yamane.”

[sumukhcomedy]

How To Cancel “Cancel Culture”

In his speech at Mount Rushmore, President Donald Trump attacked “cancel culture.” It had been one thing to see this phrase constantly brought up on social media but now we were seeing the leader of the free world bring it up on the anniversary of the country’s independence. I have no idea where the term “cancel culture” came from and it doesn’t even matter anymore anyway as it has become yet another term that has been molded into its own strange definition by whomever may use it. In a general sense, “cancel culture” appears to now be pared down to the erasing of something because it’s offended someone.

The problem to “cancel culture” is that it’s become a broad term to represent many complicated, in-depth concepts. I’m going to put what’s been labeled as “cancel culture” into 3 separate groups (there probably could be more but, for the sake of this essay, I’ll keep it to 3).

1. Legitimately disturbing or criminal acts that were done by individuals

2. Correcting a wrongful history for the betterment of society and our nation

3. Revisionism in an effort to address uncomfortable topics

The first, “Legitimately disturbing or criminal acts that were done by individuals” is seen most prominently in entertainment and politics. As a comedian, I’m going to look at the most recent claims against Chris D’Elia and then subsequent backlash towards the “boys club” mentality that exists in stand-up comedy that led old videos of Joe Rogan, Joey Diaz, Theo Von, Brendan Schaub, and others to surface on Twitter. Diaz is a good example of where “cancel culture” goes wrong but it’s where it’s also not well-defined. Almost immediately after the disturbing commentary of Diaz drew widespread attention on Twitter, numerous women in comedy defended him and discussed how he helped them. Diaz has always had a unique and honest sense of humor. He addressed on his podcast that he’s talked about the mistakes he’s made in the past and getting better. It is the crux of his act and his brand of humor. But, on his podcast, he then goes off into talking about “cancel culture.” These situations are always framed under the notion that it’s an attempt to get the comedian “cancelled.” The reality is that all it’s doing is to open up a more intelligent discussion on why this behavior is occurring, holding responsibility for it, and ensuring that a culture that has long existed within stand-up comedy and treats women as less doesn’t continue. In D’Elia’s case, the accusations against him were criminal. They didn’t come out of nowhere. They came from one woman opening herself up on the Internet and then other women connecting with that and revealing that they had also been victimized by this man. This is not some sort of conspiracy to end D’Elia’s career. It’s women opening up that a high-profile man is a predator and ensuring that he does not continue this behavior and hurt others with his position. For D’Elia, he needs to address it and hold responsibility for it and, for now, he only appears to be showing the usual behavior from high-profile men which is to deny the accusations without any further discussion. From this point, there isn’t really a “cancellation” that is even happening. Look at Louis C.K. The story came out and still C.K. has a career and there are people that wish to watch him and do business with him. His career didn’t end up being over even though his apology was terrible and he hasn’t particularly shown any sense of remorse or compassion. Sure, he doesn’t have a TV show or movies anymore. But he also isn’t a destitute hermit. He’s still existent and earning money in this capitalist, patriarchal structure of entertainment.

The second, “Correcting a wrongful history for the betterment of society and our nation,” is seen currently with the removal of statues, which was the major reason behind Trump bringing up “cancel culture.” This is about properly addressing the negative and detrimental history of our country. A statue is a form of honor. This is why if anyone receives a statue, they express a great deal of gratitude for it. No one really learns anything from a statue because, unless all the history you want to learn is on a small plaque in front of the statue, there is not much to be gained from something placed in a public place as opposed to a museum or a book in a library. The statue is there for one reason: to glorify the individual and what they represent in history. What does the Confederacy represent in history? A group defeated in the Civil War and whose flag now stands as a piece of racism more than anything else. What does Christopher Columbus represent in history? More of a violent raider than a peaceful explorer. This is a history that you wish to glorify with a statue? This is a history that you want to have where you live? There is no need for this type of history and glorification in public places. That’s like saying you’d rather have a statue of Donald Sterling outside of Staples Center in L.A. rather than Magic Johnson. And this history isn’t going to go away. Pick up a book, watch a documentary, and really learn about it. That’s more history and nuance than any statue can provide, and it can do it without turning villains into heroes.

The third, “Revisionism in an effort to address uncomfortable topics” is where the people angry at “cancel culture” get their most energy from. It’s again most seen in Hollywood because Hollywood, for as liberal as it may seem, is still as backwards and uncomfortable with race and history as conservative America can be. This is best seen as of late with production companies and streaming services beginning to remove episodes of shows because they may touch on race in an uncomfortable way. A good example was Hulu’s decision to remove an episode of The Golden Girls, “Mixed Blessings,” in which Blanche and Rose appear in “blackface.” The episode occurred in 1988. Even though they are wearing mud masks and not specifically blackface, is it uncomfortable to see that as a source of humor in 2020? Definitely. But, the point of the episode is about Dorothy’s son entering into an interracial marriage. It’s about Dorothy coming to grips with that and the age difference between the two of them as well. Hollywood doesn’t seem to be capable of telling the difference between a piece of art that comments on our society’s racism as opposed to a piece of art that is flat out racist. Nor does it seem to factor when the art was created. Sure, I don’t like that The Golden Girls writers and producers made such a decision in 1988. But it was 1988. The episode still addressed important issues in 1988 and did so with the best intent. This is highly different than, for example, D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation, which was as racist in 1915 as it is today or Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will in 1935. You may laud them for what they did for film but you must teach that they were racist propaganda. They were not well-meaning films at all and they, in fact, contributed to a deadly history. There is no purpose to banning this art. But it’s important to provide better education, better understanding of intent, and better knowledge of history when it comes to viewing this art. Blackface is terrible and has no place in 2020, but in order for it to have no place, people have to understand its history, the manner in which it was used, and the reasons why it is bad. The reality is that few people of color are asking for this third type of “cancel culture.” It’s more so coming from well-meaning white people who do not know how to properly handle race.

“Cancel culture” has become a simple term tossed out by individuals who simply do not want to address their own behavior, responsibility, or history. They would rather say to themselves that they are right than to challenge themselves that they could be wrong, that our society could be better, and that they could progress. All of these situations of “cancel culture” get labeled by the opposition as being “You’re too sensitive!” as opposed to “Let’s have an intellectual discussion to make this better.” It continues to be passed off as some sort of offense or political correctness issue when it’s just an effort to address one’s potential role in a bigger issue in society (whether that’s racism, misogyny, sexual assault, etc.)

“Cancel culture” is just an easy phrase. It’s an easy card to play to avoid dealing with one’s own behavior, speech, history, and art. Strangely enough, it’s a term that’s dismissive when it’s defending itself out of a fear of being dismissed.

[emberbent]

Book 2: Air | Chapter 2: The Truth

Shinza’s airbending training began inauspiciously. For two months, she rose with Lo Sang at sunrise each morning, and they practiced yoga on a mountain peak. Where firebending had taught her decisiveness and power, yoga made her flexible, both mentally and physically. Her afternoons were spent in silent meditation, guided by her young teacher. In the evenings, she tended the greenhouse and the bakery with the others. She ate simple meals - rice, green tea, and fresh vegetables she’d helped grow and harvest herself. Before bed each night, she spent some time alone in her room, reflecting. Meditating more. Clearing her head. Airbending is an act of freedom, Lo Sang taught her. Freedom from earthly tethers. Freedom from your own mind. Clear your thoughts, cleanse your spirit, and make room for the air to flow through you.

Lo Sang admitted she was surprised by Shinza’s patience and diligence; Even for Lo Sang, being patient through the foundational steps had been challenging, despite the fact that she’d had the advantage of not having to fish years’ worth of detritus out of her mind before starting. But Shinza had longed for a chance for stillness; now that she had it, she wouldn’t waste a second. This, she realized one morning, planting her palms on the earth and balancing her knees on her elbows in crow pose, was the most peaceful she’d ever felt.

Lo Sang took notice. “Wonderful,” she said serenely to her student. Shinza unfolded herself and came to a cross-legged position, mirroring Lo Sang, who studied her with a little smile. “How do you feel?”

Shinza inhaled and gazed out over the rockface, watching Xia’s distant silhouette weave and ribbon through the clouds. “Calm.”

“Good,” said Lo Sang. “Normally, it takes at least a year to ready oneself for airbending - sometimes several years. But Jinora says we don’t have the luxury of time, and I think you’re ready. Do you feel ready?”

Shinza froze in place, remembering her first shot at firebending and how that first day had been a harbinger for the difficulty her training would bring. “I’ll try, if you think I’m ready, Sifu.”

Lo Sang regarded her. “You hesitated. What’s wrong?”

“Eh, it’s kind of a whole story,” Shinza replied, waving her hand through the air between them as if to dispel the issue altogether. “Firebending was really hard for me, and I guess I’m worried airbending will be more of the same.”

“That’s understandable,” Lo Sang replied sagely. “But look how easily the first steps came to you. Just remember to clear your mind of everything but the task at hand, and you’ll do fine.” 

Shinza believed her. Or at least, she wanted to. She recalled what Jinora had said to her when she’d first arrived at the temple: I believe you’ll excel at airbending.

“Okay, then. Let’s do it.”

Lo Sang puffed herself to her feet, pausing for a moment. “Actually, can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“I never thought I’d get to train the Avatar,” Lo Sang confided. “Sometimes I think about how important the job is, and how important it is that I do well, and...”

Shinza stood, dusting off her tunic, and centered herself in front of her teacher, ready for instructions. “If you’re worried, don’t be. You’re an excellent teacher, and I promise to be a good student. Even though I’m old as dirt.”

“Thanks, grandma,” Lo Sang giggled. “Okay. We’re going to start with something very simple first.”

She drew her arms out wide, arced them gracefully, and pulled them inward, swirling them around some invisible sphere. A wind surrounded them, bringing with it a slurry of red and yellow leaves. Lo Sang caught one between her hands with a precise measure of air, keeping it steady and displaying it to Shinza.

“Hold the leaf like this,” she instructed. “Focus like you do during meditation. Breathe like you do during yoga. Summon your energy and bend the air around the leaf to hold it steady. Okay?”

Shinza held her palms open as she was shown. Lo Sang transferred the leaf to her waiting palms. Finding the focus she had honed during meditation, and summoning a current of energy, Shinza kept the leaf hovering between her hands.

“I’m doing it,” she whispered, not daring to break her concentration. “I’m holding the leaf.”

Lo Sang bit her lip to temper her elated grin. “Perfect! I’m impressed.”

Shinza’s eyes glittered. After a beat, she let the leaf go and beamed, “Really?”

“Yes,” Lo Sang replied. “In fact, I think we can try something a little more advanced.”

Shinza watched Lo Sang walk a tight circle on her nimble feet with her arms poised. She funneled a hard, precise puff of air through her hands and directed it at a passing flurry of leaves, sending them scattering. 

“Airbending is about being light on your feet, ready to change your stance at a moment’s notice,” Lo Sang explained. “If another second had passed, I would have had to adjust my stance to target the leaves. Understand?”

Shinza nodded, scrunching her brows together in concentration as she settled herself into a position that looked like Lo Sang’s. The young one came around to correct her stance before stepping back. “Go ahead when you’re ready. Remember to focus.”

Shinza mimicked the movements and paced in a circle, summoning the same energy as before. A wire crossed in her mind, and instead of keeping her arms limber, she locked her elbows like she’d been taught to do in firebending. Air arced like a blowtorch from her palms, the force of which sent Shinza flying backward into the cliffside. The back of her head met the rockface with a sickening crack.

She’s small and standing in the living room in the old apartment. The unlit lantern hangs from its hook, and Shinza wants to light it. Her mother is studying in the spare bedroom; she knows not to disturb her mother, so she tries to light it herself. With swift movements that nearly match her father’s, she summons a flame. Carefully, she tiptoes close to the lantern, but she isn’t quite tall enough to reach it. So she extinguishes the flame. Steps back. Punches the air. The resulting flame catches on the paper lantern.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Shinza squeaks, knowing instantly the kind of trouble she’s in. She has to put the fire out before her mother knows. But she can’t reach the lantern, and there’s nothing nearby to step on. A thought occurs to her out of desperation, but she tries it anyway. She concentrates hard and does a little twirl, emitting, to her shock, a gust of air. It knocks the lantern off its hook and onto the floor, and the carpet quickly catches fire.

Shinza gets onto her knees, panicking, crying, trying her best to tamp down the fire with her bare hands before it spreads too far. The flames sear her flesh; if she works faster, she thinks, and ignores the pain, she can put it out. But her little palms aren’t big enough. The flames grow until she’s surrounded. Her hands are alight. “MAMA!”

___

She wails on her mother’s lap. Her mother holds her tightly so she doesn’t squirm as a doctor summons a wobbling sphere of water over to Shinza and instructs her to place her hands inside. “It hurts,” she sobs, but the doctor urges her to move quickly. Her hands tremble inside the water. The doctor works. He tells them the third-degree burns over her hands and forearms will take months to heal, and that they’ll need to return for regular sessions. Her mother asks about scarring. The doctor says he’ll do his best, but there’s nothing he can do to prevent it.

___

She’s at another place - a different doctor, her father tells her. Shinza is weak from crying and from the pain medication. He asks her how the accident happened. “I tried to light the lantern, but it caught fire. I tried to airbend it out, but I made too much wind.”

He looks at her strangely. A woman comes in, places Shinza in an uncomfortable chair, and buckles a strap across her forehead. Her cheeks sting. The woman only speaks to her once to say, “Repeat what I say: ‘I am a good, quiet girl. I am not a bender.’” Shinza repeats after the doctor, over and over again. A light revolves around her head.

___

The woman drives her knuckles into Shinza’s spine.

A white, blinding light emanated from behind Shinza’s eyes and from her open mouth, flickering like a surging bulb. A powerful gale swirled violently around them, kicking up dust and rocks. Lo Sang shielded her eyes with one hand and her body with her own counter-gust as Shinza struggled against the light. Then, exhausted, Shinza finally overcame it; slowly, the fog of the memories lifted, and her vision cleared. She sat slumped like a ragdoll against the rockface, and Lo Sang watched from a safe distance away, eyes wide with concern and terror, white hair disheveled.

“Shinza?” she mewed. “Are you okay?”

Dry-mouthed, she brought her hands in front of her and studied them.  Traced the familiar purple scars. The implication of what she’d just uncovered wasn’t clear to her yet, but the weight of it was immense. She couldn’t bring herself to look elsewhere.

“You hit your head and went into the Avatar state. Are you okay?” Lo Sang pressed. “What happened?”

“Did anyone tell you why the Avatar you’d be training was twenty-eight and not sixteen?” Shinza asked. Her dizziness was dissipating, giving way to a cold, black bitterness.

“No… no, they didn’t.”

“Because they didn’t know why,” Shinza replied. Her voice was hollow. “My parents knew I was the Avatar, and they had my bending and my memories blocked. The Fire Sages searched for me for years; they just thought I was hard to locate, but I was right under their noses the whole time.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Lo Sang murmured sadly, helplessly. She regarded Shinza like a startled horse who might rear up again at any moment.

“I’m twelve years late,” Shinza continued vehemently. “When I think of all that’s happened in the world in that time, all the trouble…”

She thought of Amrit standing on the shore, telling her about swallowing stones of grief. She thought of the propaganda flyers that littered the streets of Republic City. She thought of her little cousins, her teacher’s age, repeating horrific rumors spread by The Org. “I could have done so much.”

“Maybe your parents had a purpose,” Lo Sang reasoned. “Maybe they wanted to protect you from The Organization.”

“The Avatar belongs to the world, not to their parents,” Shinza argued. “As soon as they knew, they had a responsibility to send me off.” Wearily, she hoisted herself into a standing position. What little color there was drained from her freckled face, and she leaned with one hand against the rock to steady herself. “I’ve lost a lot of time. Let’s keep going.”

“That’s not a good idea,” Lo Sang protested. “Look at you. You’re weak and angry. Which is understandable. I think you should take some time off and work through this, Shinza. If you try to force it, you’ll undo all your progress and waste even more time.”

Shinza gazed down at her sifu, whose pale gray eyes flashed back and forth as they scanned her student’s face. She didn’t have the strength to put up a fight. “Fine.”

Lo Sang slipped her arm around Shinza’s waist to help keep her steady as they made their way along the side of the mountain. There was a silence between them as Shinza ruminated on the young one’s disheveled hair and the fear in her eyes. The thought that Shinza had so little control over the Avatar state that she’d put them both in danger made her nauseous.

“Hey,” Lo Sang sounded, as if reading her mind. “It’s okay. I’m not hurt. You’re not hurt, are you? You hit your head really hard.”

“I don’t think so,” she replied dryly. Her room seemed like it was miles away, but she trudged onward. 

“Can I ask you a question?”

“What?”

“What does the Avatar State feel like?”

Shinza snorted. “Well, I’ve never been electrocuted, but I imagine that’s what it feels like.”

Lo Sang took in that information quietly and squeezed Shinza’s waist affectionately. When they arrived at Shinza’s door, Lo Sang paused.

“I’m sorry you learned something really hurtful today,” she said sincerely. “But I’m glad it’s over now, and I hope you can move past it. I want to help you, if you need help.”

Shinza found herself sinking to her knees and wrapping her arms around Lo Sang, who, she realized, was the little sister she never knew she needed. “Thank you, Sifu. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Alone, Shinza fell into bed fully clothed, dust falling onto her sheets, and stared at the stone ceiling. Processing. Her parents’ faces had already started to fade from her mind before she’d left the Island of the Sun Warriors. But now, when she tried to picture them, all she saw was the sepia-tone family picture that sat in a frame on the mantle of the old apartment. Right next to the lantern.

___

@chromecutie @my-remedy-is-euphoria @hetapeep41 @jaymzbush

[jahaanofmenaphos]

Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

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QUEST 07: DISHONOUR AMONG THIEVES

QUEST SUMMARY:

Due to his status as the World Guardian, Jahaan wound up as part of Zamorak’s heist team. Their task? Steal the Stone of Jas from Sliske and return its power to Zamorak. Jahaan gets to learn more about a god propaganda had always skewed, but will he be on board with Zamorak’s plan in the end…

CHAPTER 2: ABSTRACT OF ZAMORAK

“Care for a drink?” Zamorak held out an engraved chalice, the inscription a foreign dialect that was painful to look at. “I don’t know why assholes come into my churches and steal my wine. I’d make a mint if I just straight up sold it. Go legitimate and all.”

So yes, Jahaan did take the meeting. Right on time he used the communication device that whisked him away… somewhere. He was underground, that’s for sure. The claustrophobic feel of gravity assured him of that.

Zamorak had invited him into a chamber of sorts, akin to the dining room of a haunted mansion. The deity really did have a taste for the theatrical, what with the vampyric ornaments and arcane fixtures. Also, crimson. LOTS of crimson.

Zamorak practically blended into the walls.

He sat Jahaan down in a grand armchair of sorts, donned with decorative bones, and it made Jahaan feel like a supervillain.

Sniffing a faint laugh, Jahaan took the chalice and allowed Zamorak to fill it up to the brim with the thick red liquid, dark like blood. That last thought gave Jahaan pause before he put it to his lips, but after a quick sniff and being overwhelmed by the alcoholic, fruity scent, he assured himself it was indeed wine. “Thanks. I didn’t think Mahjarrat could drink, though.”

“We can’t,” Zamorak confirmed, taking a large gulp. “I’ll have to get it out of me later. Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy some good booze for now though.”

Not wanting to press for anymore details, Jahaan asked, “Where on Gielinor are we? Are… are we still on Gielinor?”

Laughing, Zamorak said, “Of course we’re still on Gielinor. This is temporary base of operations, courtesy of an old friend of mine - Bilrach - who you’ll meet later on. Dug the place himself, crazy bastard. Crazy, loyal, dedicated bastard, that is. You humans would know of it as ‘Daemonheim’.”

Eyes wide, Jahaan audibly gasped. Yes, he had heard of Daemonheim, mainly from stories. A band of Fremennik warriors decided to sail west around the globe, discovering uncharted islands and unclaimed lands as they did so. Daemonheim was their greatest find. Despite being a part of continental Gielinor, no-one had ventured that far in centuries, the unforgiving terrain putting a fatal halt to would-be adventurers. Thanks to the Freminnick, the place was now accessible, though you should pray for those who dare to enter the dungeons beneath the ancient castle atop the snow. Floor upon floor of monsters, puzzles, hazards and traps. No-one had ever made it to the bottom floor; the lucky ones retreated to the surface, the others were not so fortunate. No-one knew who had built such a place, or why. No-one, it seems now, except Jahaan.

Smirking, Zamorak remarked, “I’m glad you’re impressed. Not many have had the honour of stepping on such hallowed ground. It’s a good place to regroup, after the battle with Saradomin didn’t go as well as planned…”

“Yeah, how are the Zamorakians taking the defeat?” Jahaan inquired, taking a sip of the wine, far too bitter for his tastes.

“Better than you’d think. We lost a lot of forces, but I’m still swinging, and so are my Mahjarrat. Now I’m gonna to bypass this ridiculous little contest of Sliske’s and take back the Stone. Let’s see Saradomin stand tall then!”

Zamorak took a sip from his red wine, his eyes thoughtful and calculated, as the silence stretched on. After a while, he finally spoke up, “World Guardian, have you ever been told about Sliske’s plays?”

Jahaan furrowed his brow, stopping mid-sip, suddenly worried. “No…”

Zamorak grinned, the flesh stretching and pulling across bone. “Man, you’re going to love this. Sliske’s always been a twisted bastard, but this put it to whole new heights. See, back in the days of the Zarosian Empire, we Mahjarrat were given pretty high-class roles - our reward for taking out the Menaphites. Half of us got chosen as generals and lieutenants in the army - known as 'Legati' in Infernal - while the other half were churchleaders, or 'Pontifixes'. Sliske, due to his… unusual predilections...  was given the rank of Praefectus Praetorio - the head of Senntisten’s secret police. Investigation, spying, interrogation… you can see how the role was built for him. In his free time, he was always writing. Stories, plays, even pathetic attempts at poetry. His plays were the most fucked up, performed for the top ranks of Senntisten, like urbane demons, bureaucrats… you know, the types of assholes that could afford to watch his nonsense. To make the plays, he rounded up the low caste and homeless, dressed them up in costumes, and placed upon each a crude wooden mask, which he whittled himself. Sliske gave the word, and the masks started doing their thing; they’d speak aloud, control the actor’s movements, making ‘em jerkily act and mime his play like demented puppets. Sometimes the actors actually stabbed each other to death with their weapons at the play's climax. In one show, one of the actors died - probably of some disease - in the middle of the performance, but the mask kept animating his corpse and the show went on. Sick, right? Worst part is, the audience lapped it up! Sliske went on to perform it about a dozen or so more times before growing bored - as he is prone to do - and moving onto something else. No-one dared speak up against him. After all, who wants to be at the centre of a Praetorian investigation?”

Mouth hung open, Jahaan sat there in horror, his mind doing him the courtesy of picturing every grotesque and gruesome detail. He was starting to feel nauseous because of it, and the wine probably wasn’t helping matters. It took him a while before he could collect himself enough to exclaim, “Didn’t… didn’t Wahisietel say something?!”

Zamorak laughed sharply and so suddenly that Jahaan spilt a bit of his wine. “His brother gave up on his ways long before that. Sliske’s always been fucked in the head, even back on Freneskae, playing with corpses with childlike glee. There’s something seriously wrong with him. There was one of our kind, old Nabor - boring as dry brick but he was pretty sharp. He ran the insane asylum in Senntisten, became quite the psychologist while he did. He once remarked to me how he’d love to study Sliske, to really figure out what was up with him. Never dared invite him for a session, though. I used to see him and Wahisietel chatting - they were close. No doubt Sliske came up in their conversations.”

Jahaan made a mental note to confer with Wahisietel when the opportunity arose.

But in all this, one thing became clear to him more than ever before: Sliske knew everything about him, but he knew nothing of Sliske.

Shaking the cobwebs from his mind, Jahaan rounded back to something less… horrifying. “Senntisten doesn’t seem like such a bad place. Your kind were well taken care of, from what you tell me, so why’d you leave Zaros?”

“Depends on who you ask,” Zamorak confessed, his fingers, unblemished and marble-white, scratching absently at his face. “Ask my followers and they’ll all tell you a different story. Some think it was just a political coup, that I wanted to gain power with no endgame, or that I’d had a falling out with the ‘Empty Lord’. Truth is, we needed to break free from Zaros. He wanted to know our every move, our every thought. When we went on missions, Zaros made us take along a man named Perjour, someone he’d cursed to be his bibliographer. Everything thought that man had, every single thing he witnessed, would be transcribed in a little book, which Zaros would sift through, looking for any seeds of betrayal from his followers. It was oppressing.”

“So how did you get around that?” Jahaan inquired, drawn in by the energy Zamorak brought to his tales.

Grinning wickedly, Zamorak boasted, “I stole the book, switched it with a copy. Zaros was none the wiser. And thus, the seeds of rebellion were sewn.”

The last comment was followed by a wink as he swirled around the wine in his class, looking all-too proud of himself. It seemed all Mahjarrat were capable of that unique form of unnerving smugness.

But something still stuck in Jahaan’s craw; he hesitated, and Zamorak picked up on this. “Come on, just come out with it.”

Exhaling deeply, Jahaan begun, “Alright… your chaos theory hasn’t been painted in the best light across Gielinor. Is all of it really propaganda? What about the Culinaromancer? Count Malak? Lord Iban? And don’t get me started on those dark wizards…”

Rolling his eyes, Zamorak’s annoyance looked of one who had dealt with this before. “Okay, yes, we have a few bad eggs. It’s a damn shame cos we started out so promising. Many came to me because they were fleeing or rejecting some aspect of authority within the Empire, and a philosophy that prized individuality over structure, society or government was just what they were after. But over time this developed into a very unhealthy anarchism; some followers ‘misinterpret’ my philosophy, twisting my words and using it as an excuse to steal, torment, attack… wanting to watch the world burn is nothing I’ve ever preached. But Saradominsts take these few radicals and think we’re all like that. They spew out propaganda against us, saying we’re all evil monsters and anarchists. The few have ruined it for the many.”

“I hate that people think I’m evil,” Zamorak continued, gulping down another swig of wine and instantly refilling himself. “Yeah, I’ve done some pretty bad shit in my time, but who hasn’t? War is messy. If you want your hands clean, become a chef. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for the betterment of my followers, for the Mahjarrat, and for Gielinor. Saradominism is all about ‘join with me and you’ll never have strife again’. We all know that’s just bullshit. Zamorakianism is all about ‘strength through chaos’, about knowing that life can deal you a crappy hand, but it’s that struggle and misery that can shape who you are and make you into a stronger, better person. Take you, World Guardian - I doubt your life has been all roses and daisies, right?”

“You could say that.”

“I AM saying that. But tell me, think back… if all that hadn’t happened to you, would you be where you are now, decked out in fine armour, drinking fine wine, talking to a damn fine god?”

A thin smile spread across Jahaan’s face. He understood.

As Zamorak spoke more about his chaos philosophy, Jahaan was inclined to buy what Zamorak was selling. A lot of his ideologies matched with Jahaan’s own views, and the deity was nothing if not captivating.

It’s just a shame some of his followers are so unbearable, Jahaan internally groaned at the thought of Zemouregal.

But then again, when it came to philosophy, Jahaan’s world view overlapped a lot with that of Zarosianism. Guthixianism, too. After all, once you’re there for the final words of one of the world’s most powerful deities, you form a connection.

Saradominsm did have some decent arguments, Jahaan would admit to himself, but he could never fall on board with the ideology, and definitely not the lifestyle. As for Armadyl, he hadn’t ever really heard much from the winged deity, aside from his triumph over Bandos. It was too early to call a judgement on him yet.

There was always the Menaphite Pantheon, the ‘go-to’ religion for the desert-born.

Gahh… these labels serve more harm than good… Jahaan grumbled to himself, fighting down another gulp of the wine.

While Zamorak tended to some business, the details of which he never specified, Jahaan was offered a teleport to the central chamber of the lair. Feeling it might be considered rude to refuse, and not wanting to accidentally go through the wrong door into one of Daemonheim’s rumoured horror chambers, Jahaan accepted, and with Jahaan’s permission, Zamorak's spell whisked him away.

The centre part of the lair Jahaan was as over the top as it was terrifying. Complete with lava fountains, torches of tall flames and crackling fire, grotesque chiselled statues of beasts and nightmares, and a crimson tiled floor with the Zamorakian symbol crudely embedded into it… this place didn’t exactly scream ‘happy fun time’. In fact, if Zamorak was trying to shake the ‘evil villain’ image the Saradominist propaganda department were creating, this wasn’t helping.

The chamber wasn’t massive in size, but its grandiose excessiveness more than made up for it.

Jahaan manifested in the centre of the room; a throne comprised of black marble and blood red horns strung across it directly faced him, while short hallways to the east and west had imposing doors adorned with skulls at either end.

The heat was also comparable to that of Freneskae.

Immediately, countless sets of eyes leered at him from all around, the present company of gathered Zamorakians all stopping to size up the newest arrival.

Feeling awkward, but not wanting to let it show, Jahaan strode over to one of the large pillars and casually leaned up against it, crossing his arms over his chest with an air of defiance, like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be here. However, he carefully avoided eye contact with anyone, subtly exploring the room with a low glance.

There were two Mahjarrat that Jahaan didn’t recognise from the Ritual of Rejuvenation. One, a bulky looking fellow draped in thick, tattered cloaks. There was a presence about him, a power that rattled through his very being. He looked solid; while all Mahjarrat are technically immortal, this one actually felt it. It was almost unnerving. Yet, undermining that were his eyes - they looked haunted, flicking between the ceiling, the walls, the floor, like he was hearing sounds from all directions and trying to gravitate towards the strongest voice.

But if he missed the Ritual, why doesn’t he look all... half-dead? Jahaan pondered to himself, hoping he didn’t look like he was staring.

The other Mahjarrat, on the other hand, did look worse for wear. Hazeel, he was known as. Jahaan had heard stories about his cult of followers in Ardougne, and how he’d ruled over the lands way back in the Fourth Age with brutality and fear. It was the Carnillean Family that became his end, alongside Saradominist peasants who, upon learning magic and runecrafting, wished to liberate their lands from the Zamorakian tyranny. They didn’t manage to kill Hazeel, but they trapped him in a state of torpor, neither living nor dead. His skeletal appearance did have a rather blood-curdling quality about it. Unlike the other Mahjarrat, he had very large horns protruding from his forehead, looking quite similar to the headpiece Azzanadra wore. These, however, were sharpened into deadly points.

Jahaan wasn’t quite sure how the two Mahjarrat could look so different - one full of life and vigor, the other frail and weak.

If I tread carefully, perhaps I could find out? Jahaan thought to himself, not quite looking forward to conversing with even more Zamorakian Mahjarrat than he had to, but his curiosity drove him onwards.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he strolled over to the rejuvenated looking one, greeting him with a respectful nod of his head. “I’m Jahaan. Zamorak sent for me. I don’t think we’ve met before...”

The trailed-off sentence was an indication to fill in the blanks, but the Mahjarrat seemed rather perturbed at Jahaan’s presence. Jahaan didn’t think he was going to get a response and planned on awkwardly shuffling away, pretending that never happened as he did so, but the Mahjarrat’s sudden response startled him into staying. “Bilrach. I am Bilrach. Forgive me, human contact is taking some getting used to.”

Seems nice enough, Jahaan decided with relief. Not wanting to let the conversation go dry for too long, he continued, “Pleased to meet you, Bilrach. I was at the last Ritual of Rejuvenation, but I don’t remember seeing you there. You… you look well, though. Lots of… skin.”

“I was digging,” Bilrach bluntly replied. “Always digging, digging, digging… they thought this to be my tomb, but it was my salvation. The rift did not provide answers alone, though.”

Quickly, Jahaan deduced Bilrach was not shuffling with a full deck. "Ah yes, Zamorak mentioned that you dug this place yourself."

Bilrach nodded. “Centuries I dug, trying to find the rift between realities, the place where the bond between worlds is at its weakest. Here, I was going to find Zamorak and pull him back to Gielinor. I did not succeed, but this chamber is the product of my labour.”

“But if you missed the Ritual, how come you look so powerful?” Jahaan inquired, hoping the subtle compliment would work in his favour.

From the shift in Bilrach's demeanor, it seemed to work. “Ah, yes! Instead, after tumbling through the dimensions, I arrived on my home planet of Freneskae. There are no longer any of my kind there, but other tribes once existed. The Chelon-Mah and Mahserrat, born from the same energy as we Mahjarrat. It was then that I had an epiphany. Hmm.”

Silence. After it was clear Bilrach was indeed lost inside his own head, Jahaan gently prodded, “And what was that?”

“Ah, yes. The other tribes were also bound to rituals, needing the life force of those that perish to sustain themselves. The Mahserrat decided to forgo this process, resigning themselves to a fate without rejuvenation. But the Chelon-Mah… hmm. The Chelon-Mah did the opposite. They concluded that only the strongest should live, yes. One almighty being, commanding the power of the entire tribe. I remember it. The battle blazed across the horizon – a glorious sight to behold, indeed. For weeks they fought tirelessly, until only one remained with all their power. A brutal incarnation of the Chelon-Mah tribe; the physical embodiment of war. Yes, his might on the battlefield was unparalleled.”

“What does this have to do with your epiphany?”

“Epiphany?” Bilrach blinked. “Oh, yes. I knew that after thousands of years whilst the Mahjarrat have grown stronger, the Chelon-Mah would have diminished. With the Mahserrat all likely to have perished and no kin to sacrifice, he would never have been able to rejuvenate. I returned to Gielinor with the once-great Chelon-Mah captive. I slew him upon my very own Ritual Marker.”

Jahaan gasped. “That worked?!”

“Apparently so. The rejuvenation was an unintended effect of his death. A strange power spread throughout the surface - you may have even felt it yourself. My kin would have believed me perished. But I live.”

“But if you didn’t know you’d be rejuvenated, why did you kill him?”

“On Freneskae we were at war with the Chelon-Mah; with no kin left to test his strength he turned to the Mahjarrat,” Bilrach gravely explained, his eyes flitting over to the two doorways parallel to him. “He killed many of my brethren. Taking his life was a justice long overdue. As the only Mahjarrat at the Ritual Marker when I slew him, I was able to absorb all his power, hmm. I thought I could use this new power to bring back Zamorak. Alas, I still did not find the answers I sought. It would seem it is exceptionally difficult for anyone but a god to open a portal between worlds.”

Remembering Zamorak’s words from before, Jahaan thought to inquire into why Bilrach defected from Zaros to Zamorak, but by the change in tone and demeanour he received from Bilrach, he wished he’d never rocked the boat.

“You know nothing of the Mahjarrat, impling, and neither did Zaros,” Bilrach’s gravelly voice sounded like he’d inhaled too much Daemonheim dust. Though his voice was monotonous and grounded, his eyes seemed to dart and flicker. “We were warriors, brave survivors. In the Empire we grew soft. Zaros took our culture from us, tried to tame our nature, making us priests and bureaucrats - such positions are a disgrace to the Mahjarrat name! Zamorak reminded us of our birthright.”

“Ah, I see you’re getting yourself acquainted,” a feminine voice faded in beside the pair, relieving the tension Jahaan had created. Moia walked up to stand beside Bilrach with the friendliest smile her contorted face could manage. “Jahaan, why don’t I introduce you to everyone else while we await my master’s presence?”

“Sure,” Jahaan agreed, following Moia’s lead with a quick look over his shoulder at Bilrach, who seemed to be muttering something under his breath. To Moia, he asked, “Do you know Bilrach well?”

“I do,” Moia replied, solemnly. “He and I held hands as we walked into the rift together. But we were torn apart. I thought him lost. I found Zamorak, and he arrived on Freneskae.”

Stopping their walk across the chamber, Moia leaned down towards Jahaan to speak lowly, “Bilrach has sacrificed a lot in order to provide my master sanctuary. When I first found him, he was… unrecognisable. Now, he tells me the voices have subsided at the very least. I… I still fear for him.”

Not exactly sure what he was expected to say, Jahaan went with, “I’ll look out for him.”

This was the wrong answer; Moia shot him a glare that could melt mithril. “He doesn’t need you looking out for him.”

She stormed off across the chamber, sharply motioning for Jahaan to follow with a reluctant grunt of, “Come on.”

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

Previous chapter / Next chapter

[noxus-the-venomous-blog]

Part 2.02 KICK THE WORLD FACE

"YOU MOCK MY LAIR?!" Noxus grabbed the man by the collar. "You dare come into my place of dwelling with lll words?!"

"We're really doing this?" Big problem asked with a sigh as he watched his smaller friend building up steam to torment the man in his clutches.

"I will reach inside of your meager brain."

"Yeah now I know we're definitely doing this." BP sat down, awaiting a long monologue.

"And when I'm finish twisting and turning every spark in your meager mentality…"

"Oh come on this is often the funnest part of the day!" Tranquill said to big problem, poking him in his gorilla like shoulders.

"...and when all that's left of your brain is the shallow pleadings of a child's mind you will kiss my boot and beg for me to end your life."

"Dude I'm not even the one who gets to keep the rent money I just collect it. The management decides the when the inspection happens! They only pay me like 50 bucks a month," the young man grumbled, held tight in the rubber fists of Noxious.

“Is it worth your life?” “Fine dude we can do the inspection next week. You need to be on medication bruv,” he remarked as noxious loosened his grip on him.

“The whole world needs to be on medication…” Noxious said slowly as the man walked away. He then turned around to face his audience who was already snickering at him “That was Jeff, the supers assistant. Good kid. So let's get down to business”

“To COMPLETE! The PUN!” Tranquill shouted, smiling widely. Her joke found no success however, in a crowd where one was too old for reference and the other was too uncultured.

“Is this really the place to talk… Private? Like that dude weird girl across the road has been sitting there filming you for the past twenty minutes.” BP pointed across to the set of parallel storage containers on the other side of the lot.

“That's um…. That's my PR TEAM! FOR FILMING PROPAGANDA!”

“YO BIG GUY TAKE OFF YO PANTS!” the woman yelled.

Big Problem shot her a puzzled look. “Lets go to my place Nox. This place smells like raccoons and sadness.”

“You have a place?” Tranquill asked as she grabbed her coat.

“Yeah of course. Do you guys think i only exist in the world to help ya then when i'm done i teleport to another dimension and sit around waiting for you to need help again??” “That would be very useful” Noxious replied.

“SHAZAM!” Tranquill added.

“Well that's not my power. Although i met a guy like that, nice dude, gay as a rainbow on a unicorns butt, now can we go to my place?”

“That's homophobic” Tranquill accused.

“Im quoting the guy, besides i'm a villain, social standards are the laws i’m LEAST worried about breaking.”

“We shall ride to your lair and resume our business there,” decided Noxious, “Um…. we need a ride though.”

“Heh… I'll bring the truck around but you’re going to be a little cramped.”

The truck putted down an empty highway, bellowing black smoke out from its aged, rusted exhaust. It slipped and stumbled in momentum each time Big Problem had to jam the clutch down and shift. The old metal shifter smacking into Noxious’ leg every time the lowest or highest gear was used. Tranquil, leaned in on Noxious’ shoulders affectionately, squishing him closer to BP who already took up most of the truck.

“Ok so we can start talking now. I need to know how seriously you two take this. How focused are you?”

“I take it very seriously,” Tranquill said.

“Well now you do,” Noxious contradicted.

“Well ok sure for the first few months i was pretty sure we were larping but im totally caught up now. I share his passions for this world and this work. I agree with every word of his personal diary.”

BP raised an eyebrow. “You guys share your diaries?”

“Define shaRE-” Noxious was cut off as first gear needed to be used again.

“What you two need is money.”

“We’re not greedy though,” Tranquil rolled down the window slightly, noticing her boyfriend sweating a bit due to his awkward seat status.

“OF COURSE YOU’RE NOT! You’re poor. Greed is a rich man's game. Look you don't have to have a mansion in the hills, but no one accomplishes change in the world without money. I know a guy who works for a place. That's not me being coy that's literally how you refer to his business. Anyway, he can really make the difference for you guys. How do you currently wash your money?”

Noxious spoke up before Tranquill could make a joke, “we basically don't. But we don’t make enough to require it. We have been seeking out some form of fence for jewelry or other valuable things that are easy to sell.”

“That’s adorable. Yeah just sign up at the evil guildhall and they introduce you to ye olde jewelry fence. Look little guy...”

“I AM AVERAGE SIZE!!!”

“That's why you’re sitting in the middle then?” BP says as he rams the shifter into Nox’s leg and slows at a stop sign “Anyway, hear me out. You don't just run around town looking for random junk worth money, you’re a villain not a crackhead. You need to talk to the right people, the ones i'm going to introduce you to, and find out what they would want. Sometimes it’s an object, sometimes it’s a service. Sometimes it might be something right up your alley like gassing someone or making menacing threats.”

Tranquill chimed in, “this is what we need, he makes so many menacing threats for free currently.”

“Exactly. Now if ya find a bar of gold on the ground, or happen upon a car made of diamonds, then sure you bet your ass you take it and just give it to the guy and he’ll give you credit. But nothing compares to what you can make by finding them just what they need at a given time… Ok we’re here.”

The truck pulls up to an old iron security gate. Before them is a long driveway, weaving through clusters of lavish landscaping. He presses a button on the worn out sun visor then shuts it as the fabric nearly tears. The gate in front of them opens and he begins driving through.

“Wait… When… What…” Noxious stuttered, “ARE WE ROBBING SOMEONE RIGHT NOW?!”

“Yeah cause if we were, im wanting you to just scream about it,“ BP joked, “no this is my house, and it's nice to know you seeing it makes you want to rob it. Guess i'm doing a good job with it. Were gonna pull around back, wait, how the hell would i have a gate opener for a place i'm robbing?”

“I don't know…. Stole it ahead of time? Hacked it?” noxious knew he was digging his own grave deeper.

They pulled around to the back of the quite sizable home and into a ramp leading to a parking garage, one story below ground. This presented a stark contrast to the lush gardens they had recently passed. This basement was empty and plain, with a sofa on one wall crowded around a large tv, and a bed across the way on the adjacent wall. BP slowly pulled into a parking spot next to a luxurious looking car.

“See look at this place we have WAY more privacy to talk here. The whole place is sound proof. I'll have Alfred order a pizza and we can start talking about real business.”

“No you have to explain first,” Noxious insisted.

“Explain what?”

“EVERYTHING!”

BP leaned back on the broken tailgate of the truck “Uhhh… So in the beginning there was nothing, then BAM than mars and stars and cows and shit.”

“How about first WHO’S ALFRED?”

“The butler.”

“You have a butler named Alfred?” Tranquill giggled.

“Yeah i thought it would be funny.”

“What would be?” Noxious asked, getting dizzy at all he's had to take in.

“To name my butler Alfred.”

“WAIT YOU NAMED A BUTLER?” Tranquill protested in sheer confusion.

“You guys have a hard time staying on topic.” BP guided them over to the rather homely couch and they each took a seat. “So missy. I'm gonna ask you again. How serious are you about being a criminal.”

The tone of the room became more serious all of a sudden.

“I would follow him wherever he goes. Seriously. Even into the bathroom.”

“She’s like a cat,” added Noxious.

BP interrupted them. “You need to quit your job.”

 Tranq looked at the ground for a moment. “But… My debts. I worked hard to get a job in my field.”

“And you'll never be worse off for it, you'll take those skills with you into whatever you do but do you really wanna be working an office job when the cops show up? You guys have to start living this, it ain't the kinda lifestyle someone does on the weekends. You gotta be done with the nine to five, done with the rented storage shack and done with the BS small time jobs. I want you guys to move your lair in here, i want you guys to start taking jobs with me and get yourselves a proper home. I want you guys to win on this and i'll help but if it's not what you want, what you truly desire, then you gotta walk away before someone gets hurt.”

“This is…. A lot.”

Noxious stepped forward. “My burden of fixing this world is not something i want dragged into.”

BP stood up to outmatch noxious in height if not determination. “You’re not going to get what you want without help.”

A moment went by. The two of them stood in a quiet stillness like an old western movie. The energy seemed aggressive but it felt more compassionate than that. Noxious knew that in this moment BP was not questioning his motive, but instead he's being forced to question it himself.

“I want to quit my job,” Tranquil broke the silence, “I want out of that stupid storage container. I want the neighbor girl to stop whistling when i wash the van. I WANT TO GET RID OF THE VAN! I HATE THE STUPID VAN!”

“I HATE THE VAN TOO!” Noxious matched her energy “I HATE THE STUPID SHIFTER KNOB! It has no button and my thumb sits on the side of it funny.”

“I hate my job. I hate my debt. “

“Even if the button didn't function, it should still be there.”

“I hate all of my co workers. All of them. There's not one redeemable thought made in that building all day. I hate work i hate school and i hate everyone. That’s why i'm here. I want to wreck this world not just live in it.”

“THIS IS WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT! LET'S KICK THE WORLD IN THE FACE!” BP grabbed a beer.

Noxious moved his hand in a ‘kinda’ gesture. “I'm more on the fixing it side… With gas.”

“YEAH let's tear down society!!!” Tranquill exclaimed.

“I'm like… Chaotic good if anything.”

“LET'S KICK LIFE IN THE BABY MAKER AND MAKE OUR OWN WAY!!!”

Noxious looked at both of them. “Screw it, burn the world down” he said as he reached down for a beer for him and Tranquill. They all clanked cans, BP and Tranq opened and chugged their beers. Noxious paused for a moment, then opened his beer, pulled up his mask and met their pace.

-----------------------supersecretspecialdeletedpatreonexclusivelike&subscribeOVENDING

“He was choking me man. He threatened me!”

“Who?”

“The little gas mask guy. The one from space 25.”

“Oh him. Leave em alone he just talks that way.”

“BUT HE THREATENED TO GAS ME!!”

“Out of everyone in this whole park he's the only one who visits my mom. No clue how they met but she loves the little guy. He's got a big heart. Since he's been around her depression is unnoticeable. She's baking more, laughing more. Seeing her happy and tasting her food again has lifted my spirits too. Leave him be, he makes people happy.”

[heartbxnd-blog]

-5, 11, 13, 17 and 35 ;v-

@obliviouskind

the be honest meme.   aka things you lowkey want to talk about but don’t because you don’t know how to bring it up. send me a number and i’ll tell you the honest truth. either a simple yes or no answer or a detailed response.[Accepting]

read more bc of length!

5.Do you prefer interacting with male muses or female more? Why?

// It depends on the muse I am writing, but from all of the years I have been rping- I have given a larger prefence for male muses simply because overall I’ve had a better time with the muns of those muses.

I honestly don’t care about the gender of a muse- unless estabilishing a shipping comes into play.

In the past however it would be a lot easier to notice this preference, because I had an AWFUL experience with quite a large number of muns who wrote female muses in an old fandom I used to be in.

But I can tell you how from my experience- the muns behind male muses ended up turning out to be a lot nicer to me than those with female ones. Obviously I am not saying this is the rule nor this is 100% of the cases (I’ve had my fair share of assholes).

In the end of the day: It all depends on the mun really. If I don’t get along with the mun, then the muse most definetely won’t fix things up between us.

11.What do you know now about rp that you wish you knew when you first started?

Don’t jump into people all of the sudden- don’t be too upfront? Or like- I just followed you and suddenly I’m blasting your DMs about rps. Communication is key to interactions, but it can scare people away from you if you aren’t careful with the way you word your messages;

If you write an OC, don’t put ties to canon muses- or if you do. Then don’t expect others to follow through it, just to suit your fanfiction needs. When I first joined tumblr rp, I was introduced to it by someone who would pull this crap-- and I thought that was how things went through around here. Boy was I so wrong........;

I wished I knew about Reblog karma/reblogging from the source when I started here;

Fictional kins are trash, 9/10 times they will use it as a way to dodge your criticisms and step into your boundaries so they can get off to whatever their pea sized brain wants;

Don’t waste your time arguing with people- especially about politics/social issues/etc. a Roleplay blog shouldn’t be used for you to push your propaganda;

No concept/idea/plot/etc. is 100% original, don’t brag about possibly being the only one who writes about a certain subject or way. Just don’t;

Trust your gut instincts- if something on someone rubs you in the wrong way, you better listen to it.

13. Have you ever thought about leaving rp? What caused it? What changed your mind?

// This.........Has been a thing lately.

Although it wouldn’t be leaving RPing altogether, rather rping on tumblr. Because I am so fucking tired of ppl trying to bring up SJ/politics into roleplaying, I swear to God it isn’t even funny.

C’mon guys keep your tr.ump hating boners in a side blog or somewhere else, I am here to write about these fictional characters in their fictional world not to be called a white supremacist just because I don’t agree with your mental gymnastics extrimist views.

Seriously fuck off y’all irrelevant it is to a fictional fantasy based rp.

News flash: If all that you do is just type away in anger on your Tumblr RP blog, but never participate in any kind of protest, support entities that are there to help your cause (whatever it may be), etc. Then you are as good as a dead weight for your so called cause. Oh and please no need to try and brag about it alright? It is very easy to tell people who actually support these causes, from those who are just there looking for brownie validation points.

17.Have you ever sent a message to yourself on anon? Why?

// On a few occasions, although it was simply because of a few prompts that I was dying to do- but knew I wouldn’t get any sent to me (mainly those about shipping verses, and some headcanon ones).

But if you are asking about sending hate to myself, to try and play the victim role so people can go and giveme attention over it???? Fuck no, do you think I am a spoiled 5 years old?

35.Do you read other people’s threads or do you only read your own?

// I really wished I had the energy and the time to follow other people’s threads!

Unfortunately that isn’t possible.

[fieryrondo]

my top 25 favorite programs from the 2017-2018 season

So. We survived Olympic season. (Or did we?)

A few lessons gleaned from the past ten months: 

the season is indeed long

momentum is fleeting

in the wake of disaster there will always be skaters who shine (thank god)

eating pineapples and writing prayer fic is extremely therapeutic

Olympics hype really is all that

being an fs fan is equal parts suffering and reward, though often times it seems more of the former and less of the latter.

See below for twenty five of my favorite programs from what has been a most tumultuous season, roughly in order of enjoyment. There is no rhyme or reason to this list as it is purely subjective based on my taste, which is already questionable to begin with. To avoid cluttering the top spots with skaters I absolutely stan and would gladly die for, I have limited myself to one skater per program.

Re: performances from Olympics. It was notoriously difficult to find footage for many of these skates. Thanks ISU I’ve done my best to link to broadcast footage whenever possible but have resorted to a few fancam links for some of these performances. Please do not manipulate fancam footage without permission from the uploader; I’ve been guilty of reblogging gif-sets made from fancam footage (which 99% of the time have the watermark removed and are clearly uploaded without consent and credit to the fancam creator) and am now trying to be careful with what I reblog.

Without further ado, here are my top picks:

25. Jimmy Ma’s SP, Propaganda/Turn Down for What, 2018 US National Championships

A guilty pleasure but something this fun can’t be bad right? This is the kind of skating program I’d show to friends and family in real life who dismiss figure skating as a dated sport characterized by heavily used classical warhorse music almost everyone recognizes but can’t actually name.

24. Ross Miner’s FS, Queen Medley, 2018 US National Championships

While Nathan skated a very technically strong program at US Nationals, the free skate of the night for me went to Ross Miner, who roused the crowd into a roar when he had the skate of his career and made a convincing bid for the Olympic team. Fun and electric, this program sparkled with energy from start to finish.

23. Moa Iwano’s SP, Asturias, 2017 JGP Austria

I generally don’t pay much attention to the junior skaters (so much skating, so little time!), but this talented lady from Kobe caught my eye during the JGP series. There were quite a few tangos this season but this one was by far the best one (that’s right, the best tango this season came from a 13-year-old). While her jump technique is not the best, Moa has an impressive sense of musicality beyond most skaters her age. I’ll definitely be following her more closely in the seasons to come.

22. Keegan Messing’s FS, Chaplin Medley, 2018 Pyeongchang Olympics

Thanks to a certain Spanish skater, I’ve developed a soft spot for Chaplin programs and while Keegan didn’t manage to skate this program clean, I really enjoyed it. It’s cheeky, charming, charismatic and full of fun choreographic details that bring the program to life. With an exodus of Canadian men retiring this season, Keegan will be among the oldest. He really hit his stride this season; here’s hoping he snags his first Canadian title next season!

21. Patrick Chan’s FS, Hallelujah, 2017 Skate Canada

Enjoyed...is not quite the right word to describe my feelings when I saw this particular skate via live stream. Shocked to pieces was more like it, and perhaps an overwhelming sadness to see him struggle so much. This skate would set the tone for the rest of Patrick’s final competitive season--a mentally, physically and emotionally taxing end to a competitive career most skaters can only dream of having. While this skate was a technical disaster--he skated a total of only two clean triples--it is nonetheless beautiful in the way a withering flower is; a remnant of elegance, an echo of years of skill, a lament for what could have been.

20. Yuna Shiraiwa’s FS, Pictures at an Exhibition, 2017 Internationaux de France

I had a hard time with this one because I adore both of Yuna’s programs this season, set to two very interesting pieces of music. Her FS, “Pictures at an Exhibition” won by a slim margin mostly because I love Mussorgsky and “Pictures at an Exhibition” is one of my favorite suites of all time--I also realize now that it’s really really difficult music to skate to because of the million tempo changes, key changes and the fact that half of the movements are very slow and not at all suited to skating. It’s a highly ambitious program for a 15-year-old and choreographically there are a couple of abrupt music changes that break up the flow (it’s mostly variations of the Promenade theme with a few other movements spliced in) but I really appreciated the challenge she took with a riskier but interesting piece of music. Looking forward to more exciting programs next season!

19. Nathan Chen’s FS, Mao’s Last Dancer, 2017 US International Classic

Super early in the season when skater after skater hopped onboard the recycling train like there was no tomorrow, I was ecstatic to hear Nathan bring forth two brand new programs. While Nemesis proved to be an instant hit, I was drawn to the free, an intriguing blend of Chinese music and Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring (avant-garde eargasm!!!). Mao’s Last Dancer had the potential to become a truly memorable and complete program. While the strategy to strip down the choreography in favor of hitting the technical elements later in the season was a practical choice, alas the performance I enjoyed the most happened to be its debut. 

18. Cheng Peng/Yang Jin’s SP, Assassin’s Tango, 2017 Finlandia Trophy

What a rough season they’ve had :/ But I loved their short program, which they only managed to skate clean internationally exactly once this season. For some reason, after Finlandia, this short never really clicked for them (missing the cutoff for the free at Olympics was tragic) and they ended up returning to their tried and tested short from last season for their post-Olympics redemption in Milan. It’s a cute and fun program and they skated it best here.

17. Vanessa James/Morgan Cipres’ FS, The Sound of Silence, 2018 World Championships

After a strong start to the season led to a lackluster 4th place finish at Europeans, James/Cipres scrapped their initial free program to return to a program they were much more comfortable with, a strategic move that paid off when they rebounded at the Olympics and at Worlds with season’s bests and a shiny Worlds medal :) While it is not a technically perfect performance (see their 2017 World Team Trophy for a clean skate), there’s a lot of power and passion in it.

16. Carolina Kostner’s SP, Ne me quitte pas, 2018 World Championships

Simply divine! I have nothing else to add except that this was a breathtakingly exquisite performance, and I’m glad Carolina was able to perform this program to perfection in front of her home crowd.

15. Maia Shibutani/Alex Shibutani’s FD, Paradise, 2018 Pyeongchang Olympics

I admit I wasn’t immediately sold on the Shibutanis’ final program to their self-proclaimed “Trilogy”. “Fix You” was an amazing program, the best program of their career so far, and as with all sequels, it was tough to imagine “Paradise” could be better. But somehow things started to pull together once they made a few tweaks midway through the season and they pulled off a magical performance in Pyeongchang. Technically brilliant but also brimming with emotion, a performance absolutely worthy of Olympic bronze.

14. Elizabet Tursynbaeva’s FS, The Prayer, 2017 Internationaux de France

I fell in love with Elizabet last season (particularly her free skate to “Princess Mononoke”) and was very excited to see what programs should would do next. And she did not disappoint. Besides having the only acceptable Carmen this season, I also loved her free skate to Celine Dion’s “The Prayer”- it’s light and lyrical, a good fit for her. She still rushes through the choreography and some of her spins look really weird to me but she has made enormous strides in her presentation despite being hampered with a serious hip injury midway through the season. She’s lovely to watch, so floaty and quick over the ice.

13. Adam Rippon’s FS, Birds, 2017 NHK Trophy

What can I say? I loved this program last season and seeing it again this season was even more spectacular. The attentiveness to the music, the choreographic touches with bird movements, the meditative atmosphere. It’s just a very beautiful program. Adam has such a vibrant personality that obviously shines in his more “showy” programs, but I think I enjoy seeing his softer, lyrical programs best. 

12. Wenjing Sui/Cong Han’s FS, Turandot, 2017 NHK Trophy

As a fairly new fan, I don’t have the same level of distaste for warhorses as veteran fans do (I imagine this will change once I have more years of figure skating watching under my belt). It’s not as poignant or as memorable as “Bridge Over Troubled Waters” from last season, but I admit I still very much enjoyed this skate, if only because Sui/Han were the ones skating it. Did I wish they had picked something a little more interesting? Yes, but they’re Sui/Han. They can make anything look good.

11. Kana Muramoto/Chris Reed’s FD, The Last Emperor/Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence, 2018 World Championships

Kana is the best thing that has ever happened to Japanese ice dance (Chris, you’re cool too.) I’m so weak for this genre of music and ever since I discovered a certain tiny queen skated to Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence, I’ve been waiting to hear it again. I’m a sucker for nature imagery and you really get the sensation of the passage of time and the movement of the seasons. Watching this is like taking a breath of spring air.

10. Boyang Jin’s SP, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, 2018 Four Continents Championships

Meh movie, great music. My favorite Boyang program to date, it was really exciting to see him attempt something more serious, a heftier program that would expand the emotional range of his skating. His short program was brilliant at Olympics, but I enjoyed Four Continents a little more because it was such a comeback after an injury-filled first half of the season. Out of the new generation of rising quadsters, he’s made the most improvement and I have no doubt he’ll continue to grow over the next quad. Onwards and upwards, Boyang!

9. Madison Hubbell/Zachary Donohue’s FD, Across the Sky/Caught Out in the Rain, 2018 US National Championships

My favorite free dance of the season! You can always count on Hubbell/Donohue to do something a little offbeat. Blues is a bit of an unusual choice of music for a free dance (which tend to be either lyrical or warhorsey drama) but it fits them like a glove. After building some good momentum earlier this season, a few fatal errors in the free including an invalidated choreographic sequence left them trailing in 4th, just shy of the podium at the Olympics. They rebounded to claim their first Worlds medal a month later, which was a special moment to witness but I felt their Nationals performance was the most passionately skated.

8. Tatsuki Machida’s EX, Swan Lake: Siegfried and His Destiny, 2017 Carnival on Ice

Go big or go home. The time and technical requirements of amateur competition are clearly too restrictive for Tatsuki’s genius :) Why cram the greatest hits of Swan Lake into a paltry two-minute program when you can really do it justice by skating to it for almost eight minutes instead? Tatsuki spares no expense for his epic-length programs. Every moment is meticulously thought out and is as extra af. We’re treated to almost a minute of dramatic music and a skater-less spotlight before Tatsuki appears. The star of Swan Lake is typically the swan (or the black swan) but no, that’s too conventional; let’s make Siegfried the guy everyone’s talking about instead. Drama hands! Floofy hair action! Seven straight seconds of twizzles in time with the tempo change! Dramatique feather posing because why not. Did that twenty seconds of absolute silence between movements make you uncomfortable? Good, because it’s all eyes on me! Skating so gorgeous you wouldn’t even notice there are only two jumps (both amazingly timed to the music), this is a visual and aural feast for the eyes. It’s a Swan Lake to outclass all other Swan Lakes that have been, that are, and that will be.

7. Akiko Suzuki’s EX, O, 2018 The Legends

[inserts crying emoji] A regret I have is not becoming a fan when Akiko was still skating competitively. I love this program soso much and seeing it brought back again was a real treat. The choreographic sequence still sends shivers down my spine <333

6. Tessa Virtue/Scott Moir’s FD, Moulin Rouge, 2018 Pyeongchang Olympics

Scintillating. Flawless. The pinnacle of ice dance. It’s the kind of performance that just sears into your mind for a long, long time. Though they didn’t get perfect marks here, it’s as perfect a skate you’ll find.

5. Wakaba Higuchi’s FS, Skyfall, 2018 World Championships

Such a cool and sleek program. I like the blue dress more than this one but this was easily the free skate of the ladies in Milan for me. A passionate and powerful skate, it was really nice to see Wakaba come back strong after a disappointing Nationals finish and hit it at Worlds. Reigning World Silver Medalist! (now please give her the PCS she deserves)

4. Aliona Savchenko/Bruno Massot’s FS, La terre vue du ciel, 2018 Pyeongchang Olympics

Wow. Just wow. I went in as a Sui/Han fan but wow, this free skate is gorgeous and sweeps me away every time I watch it. And they performed it to perfection at GPF, Olympics, and Worlds. The choreography is amazing and unique, and apparently full of little touches to previous programs (like the star catching moment from “The Lighthouse”, their free program last season). Dominant, majestic, and absolutely exhilarating to watch. I can watch this again and again and never tire of it.

3. Satoko Miyahara’s FS, Madame Butterfly, 2017-18 Japanese National Championships

While her short program is more loved (as it should be, it is an amazing work of art, Lori really outdid herself, you should go watch it ^^), I think I enjoyed her free skate more simply because it’s given her so many Moments this season. Coming back from a slew of injuries, including a serious hip injury from last season, it was highly questionable if she would even be able to make it to the Olympics at all. But Satoko silenced all doubters again and again, at Skate America and then at Japanese Nationals, where she gave the free skate of her career with an emotive and stunning performance that carried her to her Olympic dream on butterfly wings ^^. Triumphant, mesmeric, spectacular-it is a Madame Butterfly that rewrites the tragic ending into one of hope, a story that is entirely Satoko’s.

2. Javier Fernandez’s FS, Man of La Mancha, 2018 Pyeongchang Olympics

(password to video link: man of la mancha)

A skater from a small federation, from a country where figure skating barely exists, Javier has written history again and again. And what a journey it has been! From finishing 35th at his first Worlds appearance in 2007, Javier would go on to qualify for his first Olympics in Vancouver and become the first Spanish skater to win Europeans, to win Worlds, and ultimately, to win an Olympic medal. It feels appropriate that “Man of La Mancha”, an unapologetically Spanish program that perfectly captures the essence of Javier’s career--”to dream the impossible dream”--is to be the program to stake his Olympic dream on, And his Olympic dream truly seemed almost impossible in the months leading up to Pyeongchang. An uncharacteristically disastrous free at the Cup of China disqualified him from making the Grand Prix Final for the first time since 2013. And while his Chaplin short clicked for him (also excellent, highly recommended), he struggled with the free all season long. Unabashedly romantic, with just the right amount of earnest cheese (the best kind) and aged whimsy, “Man of La Mancha” is my favorite Javier free skate and I’m so glad he was able to skate it to its fullest potential at the competition that mattered most.

1. Yuzuru Hanyu’s FS, Seimei, 2018 Pyeongchang Olympics

What makes a skate great? Legendary? Memorable? It’s easy to jump to the pristine “Seimei” in Barcelona, the ethereal cleanliness of “Hope & Legacy” in Helsinki, or even the world-record breaking (again) “Ballade No.1″ in Montreal. While all of these skates are indeed great, legendary, and certainly memorable, I find my thoughts turning instead to a young seventeen-year-old Romeo in Nice, unleashing his battle cry after a dramatic fall as he fought through a sprained ankle to win his first Worlds medal. Clean performances are definitely great, but great skates don’t need to be clean. At the end of the day, what makes a skate great is in the struggles overcome, hardships endured, fears mastered, doubts silenced; in spite of it all, to manage to find joy and fulfillment in not only what you have accomplished but also in the thorny path that has led you there. It’s not as perfect as Barcelona, but the Seimei in Pyeongchang offers a different kind of magnificence, a triumph in more ways than one.

[origami-goblin]

Complete Starfinder Theme Series - Creation Tips and Character Concepts

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Part 1 - Sculpting Your Backstory - Themes in Starfinder

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Creating characters in tabletop RPGs is an art. Before we even put a pen to the page, our minds might already have a vision of our character’s impulsive habits, their fatal flaws, and their love of honeyed candies. We pick up the misshapen ball of clay and sculpt details until our character is standing there, breathing on the page before our very eyes. To put it simply, a part of ourselves becomes attached to that player and we can usually see our own faces staring back at us. It can give us the opportunity to address shortcomings that we have or learn to see things from a different perspective. So, in a way, we level up in RL along with our characters.

But how do you start with a broad idea and hammer out the dents to end up with a fully-fledged character? In Dungeons and Dragons 5E we could start with a Background, like a Sailor or a Noble, and we also received prompts to determine flaws, bonds, and ideals to help breathe life into our newborns. Pathfinder didn’t have much specifically in terms of backgrounds to choose from, but we could choose specific traits that had some backstory to get the wheels turning. With Starfinder, we are presented with one word: theme.

Instantly I’m reminded of the scene in A Christmas Story when Ralphie’s class is assigned the arduous task of writing a theme centered around what they wanted for Christmas (Red Rider BB Gun, anyone?). Starfinder doesn’t appear to leave us with a similar length of creative rope; only ten options? Really? How am I supposed to develop an original history and genealogy of my character when I’m shoehorned into a limiting background from the beginning?

That’s where I’ll jump in to say that you’re wrong to think that way. Honestly, I LOVE that we are limited to a single choice of ten themes. For one, we already know that there are an extensive number of Feats to choose from and having more starting options to memorize on top of those would simply be too much for a game trying to simplify the rules and character creation process. Secondly, I’m a firm believer that limitations and restrictions breed more creativity than rabbits at a carrot festival. They force us to approach our characters with a fresh perspective. Let’s look at the Icon theme, for example:

Icon Character Concepts

“Thanks to interstellar transmissions and Drift travel, the galaxy is smaller than ever, and this connectivity has facilitated your ascension to celebrity status. You might be a famous performer or a celebrated scientist, but either way, you get recognized on the Pact Worlds and in associated systems. Your reason for traveling to unknown worlds might be to further spread your acclaim or to escape the limelight.” - Starfinder CRB

Popular and respected celebrity who can leverage the public’s adoration for specific needs.

Alright, so this describes a character that everybody knows, for some reason or another. The way that it is phrased, it seems like notoriety isn’t completely out of the question, but it is definitely a gray area. So…for what reasons could somebody be famous on an interstellar level?

Pop Icon - Music, dance, special FX, etc. Maybe you’re part of a galactic Blue Man Group or you’re a Kardashian of the Pact Worlds.

Renowned Scientist - You’ve made leaps and bounds in the discoveries of other species and planets. You could be a geologist specializing in the terraformation of planetary features or an intelligent botanist who has cataloged countless samples from neighboring star systems.

Political Propaganda - Your face was used as part of a political campaign for your Home Planet and you are recognized everywhere you go - it’s kind of like being the Coppertone baby or Justin Long from Apple commercials.

Luxurious Billionaire - Part of a historic family, you grew up in the limelight. Every waking moment was scrutinized because you had to live up to your family’s name. Why you don’t have any of that wealth now…that’s up for you to decide.

Skilled Athlete - Having scored the winning goal in the Interplanetary Scrooving Cup, you brought honor, wealth, and fame to your previously unimportant home planet. It doesn’t have to be scrooving, of course (especially since I haven’t invented the rules…yet), but it could be a podracing variant or even a form of space-jousting.

You see, all it takes is a single word to have a canvas on which to build your character. On any of the examples above, you probably have a loose framework of how that person would act; the scientist might bravely charge into the unknown for the sake of scientific discovery, or the athlete might live a shallow life outside of their matches.

Be bold and stretch your imagination. We are no longer limited by the atmosphere.

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Part 2 - Starfinder Theme Focus - Ace Pilots and Bounty Hunters

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This week I’m going back to the scene of the crime to revisit the themes in Starfinder and offer some possible avenues down which you can direct your creative character-building energies. In case you’re completely in the dark on this topic, Starfinder introduces the concept of themes that you can use as a small puzzle piece in sculpting your character. In addition to providing some RP definition, each theme will give your character a boost to a specific stat and bonuses at 1st, 6th, 12th, and 18th level. As an aside, Paizo’s choice to have the theme progression remain identical throughout the possible selections helps to limit the min-maxing a bit, by ensuring that players aren’t choosing themes based on whichever ones grant them bonuses the soonest. Of course, the bonuses that each theme provides inherently enable some level of power-gaming, but that is going to be the case with nearly any pen-and-paper PRG.

Last time, as a part of my deeper dive into themes, I specifically touched on the Icon and listed several examples of character concepts that a player could use when creating a Startfinder character kissed by the Icon theme. The point of the post was to show that themes aren’t meant to limit creativity; they foster it. Just as there’s no wrong way to eat a Reese’s, there are countless interpretations to each theme and the characters that can be molded into existence. Today, I’ll be firing up my brain engine to offer some different charger ideas for the Ace Pilot and Bounty Hunter themes. Buckle up, we’re making the jump!

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Ace Pilot Character Concepts

“You are most comfortable at the controls of a vehicle, whether it’s a starship racing through the inky void of space or a ground vehicle zooming between trees, around boulders, and across dusty badlands. You might be a member of an elite military force, the recipient of intense courses of training. Alternatively, you might be a total amateur with innate skills that make you a much-admired hotshot.” – Starfinder CRB

Cargo Transport Pilot – You’ve been on the open road…er…space your whole life. Maybe you enjoy the solitude that comes with transporting outrageous quantities of goods across planets or star systems. These goods could be anything – weapons, construction materials, medical devices. Or maybe it’s a grab bag and half of the excitement stems from wondering what the next shipment will contain. The many laws governing tariffs & import/export taxes come second-nature, and your expertise in maneuvering an unruly behemoth transport ship is unrivaled. I’m sure you have some fantastic stories about the characters that you’ve met at depots and docks along the way. Have you operated with a crew or are you more of a lone wolf? Are you ‘by the book’ or are you known to bend the rules when regulations aren’t being followed? And hey, I’m not going to judge if you smuggle something every now and again – that’s completely up to you.

Mining Rig Operator – A specialist when it comes to operating heavy machinery, and someone who’s not afraid to get their hands dirty. Whether it be a massive drill, asteroid borer, front-end loader, or excavator, you have the honed precision required of someone who could easily level a structure or cause a fatality with a minor slip of the controls. You might harbor a deep love of geology, wealth, or the smell of space-diesel. If you’ve seen Disney’s Atlantis, Gaetan ‘The Mole’ comes to mind here, in all his grimy glory. Has mining been in your family for generations, or were you trying to make some credits in whatever profession was available? Have you pocketed any of your unearthed materials and sold them on the sly? What sort of role would you have on a starship that isn’t a dedicated mining vessel?

Stunt Driver – Inhabitants of the Pact Worlds crave entertainment, and you know how to deliver. From hologram tapes to over-capacity arenas, the lengths you go to appease your audiences is unmatched. How do you prepare yourself mentally to be fearless? Is there any stunt that you won’t do? Huge flames, steep jumps, free-falling acrobatics – you’ve done it all! Have you become an adventurer to satisfy a new craving that’s suddenly emerged deep inside? Are you an adrenaline junky with no care for your personal safety? Or are you THAT confident in your abilities that you simply must show them off at every opportunity?  

Military Training Pilot – You’ve risen through the ranks of a military sect, but you figured that you’re done with combat missions. Instead, you are now responsible for grooming the fresh batch of hot-heads in the Academy to ensure that engagements end favorably at the minimal loss of life and equipment. You could be highly decorated and revered by all, or maybe you’ve never actually seen combat but have a brilliant mind for tactics and strategy. Did you develop a sophisticated training module for recruits? Are you a master of physics and can perform complex equations regarding acceleration, drag, and gravity on the fly? Maybe you’re not pleased about being given a non-combative assignment and yearn to be back in the fight, wherever that might be.

Getaway Driver – You’ll ‘wait in the car.’ You know the best nooks and crannies to hide in after a successful operation, be it a heist or a GTA. Apart from having nerves of steel, your ability to handle any vehicle makes you highly coveted in the high-stakes game of evading the authorities. Perhaps you have a catchy pseudonym, like “Leadfoot” or “Afterburner” that adds an edge of mystery to your growing legend. Are you available for hire depending on the highest bidder, or are you loyal to a dedicated group of criminals? Or maybe you’re not a criminal at all, and you’re an undercover agent networking to root out the top dogs of the criminal world. What drives you (pun intended) and keeps your foot on the accelerator? I haven’t seen Baby Driver, but I imagine that he would make for a fun Starfinder character.

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Bounty Hunter Character Concepts

“You track people down for money. It is a dangerous profession, as most of your targets understandably don’t wish to be caught. You wouldn’t have it any other way. You might have a code of ethics, never taking jobs that, say, target children or members of your own race. You might hunt down only escaped criminals. Or you might be completely amoral, taking any job that comes along—for the right price.” – Starfinder CRB

Great Mouse Detective – Maybe I’m getting a little ahead of myself on this one, but a Ysoki Detective? Come on! Okay, we can drop the ‘mouse’ portion of this to generalize it a bit, but a detective makes for a great Bounty Hunter. Searching for clues? Check. Interrogating witnesses? Check. An independent free-lancer? Check, check, check. Now all we need is a mahogany pipe that functions while wearing an airtight, pressurized helmet. Are you a Private Investigator, helping people track down lost relatives? Do you offer your services on a contract basis, assisting the local authorities when your services are required? Maybe you’re exceptional at finding clues, or adept at making accurate deductions based on the information on-hand. Or perhaps your forte involves the canvassing of a crime scene to gather the word on the street, or you could be skilled at poring over historical documents and ancestry lineages.

Gung-Ho Repo-Man – It’s time to pay the piper. Whether it be collecting vehicles or ships that have defaulted loans, or shaking down debtors who are skipping town without paying back the credits owed, there are plenty of avenues to venture down as a repo-man (or woman). Are you employed by a roving band of outlaws or by a seedy brand of space mafia? Do you find honor in returning to others what is rightfully theirs? You can be cold and calculated, or a wild child with a smoking gun. Do you believe in using violence to get the job done, by obtaining the required items by whatever means necessary? Or do you have a strict code of conduct and will only resort to fighting if it is absolutely necessary and all other accessible routes have been exhausted? Either way, you get the job done and collect that paycheck, because if someone is going to get paid, it might as well be you.  

Corporate Headhunter – Everybody’s looking for that perfect candidate to fill the shoes and help their company prosper. Sure, you’re a bounty hunter, but you aren’t collecting the reward on some beat-up Toyota Star-is or trying to bring in a fugitive; you are trying to find the right people and put them in the right seats. Corporations pay you top dollar (after six months) when you track down someone with the appropriate skillset and convince them to accept a position at their firms. You have an absurd eye for noticing talent, even when it isn’t a skill that people recognize themselves as having. These aren’t rush jobs; you know that the only way to scout ability is to dig in beyond the resume and get to know the person behind the paper. Whittling down long lists of candidates to a select few and engaging them in social situations is your true calling, and you truly want them to succeed. If they’re not a fit, it’s on to the next one until you find that diamond in the rough.

Pre-Gap Antiquarian – Not much is known about the Gap (that’s why it’s called ‘the Gap’), but you recognize that there is much to be learned about the past, and that the key to unlocking the secrets of what we’ve collectively forgotten lies in the relics that remain. You seek out machinery, trinkets, baubles, clothing – any odds and ends whose origins have long since been forgotten. Perhaps you scour through old histories and manuscripts, trying to locate legendary items of extraordinary power. Do you have magic at your disposal to aid you in your search, ala a dowsing rod? Do you gravitate towards items of a certain kind, like ancient weapons? What draws you to these items in the first place? Maybe there have been stories passed down through your family and you became attached to them, bringing nostalgia into the mix. Or maybe you believe that the way technology is progressing leaves people disconnected with nature or causes us to lack the stronger bond that comes in a slower-moving culture. You probably hoard some of your treasures and keep an exceptionally special item on your person. You could be a hoarder, or run a shop that deals in the sale and acquisition of oddities and antiques.

Zealous Proselytizer – Instead of being driven by the promise of gold or riches, you seek out the good fortune that comes from your deity looking favorably upon you. Whether it be Talavet, Weydan or any deity in between, you seek out others in attempt to show them the enlightenment that comes with becoming a follower. In a way, you are a bounty hunter of souls. Maybe you preach openly in front of large crowds and then try to personally recruit the ones who come up to your afterwards who show interest and promise. Or perhaps you spend more time watching and listening, following people whose dispositions align best with your deity’s tenets. You don’t necessarily have to be pushy, but you certainly could get aggressive if you become frustrated with your efforts. What if they don’t see the world as you see it? You might not be terribly high on the totem pole, either; you could be passing out leaflets in hopes that you ascend the ranks if you make your quota. Do you have a quota? If so, is it more of a personal goal or an appointed goal? What if you’re not aligned with a deity at all, but you hop between them depending on the one that grants the most benefits? After all, nobody’s perfect.

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And there you have it! Since I’ve already done the Icon in a previous post, our next stop will be the Mercenary and Outlaw themes. I’m really looking forward to these two, as they both have a negative connotation and I want to see if we can’t shrug off those predispositions and put a positive spin on them! The main problem I have with posts like these is that I want to start putting together a bunch of characters, most of which will never see the light of day. So, please - create! I shall live through your characters!

Until next time – the stars aren’t the limit; they’re only the beginning.

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Part 3 - Starfinder Theme Focus - Mercenaries and Outlaws

Three down, seven to go! I’ve decided that I might as well just knock out the remaining themes all in a row so that at the very least they’ll be crammed together on the blog in a loose semblance of order. Check back on the first two posts if you want a bit of background on the Starfinder Themes and the role they play in character creation. There isn’t much more I can expand on regarding themes specifically, so maybe I’ll just impart a few thoughts on backstories as little tidbits for you to ruminate on. Maybe I’ll sprinkle some powdered sugar on top. Maybe!

The point of a backstory is provide a framework and serve as a backdrop for your character - what do they believe? What quirks do they have? Why are they the way that they are? We are all products of our environments, and it is that environment that you are trying to envision. Leave spaces in the narrative to come out during the game; if you fill in every tiny detail then there won’t be anything for the GM to work with and incorporate into the story. Loose ends are the best! They can be woven into the narrative in order to enhance the game. Even if you’re playing a prewritten Adventure Path or Module, a good GM will use the gaps in your backstory to help engage your PC and keep them interested. And when you’re talking about the sheet expanse of the Vast in Starfinder, let your imagination run rampant on WHO your character is! Themes are a nice paste you can spread over your character to stick new things on top of.

Alright - now we are primed to talk about the Mercenary and Outlaw themes. There is a “bad boy” mentality that naturally comes into the conversation with each of these, by lets see if we can list out five brief theme concepts that stretch the boundaries of the basic definitions of these words.

Mercenary Character Concepts

“Whether you take jobs that match your ethical beliefs or you fight for anyone who can afford your services, you are a hired gun. You might take pride in your past accomplishments, proudly displaying trophies of your kills, or you might be laden with guilt over being the sole survivor of a mission gone terribly wrong. You most likely work with other mercenaries and are familiar with the methodologies of military actions all across the galaxy.” - Starfinder CRB

Security Officer - You’ve always seen yourself as a protector - whether someone needs a watchful eye to make sure they stay out of trouble, or if an estate needs to reprimand unwelcome visitors, you can answer that call. Your allegiance follows the flow of credits and you won’t let your personal beliefs get in the way of whoever’s paying. Nobody’s breaking Non-Disclosure Agreements, but you wouldn’t be dissuaded from providing your security services for a direct competitor. Do you run a small-scale Security Detail or are you a division of a larger corporation? Do you specialize in a particular type of work, such as being a bodyguard or providing cyber-security? Where is your base of operations, or do you require on-site lodgings in order to provide the best service? Were you a part of a specific military before becoming involved in security or have you never tied yourself down to a specific group in that capacity? I see Michael Weston from Burn Notice as a decent example of a Mercenary in this vein - providing assistance through the completion of odd jobs and using his unique skills to outthink his opposition.

Divine Crusader - You believe that the Divine shape the universe through the people that inhabit it. And after all is said and done, and your light goes out, you want to be sure that your deeds didn’t go unnoticed from the powerful beings above. For this reason you wear every divine symbol under your shirt, prominently displaying the current recipient of your unwavering homage and devotion. For you, it isn’t a matter of lacking faith; you are just covering your spiritual bases. Or maybe you have followed a strict belief to a single deity for your entire life, pledging your devotion whole-cloth from day one. Do you play a prominent militaristic role while professing your faith or do you sell your services in a more charismatic avenue? Are you convinced that your actions are tipping the doomsday scales in your favor, or is there a crack in your faith? Have you served in any divine-fueled wars or defected from a losing side? A character falling into this category should have their religious preference tied into their backstory, which had likely followed their interests, skills, and hobbies. I can’t stop thinking of medieval crusaders in this regard, but there is a lot of flavor to dip into here.

Corporate Consultant - In the Pact Worlds, corporations might as well be planets for all the power that carry, and they probably have a militaristic presence of some kind. A corporate consultant could specialize in offering recommendations to specific equipment and weapons, or perhaps they aren’t involved in a violent capacity at all. They could be ruthless and tactical, pulling the strings from behind the curtain or offering suggestions on where to shave off the excess fat of the company. I particularly like the idea of someone walking around with a clipboard and conducting interviews with employees ala Office Space. But how does that tie to a Mercenary? Maybe it’s the company itself - weapons contractor, thugs for hire, etc. Or, perhaps the war lies between a rival corporation and you are involved in espionage and marketing attacks to gain market share. Targeted advertisements, facilities sabotage, and staged product recalls are only the tip of the iceberg.

Intergalactic Lobbyist - You have connections. We aren’t talking about a guy who does your dry cleaning or a farm with the best space radishes; these are high-level, big-time connections that puts credits in pockets and shapes the political landscape of the Pact Worlds. The companies on the money side of the table tell you which babies to kiss and which people to schmooze. If your efforts lead to a political victory, lax taxation, or breaks in long-standing mercantile tariffs, then you get paid handsomely as well. Having the backing of a wealthy corporation is influential in the complicated game of thrones and your ability to reach across planetary lines to make hands meet in a mutual agreement is second to none. Are you employed by a certain company or industry, or do you represent the lawmaking bodies? Do you have morals where you would refuse to make connections that conflict with your personal beliefs? Are you sincere in your work? Have you been known to exercise a position as a double-agent or worked to tack on seemingly insignificant riders to laws that will add up to accomplish a more grandiose goal? You’re likely trained to handle yourself in case seals go sour, and can get out of hairy situations with your wit or your weapons.

Boisterous Revolutionary - The transgressions of the current government have gone far enough and it is time for someone to lead the charge against their injustice. That someone is you. Whether it be a local affair to overthrow a village leader or an elaborate scheme to Take Down an entire planetary government, you have the tactical mind and leadership ability required to gather people behind a cause. This might not even be your brainchild - perhaps you were hired to be the face of the militaristic front or to train the rabble that will be storming the frontlines of the fight. Is your identity a secret while you infiltrate the ranks of the very government you’re trying to unravel? Are you merely a voice blasting through the sound-waves, promoting action or demanding change? Why do you fight? Is it a personal grievance or is your reasoning more utilitarian than that? How is the revolution designed to be won and what are the conditions of a victory? From a grassroots movement to an all-out war, there are loads of potential for a character who wants things to be different.

Outlaw Character Concepts

“Due to the sins of your past or your current unlawful behavior, you are a wanted individual somewhere in the Pact Worlds. You might not even be guilty and are striving to clear your good name. Or you might fully admit to being a criminal but believe the laws you break are unjust. Whatever the case, boarding a starship headed to the Vast might be just the thing you need until the heat dies down—or until you’re dragged off to prison.” - Starfinder CRB

Escaped Convict - You weren’t about to twiddle your thumbs and patiently serve out your sentence. Through careful planning, tactical bribes, and a healthy serving of luck, you have broken out of prison and now you’re on the lam. I’m sure that the going hasn’t been easy - between hiding from the law, committing other crimes to stay alive, and disguising your appearance, it’s been a challenge. Did you have anyone waiting for you on the outside, or have you been begging, borrowing, and sealing to get by? Did your escape because you were wrongfully convicted or did you have some unfinished business to take care of? Were you a part of a criminal organization that lacked direction after you were locked up? What about going forwards - do you have a new identity that you’ve been working to build? Is this a backstory within a backstory situation? Were you partially rehabilitated? Did a couple screws get popped loose while you were in the clink, or are there any specific life-changing moments after your capture and sentencing? From the details of the escape, to acquaintances made behind bars, to plans for the future, this one has some long legs you can use to take some great strides.

Undercover Vigilante - By day you work a nondescript job behind a desk but once night hits you are something else entirely. Alternate personas, white lies regarding your whereabouts, and layers of complex secrets define your alternate exploits. In your primary life you might display yourself as completely average but your other identity has an astronomical bounty on their head. What sorts of activities do you participate in while you’re on and off the clock? Are you more of a Robin Hood character or an independent crime fighter who bends the rules and laws to bring justice to those who would normally get a slap on the wrist? Are your methods questionable? Do you kill? It’s hard not to use Dexter as a point of comparison for someone who uses illegal means to ensure justice is served. Does anybody know about your double life, or do you offer your services to law enforcement agencies? Is there a contact on the force that helps you plan out your next target? Do you wear a unique costume or uniform or do you think it’s unnecessary so long as your face is hidden?

White Collar Criminal - Blood is messy and it will spoil your freshly laundered clothes. Your crimes aren’t rooted in violence of the body, but in the acquisition of funds through discreet avenues. Accounting errors, financial repossession algorithms, malicious software - you alter the bottom line of companies to fill your purse with those sweet, sweet credits. Maybe you’ve forged documents to give yourself access to places you shouldn’t be, or perhaps you’ve run pyramid schemes that have created an almost-cult following behind you. What sorts of crimes have you performed and what sorts of groups do you typically target? How large is he typical score? Do you use an alias or leave a calling card to pump up your ego or would you rather not take those unnecessary risks? Did you have an inspiration or teacher for your work, or were your skills self-taught? Is this a full-time gig or do you have another job so that your extra-curricular activities are more of a supplement? Neal Caffrey from White Collar would be a solid source of inspiration for this one, and he really is a jack-of-all-trades when it comes to these sorts of things. Think about how it translates to the world of Starfinder, where technology has progressed significantly and the possibility of scams is abundant - lemon starships, pre-Gap forgeries, and impersonations of diplomats who are literally planets away.

Petty Thief - You are small-time but that doesn’t mean you’re any less talented than the more infamous criminals who are making bigger scores than you. In your eyes, smaller is safer since people are less apt to notice and the manhunt won’t be as dedicated when a booster gets stolen off a personal starship or a couple hundred credits get swiped from a stray purse. Maybe you were raised on the streets and this has always been a part of you or maybe you’ve resorted to crime to rebel against an unfair system. Perhaps you enjoy the thrill you get from the act itself, or you like to cut it as close as possible without getting caught. Do you work independently or as a part of a team? Is there a special role that you fill? How much planning do you do before committing a crime or do you act within the moment? Are you skilled with a weapon or are your talents more in line with dexterity and a convincing tongue? Do you have a stash of Stolen Goods or do you turn around and sell the hot items right away? Is there anything that you’ve stolen that has developed sentimental value? You wouldn’t even have to have an evil alignment depending on your intentions and the severity of your crimes.

Contract Assassin - You have your target and it is your job to eliminate that target without drawing suspicion to yourself or your employer(s). Secrecy is the name of the game and nobody is more meticulous in plotting out the precise details of your operation. As such, your skills come at a high price, but people are willing to pay it knowing that you will be successful in fulfilling your end of the bargain. Your actions have ended wars and started them, reunited countries and torn them apart. From insignificant low-lifes to heavily guarded political figures, you fulfill whatever contracts are the most attractive. Are you driven by money or do you believe that the results of your actions will align with another agenda? Is there a list of prerequisites that must be fulfilled before a target becomes an acceptable contract? How do people get in contact with you? How do you provide your resume for the skeptical clientele without giving away your identity completely? My fallback isAgent 47 from the Hitman series, since he is practically more machine than man which provides an interesting dynamic for the rest of the party.

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Another two themes are in the books! Think about how you can add additional spins to these and how the other aspects of your character might tie into the Theme. Can you picture a Vesk crunching numbers and pushing papers all day just to hit the streets as a brutish enforcer at night? What about a Ysoki rubbing elbows with some of the most elite leaders in the Pact Worlds? Priests and Scholars are up next - stay tuned for more Starfinder goodness!

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Part 4 - Starfinder Theme Focus – Priests and Scholars

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As we continue our journey through the themes of Starfinder, let’s take a second to look back on what we’ve already covered. Things were unofficially kicked off in the startup article detailing each theme individually, in which we shined the spotlight on the Icon (something they’re well-versed with). We’ve discussed the daring Ace Pilot and their mastery over starships and land vehicles. Next came the bounty hunter, searching the vastness of space and overturning asteroids to unearth the location of their prey. After that we made a substantial payment to hire the Mercenary, who gladly offers their services to the party with the fattest purse. Which leaves us with our most recent acquaintance, the Outlaw, who would probably prefer that we mention them as little as possible so as not to give away their identity.

Before we get to today’s scheduled programming, I’d like to mention something about character creation that can be limiting to our creativity. It’s definitely a pitfall that I’ve succumbed to on more than one occasion, and Starfinder Themes can inadvertently recreate the situation. The problem with having specific themes or backgrounds in a tabletop game, is that by selecting one of the options we are essentially putting a label on our PC: Drake is a bounty hunter. Full stop. What tends to happen, is that we have a predisposed definition of ‘bounty hunter’ in our minds; it is a mold that we casually place our character into before we have rolled a single die. It can be limiting and stifling to our creativity, even if we don’t initially see it that way.

Try to get into the habit of generalizing the themes and backgrounds so that all of the stereotypical noise is stripped away, leaving you with a beautiful, hollow shell that you can shape as you see fit. Jumping back to the bounty hunter example: Start off with the bounty hunter definition as outlined in the CRB:

“You track people down for money. It is a dangerous profession, as most of your targets understandably don’t wish to be caught. You wouldn’t have it any other way. You might have a code of ethics, never taking jobs that, say, target children or members of your own race. You might hunt down only escaped criminals. or you might be completely amoral, taking any job that comes along—for the right price.”

Okay, that’s a good place to start but it’s wordy and fills in the gaps unnecessarily. Maybe a regular definition would suffice:

“A person who pursues a criminal or fugitive for whom a reward is offered.”

Better, but the normal definition is making some assumptions that we can generalize even further. Let’s try this:

“A FINDER, paid for FINDING.”

When it all gets boiled down, isn’t that essentially what a bounty hunter does? A bounty hunter doesn’t have to be exclusively searching for people; they can be tracking down objects as well, so long as they’re getting paid for successful completion of the job.

These posts on Starfinder themes have sought to generalize the definition of each theme to give us more creative space to mold and shape our PCs. Of course, your character might be the literal definition of a bounty hunter, and that’s perfectly fine too – fun is whatever YOU find most enjoyable!

Enough jabbering, it’s time to talk about the Priest and the Scholar! In the paraphrased words of Wolfmother, “So I’ll tell you all the story about the Scholar and the Priest of the night!”

Priest Character Concepts

“You are a member of an organized religion or similar association. Your belief, whether it has been a part of you since childhood or it came to you later in life, is an integral part of your character. You might travel the stars proselytizing your deity, or your church might have sent you out on a specific holy (or unholy) mission. No matter what obstacles life puts in your way, you always have the conviction of your beliefs to fall back on.” - Starfinder CRB

Dedicated Pilgrim – Humbled by your beliefs and wanting to strengthen the connection you have with your deity, you have dedicated yourself to a journey of enlightenment. Guided by your immovable faith, you will follow the call of your deity to the end of the Pact Worlds and beyond, if you must. Through the discovery of new planets, people, and technologies, everything serves as a connection to your higher power. Are you specifically travelling to commune with a group of believers at a revered historical site? Is there a tangible beacon guiding you in your pilgrimage, such as a holy relic or powerful artifact? Depending on your deity, you may be driven by or attracted to a multitude of objects, lifestyles, people, etc.

Faithful Preacher – Completely enveloped by your faith, you can’t help but to share the holy words of your divine patron wherever you go. Backing up your speeches with passages from deific texts and reciting countless stories of Even though you are aware that everyone is entitled to their own beliefs, are you pushy about spreading your faith or do you focus more heavily on people who are more apt to be convinced? Do you have a specific audience that you are targeting, be it the elderly or are you shaping the young minds of tomorrow? What sort of demeanor does this character have? How do they handle conflict? Have they had an experience that made them question their faith, or is there a profound moment that filled them with their faith to begin with? Maybe you even have a conversion quota that you’d like to reach before you consider your purpose fulfilled.

Astute Theologian – The key to having a solid foundation in faith is to understand the texts and histories that were written to support and document all pertinent information on your deity. Whether you scribe events yourself or focus exclusively on the texts of theologians prior, you enjoy having concrete evidence available at your fingertips. Are you a bookish individual whose vision is damaged by years under dim lights, or are you a young theologian hoping to excel your tutelage under another? Do you collect stories of every deity, or do you limit your studies to a single divine? Are you accepting of other people’s beliefs? Do you have favorite quotes or passages that you constantly reference? Are there any particular ways that you communicate to those of a lesser intelligence? Or perhaps you’re not as intelligent as you initially seem!

Motivational Life Coach – Nothing pleases you more than using your gifts to help others solve their problems. In just five easy steps, anybody can change their life and turn their luck around! Centered around faith, you develop close relationships with others so that you can understand how they’ve gotten to where they are today. How do you encourage people to lower their guard and accept your proven-plan to enrich their lives? What does your enhancement plan entail? Does it have a cost? Have you done any seminars, published books, or organized any retreats to promote your program? Are you just in it for the money or is this a situation where you are the product of your own success? Buzz words and phrases likely leap from your lips – you’re developing a brand after all!

Secluded Hermit – You’ve always found that developing a deep connection with your deity involves peace, quiet, and a whole lot of R&R. You don’t feel a need to proclaim your faith from the rooftops because as far as you’re concerned, faith is entirely personal. By developing your beliefs in private, you can feel that you’re making progress in bettering your soul. How long have you been living alone and why did you choose that lifestyle for yourself? Was it even your choice? How will you assimilate into society and work closely with a party of adventurers? Have you been living a meager lifestyle? Do you have any important possessions that have centered your meditations? Any surviving family? Are you willing to share your faith with others?

Scholar Character Concepts

“You are an erudite intellectual, pitting your brain against problems and puzzles that others would find daunting. You might be an instructor of a specific topic at a large university or a dabbler in a number of fields of study. You could be exploring the galaxy in search of ancient artifacts or new scientific phenomena. Whatever your motivation, you are sure that the answers you seek are out there.” - Starfinder CRB

Eccentric Entomologist – Not limited to just studying the Shirren, you are heavily interested in anything that creeps and crawls throughout the Pact World System. Where others might cringe and crawl, you revel in the opportunity to uncover new species and the possibility of attributing discoveries to your name. What sorts of insects are your forte? Do you specialize in a certain genus? Have you developed any quirks or tendencies that could be attributed to the subjects that you study? Perhaps your studies are strictly limited to understanding the Shirren and their Hive Mind connection and you want to replicate it in another application. Do you keep your samples on you, or do you have a lab where the majority are stored? Any ties to a museum or research facility? Are you an accredited scientist or more of a glorified hobbyist?

Forensic Scientist – Understanding the complex intricacies that go into crime scene investigation, you have an analytical mind rooted in years of study. It’s important that you are familiar with anatomy, physics, and psychology in order to piece together the clues of a murder and figure out the story. Are you currently a part of a law enforcement unit or are you a contractor for hire? Are you an expert in specific types of crimes? Do you often visit the crime scene, or do you focus more on the laboratory side of things? Is there any particular crime that stands out in your mind as most influential or disturbing? What got you into this field of study? How does technology play a role in your investigations? Do you have any enemies that you’ve helped put behind bars that have threatened to make things difficult to you whenever they get out of prison? How will your services be best used out in the real world of adventuring and space travel?

Acclaimed Archeologist – Every planet tells a story under its surface and your job is to discover that story and share it with the world(s). Whether it is the bones of long-forgotten monsters or remnants of an ancient civilization, proof of the past is out there, ripe for the digging. What sorts of equipment or magic do you use to unearth these hidden riches of the world? Are you looking for signs of life, buildings, treasure, or something else entirely? After you find something, what are your goals for your discovery – sharing it with others or stashing it away for yourself? Are you a part of a small team, large corporation, or just working independently? Is there some great mystery that you’re trying to solve? Who are your key contacts in the industry and how do you determine your dig sites? Maybe you also investigate and search for destroyed ships or vessels that we lost in the Drift, hoping to bring closure to friends and family (or to scavenge the wreckage).

Environmental Engineer – Out in the far reaches of space, the environment is hostile and deadly. Maybe you’ve assisted in developing life support systems or you have assisted in the creation of sustainable housing that can stand up to the harshest of elements. Or maybe you are have studied other planets in-depth and understand the ecology, planetary make-up, atmosphere, and other vital statistics about them. Taking it a step further, maybe you’re involved in the preservation of resources and ensuring that the next generation will not be lacking in basic environmental needs. You might be a geologist, pedologist, or meteorologist. Are you focused on environmental usage or preservation? Is there a specialty that others consult you on, like water, air, or weather? Do you design structures? What about terraforming or reshaping existing planets to suit the needs of the people? Are you paid well for your efforts? Did you attend any schooling or are you self-taught? There is a ton of flexibility in this one because the worlds in Starfinder are incredibly diverse and allow for immense creativity.

Legacy Historian – The Gap has left a literal gap in people’s minds – what happened during the period of time before the present-day? Your research is meant to answer that specific question. You might be focused on the militarization of the Pact Worlds, investigating wars and battles that took place during that time. Or maybe you’re more concerned with cultures and race anthologies, trying to understand the people that existed before and during the Gap. Better yet, you might be a renowned historian on Golarion (leaving the player able to exhibit their Pathfinder knowledge). Historians can also be responsible for chronicling events as they happen. Do you write everything down or are you a ‘living’ historian who has an impeccable memory for reciting facts and figures? What level of history interests you the most – individual and familial histories or the rise and fall of empires? Have you ever tweaked a fact to better fit a desired narrative or are you unbiased in your research? Is your work published anywhere? Do you have any powers of foresight were you can recognize past mistakes and see events unfolding as the consequence to those events? Why do you record – so others can remember or so you don’t forget?

—

And with that, we’ve detailed out seven of the ten themes. But wait! Aren’t there only nine themes? Do I even know what I’m talking about at this point? You would be correct in saying that there are only nine DEFINED themes, but I’m saving the final post in this series for a brief dive into being Themeless. Even though creating a character without a theme seems like writing a book and forgoing a title, themeless is the perfect solution to the problem of dreaming up a character who doesn’t seem to check off the boxes of a single theme, or one that checks off boxes of multiple themes and you simply can’t decide which one is most dominant.

---

Part 5 - Starfinder Theme Focus - Spacefarers and Xenoseekers

–

First of all, let me apologize. It’s been MONTHS since I teased the final article on Starfinder themes and leaving this series in a perilously unfinished limbo. I wish that I had a decent excuse to explain it, but unfortunately I don’t have that either. So please, accept my apology, and let’s get to the conclusion of this series!

We’ve covered a lot of bases - Ace Pilots, Bounty Hunters, Icons, Mercenaries, Outlaws, Priests, and Scholars, which means that today we will be talking about Spacefarers, Xenoseekers, and briefly touching on the Themeless concept. That’s still a ton of ground to cover, and I’m a bit intimidated even thinking about it. Concluding this intense detail into Starfinder’s themes will be bittersweet - not only because it’ll be over, but also because there’s no way to fully encapsulate the entire, endless spectrum of characters you can create within Paizo’s Starfinder universe. That’s what’s really great about the Themeless option; if none of the other themes do your character justice in describing their schtick, then you can always go Themeless and solve that particular problem.

Whenever I create a character, I will usually start by trying to find an interesting or obscure feat, characteristic, theme, etc and build the character around that. Some people are really creative and come up with amazing backstories first and build the character to fit their artistic vision. Although that’ll happen on occasion, I’ll generally determine a character’s backstory after I’ve fleshed out their vitals and statblock. The important thing for me is that my characters stand out. Not from a min-max perspective (if that’s what you enjoy then keep doing it!), but from a standpoint of going outside the norm and playing a character with abilities that people may have never experienced before.

Stone Warder Sorcerer? Breadth of Experience feat? Archivist Bard? All of these types of choices go leaps and bounds to hint and what the character is all about. A Stone Warder Sorcerer would be something like an Earth Bender from Avatar, gaining their powers from the rocky world around them. Characters with a Breadth of Experience are ancient, meaning that they’ve seen and heard nearly all there is to know. Bards with the Archivist archetype aren’t going to be dishing out much damage, but they are constantly scribbling down their experiences and every bit of lore they can get their hands on. And just like that, a single piece of your character’s statblock can literally define them.

That’s partly been the point of these posts about the Themes in Starfinder. Sure, you can come up with an absolutely AWESOME character concept and attach a theme that fits that character. No problem. But if you’re having trouble coming up with a character, the options listed in these posts are meant to assist you in launching off into the incredible Imagisphere to create a truly unique character.

Alright, I’ve babbled so much that I’ve turned into a brook. (Sorry if I’ve used that particular moniker already…it’s been a long time since my last Starfinder post). Time to finish off the series!

Spacefarer Character Concepts

“Your longing to journey among the stars can’t be sated. You yearn for the adventure of stepping onto a distant world and exploring its secrets. You tend to greet every new opportunity with bravery and fortitude, confident that your multitude of skills will pull you through. Perhaps you simply find joy in the act of traveling with your companions, or perhaps you are just out to line your pockets with all sorts of alien loot!” - Starfinder CRB

Clueless Tourist - Let’s face it. You saw a map of the Pact Worlds and immediately searched the best places to visit on each planet. Theme parks, monuments, parks - you want to visit them all and document your travels on a blog that you’re still coming up with a creative name for. Experiences are the best currency to be paid in, and your goal is to become filthy rich on them. Now, you might not understand all of the different cultures or customs in the places that you’re visiting, but in your eyes everybody else should be happy that you’re bolstering the economy in all of your destinations. Excuse me - could you please take my photo?

Deductive Meteorologist - Perhaps in the same vein as the Environmental Engineer concept from the Scholar post, this character would be all about the weather and is drawn to the varied climates and conditions present in the Pact World planets. Have you ever seen the sunrise through noxious fuchsia clouds or felt thick, oily rain land on your head? All of these phenomenon can be explained through science. Maybe you’ll publish a scholarly journal on your findings, or maybe your more of a storm-chaser bent on surviving the most wild and dangerous conditions. No matter how you spin it, you’re fascinated by the weather, whether your companions like it or not.  

Hospitable Flight Attendant - Time to make everybody else’s travel experiences as enjoyable as possible. You’re an expert at socializing and keeping everybody’s minds off the baggage fees and severe lack of legroom. In your eyes, there’s no part of a space commute that can’t be made better by a tall glass of sherry or a delicious sack of Zeni’s Zesty Znacks. While traveling, you are sure to keep all the amenities nearby to heighten the enjoyment of those around you. You might have gotten into the gig because you wanted to see the universe, and maybe that itch is just beginning to surface once more.

Curious Explorer - Hardly anything fancy about this one. You love exploring. The mystery, intrigue, and discovery thrill you to pieces. Every time you come across a corner, you just HAVE to see what’s on the other side of it. This is known to get you into heaps of trouble and situations where you end up on the wrong end of a ‘No Trespassing’ sign. But, through your foolhardy actions, you’ve been able to experience things that very few other people have, and your stories are the things of legend. There are countless star sectors to visit and only so much time…what are you waiting for?!

Budding Photographer - Your goal? The perfect shot. You might be a movie producer scouting locations for your next sector-buster. Or maybe you’re an artistic photographer determined to capture the essence of the human (and alien) experience. You never miss a moment and you are incredibly easy to track based on the trail of snapshots that you leave behind. Whether your honing your craft or a complete amateur when it comes to lighting, focus, and apertures, space grants you the freedom to create magnificent works of art. Every horizon has another potential shot, and you’ll hitchhike your way around the galaxy if you have to if it means catching your elusive unicorn.

Xenoseeker Character Concepts

“The thought of meeting alien life-forms excites you. The more different their appearances and customs are from yours, the better! You either believe they have much to teach you or you want to prove you are better than them. Of course, the only way to accomplish your goal is to leave the Pact Worlds and travel to the Vast, where a virtually endless number of aliens await.” - Starfinder CRB

Captivated Anthropologist - This concept makes perfect sense. As an anthropologist, you live and love to study the differences between humanoid species. You can even take it a step further to be fascinated with specific aspects of each of the races. What are the secrets behind the Lashunta’s psychic abilities? How tough are the scales of the Vesk? So many questions and not enough time to find all the answers. You might become acutely interested in your crewmates, asking them all sorts of intrusive questions in order to develop an understanding for their specific gifts and talents. Beings with surgical enhancements might be particularly interesting to you as humanoids continue their never-ending quest for power.

Inquisitive Marketing Guru - If you want to sell something, you HAVE to know your market. Double blind surveys, focus groups, experimental expos…you will stop at nothing to understand the people buying the products you’re pitching. Whether you’re a part of an elaborate Ponzi scheme or a well-known enterprise, you are hungry to understand the psychology of buying patterns and habitual spending. If you can unlock those secrets, you will be the most valuable asset to whichever company decides to employ you. And, by developing an understanding for the beings around you, you’ll undoubtedly be an asset in any situation involving sweet-talking with honeyed words. Heck - maybe if you can find some delicious edible aliens, you will be the next great snack mogul in the Pact Worlds! Second only to Zeni himzelf.

Experimental Doctor - You embrace the uniqueness of yourself and encourage others to do the same. Stand out from the crowd, you say. Set yourself apart! Implant yourself with one of the many augmentations that you can provide! Your interest in the countless creeping aliens and obscure creatures skittering around the Vast stimulate your imagination and provide you with the necessary…tools to allow you to develop exciting new attachments for your adoring fans. Or maybe you’re more secretive and don’t think your work should see the light of day. Will you be a mad scientist or a renowned surgeon? The choice is yours!

Calming Zoologist - People will pay loads of money to see an exhibit they’ve never experienced before. There are countless numbers of mindless creatures out in the far reaches of space that would be welcomed additions to a zoological attraction. Your history in taming wild beasts and soothing the animalistic nature in the creatures you’ve encountered makes you the perfect person for the job. There is a fantastic space zoo that’ll pay top dollar for new specimens, and you’re itching to get paid. This isn’t to say that you are inconsiderate of the creatures’ feelings, however. The zoo that you’re working for is more akin to a resort, and they take great care of the residents that live there.

Talkative Space Taxi Driver - While taking fares, you’ve come across just about every type of intelligent being known in the sector. Long nights that turned into early mornings were a staple of yours, and you’ve delivered passengers to slums, clubs, and luxury estates, learning about them all the while. You love a good conversation; it helps pass the time and gives you an amazing repertoire of stories to share with your crewmates. Everybody comes from a different background, and you have learned to appreciate the intricacies and uniqueness that everybody brings to the figurative table. You might have a bit of a lead foot as well…but who doesn’t?

Themeless Characters

If you don’t fit the bill with any of the other themes, then you are probably Themeless. By choosing to forgo a theme designation, your statistical bonuses will suffer compared to a character who has a theme, so if you’re more concerned with numbers and maximizing your character, then this might not be for you. Choosing this option, however, will allow you to portray your character as a vast canvas, awaiting your masterful strokes.

Hopefully I’ve portrayed the wide variety of concepts that the Starfinder themes can cover. With a dash of creativity, you can morph at least one of the themes to fit the base core of your character. Try to think about each of the themes in new ways; don’t get caught up in the specific 'title’ of the theme. Read the blurbs about each one and search for synonyms that line up with the character that you’re envisioning in your mind.

—

At the end of the day, play a character that you WANT to play. You should be excited every time that you portray your character, and play the game in whatever way is going to be the most fun for you.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this series on the Themes of Starfinder! See you in the stars!

[katherine-rambles]

good birthday! busy, but good! ty everybody for coming!!! ✨💖✨

this is a ridiculously long post, and it keeps getting longer. so, everything’s under the cut

on the day itself, in the morning, i went to petsmart because we found fleas on one of the dogs last night, so i (as the only one in town with money or a credit card) had to go spend almost all of my money between flea meds and flea shampoo. i was NOT expecting to spend ~400 bucks this week on doctor shit and flea shit. but i gotta, so... :/ and probably more in the future! gghuhugh

then i came home and did some more computer cleaning & organizing. i have... so much of that to do........ 

then @lordsoth42 came over! and we went to the mall and pizza schmizza (they got some, i got NOTHING because CURSE my stomach) and then got donuts. 

then we went back to my place and people started showin’ up fer my low-key party! @onilinkplus, @angrymamabear, @soycoffeewithcoffee, danny (i don’t think he’s got a bloggo here, but he’s got a twitch over at... um... kazstein), thank you all so much for comin’ and hanging out! and bringing food and gifts and stuff!

we got to play ARMS, 12 orbits, a lil’ bit of Once Upon A Time, Sumer (interesting platformer/boardgame mix), watch kody play Snake Pass, and see the demo of Octopath Traveller thanks to Danny having the energy to play it (which, by the way, that looks Goddamn Gorgeous!) 

then sleepover w/ tristan because Wow Eugene Is Far Away, Six Hours Of Driving In One Day Is No Fun! but also more time with tristan!

on the 25th i woke up super early again thanks to Stomach Hates Me Syndrome and i got to cleaning up, which was nice. i still have some more to do but i figure i may as well do that after everything is over this weekend. but i did get like. all the plates and shit put away so there’s tablespace again.

some lowkey hangouts with tristan before they went home and I went to hang out with @jirajara at the woodburn outlet mall to find shoes for her... i did fairly good in not spending money, by which i mean i was very thankful she & her crew paid fer my lunch, and i avoided spending money on trinkets and shoes and this one FUCKING BEAUTIFUL pleather light pink jacket.... anyway it was fun, if tiring. i forget how tiring Looking For A Good [insert specific item here] can be when you’re not doing it over like... years... on the internet..... 

then today i got to go to an actual SPA with super swanky everything and have a MASSAGE for the first time ever w @becna n’ @keketar. the wet sauna is not an experience i’d pay to repeat but the dry sauna & hot tubs? good stuff. burn my skin off. and the massage was really great! my masseuse was really fun to talk to and we just talked about all sorts of stuff and the back & head parts of the massage i could definitely see being useful in a headache/chiropractic sense in the future. 

sarah got me a Gay Flag Colored Lovebird bag......;;;; i love it.......;;;;;; 😍💖✨💯🐦

an’ then sarah n’ i went to my place and had a low key Craft Party wherein we tried to get each other hooked on anime we haven’t been able to talk to anyone about: me w/ revolutionary girl utena and sarah w/ voltron:legendary defenders. what I learned is, I love pidge and am totally down for this mystical bullshit AI tiger mech thing. my headcanon so far (probably easily proven wrong, i’m on like episode five) is that a lot of the “mystical” connection is [a.] propaganda (what better propaganda than DESTINY?) and [b.] a result of a networked/distributed intelligence not unlike the geth from mass effect.  

but also early utena episodes are so lighthearted! i always focus on the later stuff and forget how... innocent it seems at first. additionally, paying extra special attention to chuchu and anthy after reading a bunch of meta is a fucking TREAT like? episode four with the lil’ elephant doodle?? anthy!! an’ nanami is great also, and just how EXTRA all these highschoolers are.... my poor children....

i also learned/recalled that needlefelting... is a lot... of work...... i’m basically going to have to reskin my needlefelt mew entirely to make it look decent again. it does look REALLY nice again once i do that, but s’just gonna be a lot of work. (maybe this time i won’t like... have it on my bed and in high-use areas. there was so much pilling, oh my god.) 

oh! and sarah’s being so nice and letting me share her netflix! and merlot’s gift was adding me to her fam for the nintendo subscription service!! this is a good year for me & freeloading media, i guess :P (but srs, thank yooou both!) 

anyway now i have a lot to clean up, and work tomorrow. hopefully i’ll be able to vacuum once i get home: we NEED a big vacuuming. ‘specially since the doggo parasite circus is in town...

and birthday celebrations are extended because i’ll see becca on monday and there may or may not be a present involved there, but there sure as heck will be cute lizards, and really, what else could a girl ask for? 

then it’s tuesday and the.... ct.... and man why is medicine so expensive

but. overall.

i’m so glad to have my vivacity, my motivation, my drive and passion back. last year on my birthday i hadn’t planned anything really and it just happened to be a nice coincidink that sarah was headin’ down to eugene for a concert anyway. when i’m under like 70% planning things, hosting things, going to things is just... so... too.... much.... but when i’m 100% (mentally, at least, lmao i hate my stomach right now) it’s one of my FAVORITE things to do. people!!! friends!!!!! happy making!! i just feel... very satisfied and content in a way i haven’t been able to access in a while. s’a shame that my stomach has decided to stage a civil war on my esophagus, but... it’s discomfort, something i have to live with, not a drain of my life that i’m living. ya feel me? 

like, FUCK! this linked post was my birthday two years ago. it wasn’t weird because ANYTHING except depression! depression fucked me up! i didn’t spend it doing things i love with people i love because i couldn’t DO love! 

the b-day before that was good but lowkey because i couldn’t plan much, and it was surrounded by me just being.... tired... which was depression shit

and i think... the b-day before that was before i’d gotten depressed? i think late 2014-2015 was my first Major Episode... but i’m not sure because i started this blog sept. 2014. i do distinctly remember my internal grade-o-meter being off as like... an early sign of my troubles. 

this ended up so long haha

i’m so grateful that all y’all awesome friends of mine (both who i mention here because i saw them this past few days and those who are not mentioned) stuck with me despite the Depression Fog. y’all deserve the best and i’m honored y’all let me into your lives.

i’m so happy i have so many projects i’m jazzed to work on, even though the work is sloggish and boring i can DO IT and BE HAPPY that i’m doing it?!? it’s been so long since i could do that

lately i feel like a little kid who cries because they learned that those cool snakes have to eat those sweet little mice. everything is so new and fresh and lovely again.... like rediscovering your first favorite teddy bear or something in the closet. just a persistent strong warmth

i’m so lucky 💖 

[unsettlingshortstories]

Quitters, Inc.

Stephen King (1978)

Morrison was waiting for someone who was hung up in the air traffic jam over Kennedy International when he saw a familiar face at the end of the bar and walked down.

'Jimmy? Jimmy McCann?'

It was. A little heavier than when Morrison had seen him at the Atlanta Exhibition the year before, but otherwise he looked awesomely fit. In college he had been a thin, pallid chain smoker buried behind huge horn-rimmed glasses. He had apparently switched to contact lenses.

'Dick Morrison?'

'Yeah. You look great.' He extended his hand and they shook.

'So do you,' McCann said, but Morrison knew it was a lie. He had been overworking, overeating, and smoking too much. 'What are you drinking?'

'Bourbon and bitters,' Morrison said. He hooked his feet around a bar stool and lighted a cigarette. 'Meeting someone, Jimmy?'

'No. Going to Miami for a conference. A heavy client. Bills six million. I'm supposed to hold his hand because we lost out on a big special next spring.'

'Are you still with Crager and Barton?'

'Executive veep now.'

'Fantastic! Congratulations! When did all this happen?' He tried to tell himself that the little worm of jealousy in his stomach was just acid indigestion. He pulled out a roll of antacid pills and crunched one in his mouth.

'Last August. Something happened that changed my life.' He looked speculatively at Morrison and sipped his drink. 'You might be interested.'

My God, Morrison thought with an inner wince. Jimmy McCann's got religion.

'Sure,' he said, and gulped at his drink when it came. 'I wasn't in very good shape,' McCann said. 'Personal problems with Sharon, my.dad died - heart attack - and I'd developed this hacking cough. Bobby Crager dropped by my office one day and gave me a fatherly little pep talk. Do you remember what those are like?'

'Yeah.' He had worked at Crager and Barton for eighteen months before joining the Morton Agency. 'Get your butt in gear or get your butt out.'

McCann laughed. 'You know it. Well, to put the capper on it, the doc told me I had an incipient ulcer. He told me to quit smoking.'

McCann grimaced. 'Might as well tell me to quit breathing.'

Morrison nodded in perfect understanding. Non-smokers could afford to be smug. He looked at his own cigarette with distaste and stubbed it out, knowing he would be lighting another in five minutes.

'Did you quit?' He asked.

'Yes, I did. At first I didn't think I'd be able to - I was cheating like hell. Then I met a guy who told me about an outfit over on

Fortysixth Street. Specialists. I said what do I have to lose and went over. I haven't smoked since.'

Morrison's eyes widened. 'What did they do? Fill you full of some drug?'

'No.' He had taken out his wallet and was rummaging through it. 'Here it is. I knew I had one kicking around.' He laid a plain white business card on the bar between them.

Stop Going Up in Smoke!

237 East 46th Street

Treatments by Appointment

'Keep it, if you want,' McCann said. 'They'll cure you. Guaranteed.'

'How?'

'I can't tell you,' McCann said.

'Huh? Why not?'

'It's part of the contract they make you sign. Anyway, they tell you how it works when they interview you.' 'You signed a contract?' McCann nodded.

'And on the basis of that -'

'Yep.' He smiled at Morrison, who thought: Well, it's happened. Jim McCann has joined the smug bastards.

'Why the great secrecy if this outfit is so fantastic? How come I've never seen any spots on TV, billboards, magazine ads -'

'They get all the clients they can handle by word of mouth.'

'You're an advertising man, Jimmy. You can't believe that.'

'I do,' McCann said. 'They have a ninety-eight per cent cure rate.'

'Wait a second,' Morrison said. He motioned for another drink and lit a cigarette. 'Do these guys strap you down and make you smoke until you throw up?'

'No.'

'Give you something so that you get sick every time you light -'

'No, it's nothing like that. Go and see for yourself.' He gestured at Morrison's cigarette. 'You don't really like that, do you?'

'Nooo, but -'

'Stopping really changed things for me,' McCann said. 'I don't suppose it's the same for everyone, but with me it was just like dominoes falling over. I felt better and my relationship with Sharon improved. I had more energy, and my job performance picked up.'

'Look, you've got my curiosity aroused. Can't you just -' 'I'm sorry, Dick. I really can't talk about it.' His voice was firm.

'Did you put on any weight?'

For a moment he thought Jimmy McCann looked almost grim. 'Yes. A little too much, in fact. But I took it off again. I'm about right now. I was skinny before.'

'Flight 206 now boarding at Gate 9,' the loudspeaker announced.

'That's me,' McCann said, getting up. He tossed a five on the bar. 'Have another, if you like. And think about what I said, Dick.

Really.' And then he was gone, making his way through the crowd to the escalators. Morrison picked up the card, looked at it thoughtfully, then tucked it away in his wallet and forgot it.

The card fell out of his wallet and on to another bar a month later. He had left the office early and had come here to drink the afternoon away. Things had not been going so well at the Morton Agency. In fact, things were bloody horrible.

He gave Henry a ten to pay for his drink, then picked up the small card and reread it - 237 East Forty-sixth Street was only two blocks over; it was a cool, sunny October day outside, and maybe, just for chuckles -When Henry brought his change, he finished his drink and then went for a walk.

Quitters, Inc., was in a new building where the monthly rent on office space was probably close to Morrison's yearly salary. From the directory in the lobby, it looked to him like their offices took up one whole floor, and that spelled money. Lots of it.

He took the elevator up and stepped off into a lushly carpeted foyer and from there into a gracefully appointed reception room with a wide window that looked out on the scurrying bugs below. Three men and one woman sat in the chairs along the walls, reading magazines. Business types, all of them. Morrison went to the desk.

'A friend gave me this,' he said, passing the card to the receptionist. 'I guess you'd say he's an alumnus.'

She smiled and rolled a form into her typewriter. 'What is your name, sir?'

'Richard Morrison.'

Clack-clackety-clack. But very muted clacks; the typewriter was an IBM.

'Your address?'

'Twenty-nine Maple Lane, Clinton, New York.'

'Married?'

'Yes.'

'Children?'

'One.' He thought of Alvin and frowned slightly. 'One' was the wrong word. 'A half' might be better. His son was mentally retarded and lived at a special school in New Jersey.

'Who recommended us to you, Mr Morrison?'

'An old school friend. James McCann.'

'Very good. Will you have a seat? It's been a very busy day.'

'All right.'

He sat between the woman, who was wearing a severe blue suit, and a young executive type wearing a herring-bone jacket and modish sideburns. He took out his pack of cigarettes, looked around, and saw there were no ashtrays.

He put the pack away again. That was all right. He would see this little game through and then light up while he was leaving. He might even tap some ashes on their maroon shag rug if they made him wait long enough. He picked up a copy of Time and began to leaf through it.

He was called a quarter of an hour later, after the woman in the blue suit. His nicotine centre was speaking quite loudly now. A man who had come in after him took out a cigarette case, snapped it open, saw there were no ashtrays, and put it away looking a little guilty, Morrison thought. It made him feel better.

At last the receptionist gave him a sunny smile and said, 'Go right in, Mr Morrison.'

Morrison walked through the door beyond her desk and found himself in an indirectly lit hallway. A heavy-set man with white hair that looked phoney shook his hand, smiled affably, and said, 'Follow me, Mr Morrison.'

He led Morrison past a number of closed, unmarked doors and then opened one of them about halfway down the hall with a key.

Beyond the door was an austere little room walled with drilled white cork panels. The only furnishings were a desk with a chair on either side. There was what appeared to be a small oblong window in the wall behind the desk, but it was covered with a short green curtain. There was a picture on the wall to Morrison's left -a tall man with iron-grey hair. He was holding a sheet of paper in one hand.

He looked vaguely familiar.

'I'm Vic Donatti,' the heavy-set man said. 'If you decide to go ahead with our programme, I'll be in charge of your case.' 'Pleased to know you,' Morrison said. He wanted a cigarette very badly.

'Have a seat.'

Donatti put the receptionist's form on the desk, and then drew another form from the desk drawer. He looked directly into Morrison's eyes. 'Do you want to quit smoking?'

Morrison cleared his throat, crossed his legs, and tried to think of a way to equivocate. He couldn't. 'Yes,' he said.

'Will you sign this?' He gave Morrison the form. He scanned it quickly. The undersigned agrees not to divulge the methods or techniques or et cetera, et cetera.

'Sure,' he said, and Donatti put a pen in his hand. He scratched his name, and Donatti signed below it. A moment later the paper disappeared back into the desk drawer. Well, he thought ironically, I've taken the pledge.

He had taken it before. Once it had lasted for two whole days.

'Good,' Donatti said. 'We don't bother with propaganda here, Mr Morrison. Questions of health or expense or social grace. We have no interest in why you want to stop smoking. We are pragmatists.' 'Good,' Morrison said blankly.

'We employ no drugs. We employ no Dale Carnegie people to sermonize you. We recommend no special diet. And we accept no payment until you have stopped smoking for one year.' 'My God,' Morrison said.

'Mr McCann didn't tell you that?'

'No.'

'How is Mr McCann, by the way? Is he well?'

'He's fine.'

'Wonderful. Excellent. Now . . . just a few questions, Mr Morrison. These are somewhat personal, but I assure you that your answers will be held in strictest confidence.'

'Yes?' Morrison asked noncommittally.

'What is your wife's name?'

'Lucinda Morrison. Her maiden name was Ramsey.'

'Do you love her?'

Morrison looked up sharply, but Donatti was looking at him blandly. 'Yes, of course,' he said.

'Have you ever had marital problems? A separation, perhaps?'

'What has that got to do with kicking the habit?' Morrison asked. He sounded a little angrier than he had intended, but he wanted - hell, he needed - a cigarette.

'A great deal,' Donatti said. 'Just bear with me.'

'No. Nothing like that.' Although things had been a little tense just lately.

'You just have the one child?'

'Yes. Alvin. He's in a private school.'

'And which school is it?'

'That,' Morrison said grimly, 'I'm not going to tell you.'

'All right,' Donatti said agreeably. He smiled disarmingly at Morrison. 'All your q~estions will be answered tomorrow at your first treatment.'

'How nice,' Morrison said, and stood.

'One final question,' Donatti said. 'You haven't had a cigarette for over an hour. How do you feel?'

'Fine,' Morrison lied. 'Just fine.'

'Good for you!' Donatti exclaimed. He stepped around the desk and opened the door. 'Enjoy them tonight. After tomorrow, you'll never smoke again.'

'Is that right?'

'Mr Morrison,' Donatti said solemnly, 'we guarantee it.'

He was sitting in the outer office of Quitters, Inc. ,the next day promptly at three. He had spent most of the day swinging between skipping the appointment the receptionist had made for him on the way out and going in a spirit of mulish co-operation - Throw your best pitch at me, buster.

In the end, something Jimmy McCann had said convinced him to keep the appointment - It changed my whole fife. God knew his own life could do with some changing. And then there was his own curiosity. Before going up in the elevator, he smoked a cigarette down to the filter. Too damn bad if it's the last one, he thought. It tasted horrible.

The wait in the outer office was shorter this time. When the receptionist told him to go in, Donatti was waiting. He offered his hand and smiled, and to Morrison the smile looked almost predatory. He began to feel a little tense, and that made him wa~t a

cigarette.

'Come with me,' Donatti said, and led the way down to the small room. He sat behind the desk again, and Morrison took the other chair.

'I'm very glad you came,' Donatti said. 'A great many prospective clients never show up again after the initial interview. They discover they don't want to quit as badly as they thought. It's going to be a pleasure to work with you on this.'

'When does the treatment start?' Hypnosis, he was thinking. It must be hypnosis.

'Oh, it already has. It started when we shook hands in the hall. Do you have cigarettes with you, Mr Morrison?'

'Yes.'

'May I have them, please?'

Shrugging, Morrison handed Donatti his pack. There were only two or three left in it, anyway.

Donatti put the pack on the desk. Then, smiling into Morrison's eyes, he curled his right hand into a fist and began to hammer it down on the pack of cigarettes, which twisted and flattened. A broken cigarette end flew out. Tobacco crumbs spilled. The sound of Donatti's fist was very loud in the closed room. The smile remained on his face in spite of the force of the blows, and Morrison was chilled by it. Probably just the effect they want to inspire, he thought.

At last Donatti ceased pounding. He picked up the pack, a twisted and battered ruin. 'You wouldn't believe the pleasure that gives me,' he said, and dropped the pack into the wastebasket. 'Even after three years in the business, it still pleases me.'

'As a treatment, it leaves something to be desired. Morrison said mildly. 'There's a news-stand in the lobby of this very building.

And they sell all brands.'

'As you say,' Donatti said. He folded his hands. 'Your son, Alvin Dawes Morrison, is in the Paterson School for Handicapped Children. Born with cranial brain damage. Tested IQ of 46. Not quite in the educable retarded category. Your wife -, 'How did you find that out?' Morrison barked. He was startled and angry. 'You've got no goddamn right to go poking around my -' 'We know a lot about you,' Donatti said smoothly. 'But, as I said, it will all be held in strictest confidence.' 'I'm getting out of here,' Morrison said thinly. He stood up.

'Stay a bit longer.'

Morrison looked at him closely. Donatti wasn't upset. In fact, he looked a little amused. The face of a man who has seen this reaction scores of times - maybe hundreds.

'All right. But it better be good.'

'Oh, it is.' Donatti leaned back. 'I told you we were pragmatists here. As pragmatists, we have to start by realizing how difficult it is to cure an addiction to tobacco. The relapse rate is almost eight-five per cent. The relapse rate for heroin addicts is lower than that. It is an extraordinary problem. Extraordinary.'

Morrison glanced into the wastebasket. One of the cigarettes, although twisted, still looked smokeable.

Donatti laughed good-naturedly, reached into the wastebasket, and broke it between his fingers.

'State legislatures sometimes hear a request that the prison systems do away with the weekly cigarette ration. Such proposals are invariably defeated. In a few cases where they have passed, there have been fierce prison riots. Riots, Mr Morrison. Imagine it.' 'I,' Morrison said, 'am not surprised.'

'But consider the implications. When you put a man in prison you take away any normal sex life, you take away his liquor, his politics, his freedom of movement. No riots - or few in comparison to the number of prisons. But when you take away his cigarettes - wham! bam!' He slammed his fist on the desk for emphasis.

'During World War I, when no one on the German home front could get cigarettes, the sight of German aristocrats picking butts out of the gutter was a common one. During World War II, many American women turned to pipes when they were unable to obtain cigarettes. A fascinating problem for the true pragmatist, Mr Morrison.'

'Could we get to the treatment?'

'Momentarily. Step over here, please.' Donatti had risen and was standing by the green curtains Morrison had noticed yesterday.

Donatti drew the curtains, discovering a rectangular window that looked into a bare room. No, not quite bare. There was a rabbit on the floor, eating pellets out of a dish.

'Pretty bunny,' Morrison commented.

'Indeed. Watch him.' Donatti pressed a button by the window-sill. The rabbit stopped eating and began to hop about crazily. It seemed to leap higher each time its feet struck the floor. Its fur stood out spikily in all directions. Its eyes were wild.

'Stop that! You're electrocuting him!'

Donatti released the button. 'Far from it. There's a very low-yield charge in the floor. Watch the rabbit, Mr Morrison!'

The rabbit was crouched about ten feet away from the dish of pellets. His nose wriggled. All at once he hopped away into a corner.

'If the rabbit gets a jolt often enough while he's eating,' Donatti said, 'he makes the association very quickly. Eating causes pain. Therefore, he won't eat. A few more shocks, and the rabbit will starve to death in front of his food. It's called aversion training.' Light dawned in Morrison's head.

'No, thanks.' He started for the door.

'Wait, please, Morrison.'

Morrison didn't pause. He grasped the doorknob . and felt it slip solidly through his hand. 'Unlock this.' 'Mr Morrison, if you'll just sit down -'

'Unlock this door or I'll have the cops on you before you can say Marlboro Man.' 'Sit down.' The voice was as cold as shaved ice.

Morrison looked at Donatti. His brown eyes were muddy and frightening. My God, he thought, I'm locked in here with a psycho. He licked his lips. He wanted a cigarette more than he ever had in his life.

'Let me explain the treatment in more detail,' Donatti said.

'You don't understand,' Morrison said with counterfeit patience. 'I don't want the treatment. I've decided against it.'

'No, Mr Morrison. You're the one who doesn't understand. You don't have any choice. When I told you the treatment had already begun, I was speaking the literal truth. I would have thought you'd tipped to that by now.' 'You're crazy,' Morrison said wonderingly.

'No. Only a pragmatist. Let me tell you all about the treatment.'

'Sure,' Morrison said. 'As long as you understand that as soon as I get out of here I'm going to buy five packs of cigarettes and smoke them all on the way to the police station.' He suddenly realized he was biting his thumb-nail, sucking on it, and made himself stop.

'As you wish. But I think you'll change your mind when you see the whole picture.' Morrison said nothing. He sat down again and folded his hands.

'For the first month of the treatment, our operatives will have you under constant supervision,' Donatti said. 'You'll be able to spot some of them. Not all. But they'll always be with you. Always. If they see you smoke a cigarette, I get a call.'

'And I suppose you bring me here and do the old rabbit trick,' Morrison said. He tried to sound cold and sarcastic, but he suddenly felt horribly frightened. This was a nightmare.

'Oh, no,' Donatti said. 'Your wife gets the rabbit trick, not you.' Morrison looked at him dumbly.

Donatti smiled. 'You,' he said, 'get to watch.'

After Donatti let him out, Morrison walked for over two hours in a complete daze. It was another fine day, but he didn't notice. The monstrousness of Donatti's smiling face blotted out all else.

'You see,' he had said, 'a pragmatic problem demands pragmatic solutions. You must realize we have your best interests at heart.

Quitters, Inc., according to Donatti, was a sort of foundation - a non-profit organization begun by the man in the wall portrait. The gentleman had been extremely successful in several family businesses - including slot machines, massage parlours, numbers, and a brisk (although clandestine) trade between New York and Turkey. Mort 'Three-Fingers' Minelli had been a heavy smoker - up in the three-pack-a-day range. The paper he was holding in the picture was a doctor's diagnosis: lung cancer. Mort had died in 1970, after endowing Quitters, Inc., with family funds.

'We try to keep as close to breaking even as possible,' Donatti had said. 'But we're more interested in helping our fellow man. And of course, it's a great tax angle.'

The treatment was chillingly simple. A first offence and Cindy would be brought to what Donatti called 'the rabbit room'. A second offence, and Morrison would get the dose. On a third offence, both of them would be brought in together. A fourth offence would show grave co-operation problems and would require sterner measures. An operative would be sent to Alvin's school to work the boy over.

'Imagine,' Donatti said, smiling, 'how horrible it will be for the boy. He wouldn't understand it even jf someone explained. He'll only know someone is hurting him because Daddy was bad. He'll be very frightened.'

'You bastard,' Morrison said helplessly. He felt close to tears. 'You dirty, filthy bastard.'

'Don't misunderstand,' Donatti said. He was smiling sympathetically. 'I'm sure it won't happen. Forty per cent of our clients never have to be disciplined at all - and only ten per cent have more than three falls from grace. Those are reassuring figures, aren't they?'

Morrison didn't find them reassuring. He found them terrifying.

'Of course, if you transgress a fifth time -'

'What do you mean?'

Donatti beamed. 'The room for you and your wife, a second beating for your son, and a beating for your wife.'

Morrison, driven beyond the point of rational consideration, lunged over the desk at Donatti. Donatti moved with amazing speed for a man who had apparently been completely relaxed. He shoved the chair backwards and drove both of his feet over the desk and into Morrison's belly. Gagging and coughing, Morrison staggered backward.

'Sit down, Mr Morrison,' Donatti said benignly. 'Let's talk this over like rational men.'

When he could get his breath, Morrison did as he was told. Nightmares had to end some time, didn't they?

Quitters, Inc., Donatti had explained further, operated on a ten-step punishment scale. Steps six, seven, and eight consisted of further trips to the rabbit room (and increased voltage) and more serious beatings. The ninth step would be the breaking of his son's arms.

'And the tenth?' Morrison asked, his mouth dry.

Donatti shook his head sadly. 'Then we give up, Mr Morrison. You become part of the unregenerate two per cent.'

'You really give up?'

'In a manner of speaking.' He opened one of the desk drawers and laid a silenced .45 on the desk. He smiled into Morrison's eyes. 'But even the unregenerate two per cent never smoke again. We guarantee it.'

The Friday Night Movie was Bullitt, one of Cindy's favourites, but after an hour of Morrison's mutterings and fidgetings, her concentration was broken.

'What's the matter with you?' she asked during station identification.

'Nothing . . . everything,' he growled. 'I'm giving up smoking.'

She laughed. 'Since when? Five minutes ago?'

'Since three o'clock this afternoon.'

'You really haven't had a cigarette since then?'

'No,' he said, and began to gnaw his thumb-nail. It was ragged, down to the quick.

'That's wonderful! What ever made you decide to quit?'

'You,' he said. 'And. . . and Alvin.'

Her eyes widened, and when the movie came back on, she didn't notice. Dick rarely mentioned their retarded son. She came over, looked at the empty ashtray by his right hand, and then into his eyes: 'Are you really trying to quit, Dick?'

'Really.' And if I go to the cops, he added mentally, the local goon squad will be around to rearrange your face, Cindy.

'I'm glad. Even if you don't make it, we both thank you for the thought, Dick.'

'Oh, I think I'll make it,' he said, thinking of the muddy, homicidal look that had come into Donatti's eyes when he kicked him in the stomach.

He slept badly that night, dozing in and out of sleep. Around three o'clock he woke up completely. His craving for a cigarette was like a low-grade fever. He went downstairs and to his study. The room was in the middle of the house. No windows. He slid open the top drawer of his desk and looked in, fascinated by the cigarette box. He looked around and licked his lips.

Constant supervision during the first month, Donatti had said. Eighteen hours a day during the next two - but he would never know which eighteen. During the fourth month, the month when most clients backslid, the 'service' would return to twenty-four hours a day.

Then twelve hours of broken surveillance each day for the rest of the year. After that? Random surveillance for the rest of the client's life.

For the rest of his life.

'We may audit you every other month,' Donatti said. 'Or every other day. Or constantly for one week two years from now. The point is, you won't know. If you smoke, you'll be gambling with loaded dice. Are they watching? Are they picking up my wife or sending a man after my son right now? Beautiful, isn't it? And if you do sneak a smoke, it'll taste awful. It will taste like your son's blood.'

But they couldn't be watching now, in the dead of night, in his own study. The house was grave-quiet.

He looked at the cigarettes in the box for almost two minutes, unable to tear his gaze away. Then he went to the study door, peered out into the empty hall, and went back to look at the cigarettes some more. A horrible picture came: his life stretching before him and not a cigarette to be found. How in the name of God was he ever going to be able to make another tough presentation to a wary client, without that cigarette burning nonchalantly between his fingers as he approached the charts and layouts? How would he be able to endure Cindy's endless garden shows without a cigarette? How could he even get up in the morning and face the day without a cigarette to smoke as he drank his coffee and read the paper?

He cursed himself for getting into this. He cursed Donatti. And most of all, he cursed Jimmy McCann. How could he have done it?

The son of a bitch had known. His hands trembled in their desire to get hold of Jimmy Judas McCann.

Stealthily, he glanced around the study again. He reached into the drawer and brought out a cigarette. He caressed it, fondled it. What was that old slogan? So round, so firm, so fully packed. Truer words had never been spoken. He put the cigarette in his mouth and then paused, cocking his head.

Had there been the slightest noise from the closet? A faint shifting? Surely not. But -Another mental image - that rabbit hopping crazily in the grip of electricity. The thought of Cindy in that room -He listened desperately and heard nothing. He told himself that all he had to do was go to the closet door and yank it open. But he was too afraid of what he might find. He went back to bed but didn't sleep for a long time.

In spite of how lousy he felt in the morning, breakfast tasted good. After a moment's hesitation, he followed his customary bowl of cornflakes with scrambled eggs. He was grumpily washing out the pan when Cindy came downstairs in her robe.

'Richard Morrison! You haven't eaten an egg for break-fast since Hector was a pup.

Morrison grunted. He considered since Hector was a pup to be one of Cindy's stupider sayings, on a par with I should smile and kiss a pig.

'Have you smoked yet?' she asked, pouring orange juice.

'No.'

'You'll be back on them by noon,' she proclaimed airily. 'Lot of goddamn help you are!' he rasped, rounding on her. 'You and anyone else who doesn't smoke, you all think ah, never mind.'

He expected her to be angry, but she was looking at him F with something like wonder. 'You're really serious,' she said. 'You really are.'

'You bet I am.' You'll never know how serious. I hope.

'Poor baby,' she said, going to him. 'You look like death warmed over. But I'm very proud.' Morrison held her tightly.

Scenes from the life of Richard Morrison, October-November:

Morrison and a crony from Larkin Studios at Jack Dempsey's bar. Crony offers a cigarette. Morrison grips his glass a little more tightly and says: I'm quitting. Crony laughs and says: I give you a week.

Morrison waiting for the morning train, looking over the top of the Times at a young man in a blue suit. He sees the young man almost every morning now, and sometimes at other places. At Onde's, where he is meeting a client. Looking at 45s in Sam Goody's, where Morrison is looking for a Sam Cooke album. Once in a foursome behind Morrison's group at the local golf course.

Morrison getting drunk at a party, wanting a cigarette -but not quite drunk enough to take one.

Morrison visiting his son, bringing him a large ball that squeaked when you squeezed it. His son's slobbering, delighted kiss.

Somehow not as repulsive as before. Hugging his son tightly, realizing what Donatti and his colleagues had so cynically realized before him: love is the most pernicious drug of all. Let the romantics debate its existence. Pragmatists accept it and use it.

Morrison losing the physical compulsion to smoke little by little, but never quite losing the psychological craving, or the need to have something in his mouth - cough drops, Life Savers, a tooth-pick. Poor substitutes, all of them.

And finally, Morrison hung up in a colossal traffic jam in the Midtown Tunnel. Darkness. Horns blaring. Air stinking. Traffic hopelessly snarled. And suddenly, thumbing open the glove compartment and seeing the half-open pack of cigarettes in there. He looked at them for a moment, then snatched one and lit it with the dashboard lighter. If anything happens, it's Cindy's fault, he told himself defiantly. I told her to get rid of all the damn cigarettes.

The first drag made him cough smoke out furiously. The second made his eyes water. The third made him feel light-headed and swoony. It tastes awful, he thought.

And on the heels of that: My God, what am I doing?

Horns blatted impatiently behind him. Ahead, the traffic had begun to move again. He stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray, opened both front windows, opened the vents, and then fanned the air helplessly like a kid who has just flushed his first butt down the john.

He joined the traffic flow jerkily and. drove home.

'Cindy?' he called. 'I'm home.' No answer.

'Cindy? Where are you, hon?'

The phone rang, and he pounced on it. 'Hello? Cindy?'

'Hello, Mr Morrison,' Donatti said. He sounded pleasantly brisk and businesslike. 'It seems we have a small business matter to attend to. Would five o'clock be convenient?'

'Have you got my wife?'

'Yes, indeed.' Donatti chuckled indulgently.

'Look, let her go,' Morrison babbled. 'It won't happen again. It was a slip, just a slip, that's all. I only had three drags and for God's sake it didn't even taste good!'

'That's a shame. I'll count on you for five then, shall I?'

'Please,' Morrison said, close to tears. 'Please -He was speaking to a dead line.

At 5p.m. the reception room was empty except for the secretary, who gave him a twinkly smile that ignored Morrison's pallor and dishevelled appearance. 'Mr Donatti?' she said into the intercom. 'Mr Morrison to see you.' She nodded to Morrison. 'Go right in.'

Donatti was waiting outside the unmarked room with a man who was wearing a SMILE sweatshirt and carrying a .38. He was built like an ape.

'Listen,' Morrison said to Donatti. 'We can work something out, can't we? I'll pay you. I'll-' 'Shaddap,' the man in the SMILE sweatshirt said.

'It's good to see you,' Donatti said. 'Sorry it has to be under such adverse circumstances. Will you come with me? We'll make this as brief as possible. I can assure you your wife won't be hurt. . . this time.' Morrison tensed himself to leap at Donatti.

'Come, come,' Donatti said, looking annoyed. 'If you do that, Junk here is going to pistol-whip you and your wife is still going to get it. Now where's the percentage in that?'

'I hope you rot in hell,' he told Donatti.

Donatti sighed. 'If I had a nickel for every time someone expressed a similar sentiment, I could retire. Let it be a lesson to you, Mr Morrison. When a romantic tries to do a good thing and fails, they give him a medal. When a pragmatist succeeds, they wish him in hell. Shall we go?'

Junk motioned with the pistol.

Morrison preceded them into the room. He felt numb.

The small green curtain had been pulled. Junk prodded him with the gun. This is what being a witness at the gas chamber must have been like, he thought.

He looked in. Cindy was there, looking around bewilderedly.

'Cindy!' Morrison called miserably. 'Cindy, they -'

'She can't hear or see you,' Donatti said. 'One-way glass. Well, let's get it over with. It really was a very small slip. I believe thirty seconds should be enough. Junk?'

Junk pressed the button with one hand and kept the pistol jammed firmly into Morrison's back with the other.

It was the longest thirty seconds of his life.

When it was over, Donatti put a hand on Morrison's shoulder and said, 'Are you going to throw up?'

'No,' Morrison said weakly. His forehead was against the glass. His legs were jelly. 'I don't think so.' He turned around and saw that

Junk was gone.

'Come with me,' Donatti said.

'Where?' Morrison asked apathetically.

'I think you have a few things to explain, don't you?'

'How can I face her? How can I tell her that I. . .I . . 'I think you're going to be surprised,' Donatti said.

The room was empty except for a sofa. Cindy was on it, sobbing helplessly.

'Cindy?' he said gently.

She looked up, her eyes magnified by tears. 'Dick?' she whispered. 'Dick? Oh . . . Oh God . . .' He held her tightly. 'Two men,' she said against his chest. 'In the house and at first I thought they were burglars and then I thought they were going to rape me and then they took me someplace with a blindfold over my eyes and. . . and. . . oh it was h-horrible -' 'Shhh,' he said. 'Shhh.'

'But why?' she asked, looking up at him. 'Why would they -'

'Because of me,' he said 'I have to tell you a story, Cindy -'

When he had finished he was silent a moment and then said, 'I suppose you hate me. I wouldn't blame you.'

He was looking at the floor, and she took his face in both hands and turned it to hers. 'No,' she said. 'I don't hate you.' He looked at her in mute surprise.

'It was worth it,' she said. 'God bless these people. They've let you out of prison.'

'Do you mean that?'

'Yes,' she said, and kissed him. 'Can we go home now? I feel much better. Ever so much.'

The phone rang one evening a week later, and when Morrison recognized Donatti's voice, he said, 'Your boys have got it wrong. I haven't even been near a cigarette.'

'We know that. We have a final matter to talk over. Can you stop by tomorrow afternoon?'

'Is it -,

'No, nothing serious. Book-keeping really. By the way, congratulations on your promotion.'

'How did you know about that?'

'We're keeping tabs,' Donatti said noncommittally, and hungup.

When they entered the small room, Donatti said, 'Don't look so nervous. No one's going to bite you. Step over here, please.'

Morrison saw an ordinary bathroom scale. 'Listen, I've gained a little weight, but -'

'Yes, seventy-three per cent of our clients do. Step up, please.' Morrison did, and tipped the scales at one seventy-four.

'Okay, fine. You can step off. How tall are you, Mr Morrison?'

'Five-eleven.'

'Okay, let's see.' He pulled a small card laminated in plastic from his breast pocket. 'Well, that's not too bad. I'm going to write you a prescrip for some highly illegal diet pills. Use them sparingly and according to directions. And I'm going to set your maximum weight at. . . let's see . .

He consulted the card again. 'One eighty-two, how does that sound? And since this is December first, I'll expect you the first of every month for a weigh-in. No problem if you can't make it, as long as you call in advance.'

'And what happens if I go over one-eighty-two?'

Donatti smiled. 'We'll send someone out to your house to cut off your wife's little finger,' he said. 'You can leave through this door, Mr Morrison. Have a nice day.' Eight months later:

Morrison runs into the crony from the Larkin Studios at Dempsey's bar. Morrison is down to what Cindy proudly calls his fighting weight: one sixty-seven. He works out three times a week and looks as fit as whipcord. The crony from Larkin, by comparison, looks like something the cat dragged in.

Crony: Lord, how'd you ever stop? I'm locked into this damn habit tighter than Tillie. The crony stubs his cigarette out with real revulsion and drains his scotch.

Morrison looks at him speculatively and then takes a small white business card out of his wallet. He puts it on the bar between them.

You know, he says, these guys changed my life.

Twelve months later:

Morrison receives a bill in the mail. The bill says:

QUITTERS, INC.

237 East 46th Street

New York, N.Y. 10017

1 Treatment $2500.00

Counsellor (Victor Donatti) $2500.00

Electricity $ .50

TOTAL (Please pay this amount) $5000.50

Those sons of bitches! he explodes. They charged me for the electricity they used to. . . to Just pay it, she says, and kisses him.

Twenty months later:

Quite by accident, Morrison and his wife meet the Jimmy McCanns at the Helen Hayes Theatre. Introductions are made all around.

Jimmy looks as good, if not better than he did on that day in the airport terminal so long ago. Morrison has never met his wife. She is pretty in the radiant way plain girls sometimes have when they are very, very happy.

She offers her hand and Morrison shakes it. There is something odd about her grip, and halfway through the second act, he realizes what it was. The little finger on her right hand is missing.

[babyspacebatclone]

I still have not seem all of SPoP, and there are so many other things higher on the list now that I’m unlikely to anytime soon.

There’s likely the out of universe answer which, strangely, wraps into in-universe because of creator’s pet/self insert: you-know-who only cared about Adora and Catra’s relationship (in any form allowable on screen).

Early seasons, this makes Adora focus on, surprise surprise, her sister-figure/love interest (depending on which page of the series bible or you-know-who’s headcanon was being used that scene). From making promises on Catra’s behalf to only taking Catra out of the Fright Zone, Adora only has one interest in her “friend group.”

Part of this is, surprise surprise, Shadow Weaver’s deliberate abuse of the pair. SW makes Catra’s continued healthy status dependent on Adora’a good behavior, but not the Trio. The Trio is not dependent on Adora for their continued happiness (from Adora’s understanding), nor do their actions help Catra beyond the immediate group effort. This cycles around in Adora’s martyrdom complex: On one had, she needs to protect Catra, on the other hand Catra being safe/happy is reinforcing in a way that no one else’s feelings can ever be (even from only this deliberately-perverted sibling relationship imposed by SW).

Come Season 5, we also see that Catra has been explicitly demanding this very dynamic on Adora since they were children: Adora can only have “friends” if their importance never makes Catra feel threatened. This is likely partically Catra manifesting the SW manipulations from above, but also (deliberately intended) to be part of Catra’s “Me vs The World” mindset: Having other friends beyond always-accepting Adora means that Catra needs to acknowledge other people’s needs and feelings, which she cannot risk the energy/spoons to do (“I’ll never apologize,” because all her mental energy is already used up in survival and she can’t see how the short term expenditure will lead to longer-term benefit).

Which is kind of a weird cycle of retcon but also deliberately baked-in to the character development from conception, Adora fixating on Catra because that’s what the writer wants but also because that is how the writer has seen their relationship their entire lives.

I can’t also help but wonder if, by the end of Season 1, part of Adora’s issue with the Horde Trio is internalizing Bright Moon’s prejudices against the Horde: If you’ve stayed in the Horde, you obviously must condone the actions of the Horde, and therefore either need to free yourself or deserve your fate. Despite, you know, the Horde Trio (as explicitly shown in later seasons) still believing the same Horde propaganda that Adora had before meeting Glimmer and Bow. It’s - an unfortunate reality that Adora has been outside that propaganda for so long by the end of Season 1 that she can’t recognize the power it has over other people - yes, obviously, it lied to her, but it’s so obvious to her now that other people should see the lie, too. Because, unfortunately, that’s how people are limited to viewing the world…

And this being that strange bidirectional interaction of “writer’s perspective” directly becoming the “character’s belief system”…

Much like Entrapta and Hordak, I get the feeling that the Horde Trio mattered so little to significant parties beyond the tropes that the characters were easily enough adopted and handled by others on the team - people who could actually give them character, and fleshed them out. And when those crew members could get their perspective on screen, it created characters others could bond with and relate to, characters beyond “part of the main pair’s background.” But that’s not the drive of the show, and so less and less time was available for those crew members to keep them relevant as actual characters and not set pieces until, well….

I’m rewatching She-Ra and I’m on “No Princess Left Behind” and it really bugs me that Adora grew up with Lonnie, Kyle, Rogelio, and Catra yet she doesn’t bother to try to get any of them but Catra to go with her. It doesn’t make sense to me. It seems like they were close growing up but they make it seem like she only cares about Catra.

Especially since Kyle seemed like he would’ve willingly joined them because he just wanted a friend… he gives Bow important information that helps them save Glimmer and then they just leave him behind..

It’s stupid but it makes me mad

[trbl-will-find-me]

Every Exit, An Entrance (18/?)

There are two (and only two) possibilities: either she led XCOM to victory and they are now engaged in a clean up operation of alien forces, or XCOM was overrun, clearing the way for an alien-controlled puppet government to seize control of the planet.

She’d really like to figure out which it is, but asking hardly seems the prudent option.

Central is arguing with a man on the viewscreen as she dismounts the stairs from her quarters to the bridge. Behind him, Sally and Kelly exchange what she suspects are meant to be surreptitious looks. They are about as subtle as a clown in day glo face paint. She raises her eyes at them, waiting for them to realize their error. Sally spots her first, and offers her a broad grin in response.

It occurs to her that she may not be quite as fearsome as she hopes.

Strike One had their fair share of chuckles, too, she reminds herself. Besides, would you rather be the person the crew feels safe to talk freely with, or the one who demands their respect for no reason other than your rank?

There is no contest in her mind.

“I’m not exactly having drinks with them!” Central proclaims, throwing his hands in the air. “And they did keep their end of the bargain.”

“He’s wasting his breath,” Sally mutters. “This conversation never goes anywhere.” “What’s going on?”

“Drunk diplomacy with our closest allies. That’s Volk. He’s the head of the Reapers.”

She turns, eyeing Central. “He seems sober enough.”

“Yeah, for now.”

She looks to Jane, hoping for some kind of explanation.

“The Reapers make the closes thing you can get to vodka,” she says.

“And Central can’t turn it down,” Sally adds. “The benders are legendary.”

“Oh, good.”

“Volk’s requesting an in-person meet and greet,” Kelly explains. “He thinks it’s high time he met you.”

“He thinks it’s high time?”

“Volk’s … a character,” Sally shrugs. “He runs a good org, but. You’ll see.”

“I’m filled with confidence.”

“He’s not … okay, yeah. He is that bad.”

The screen cuts to black. “Commander,” Central says, turning his attention to her. “That was Konstantin Volikov, head of the Reapers. His people helped get you out. He’s requesting a meeting.”

She nods. “Does he have a place in mind?”

“Their turf. Northwestern US.”

“Can they be trusted?” “They’ve got no love for ADVENT.”

She considers this for a moment. “Let’s get going, then. Any word on new recruits?”

“We’ve got energy signatures from the north central US,” Kelly answers. “It make be worth it to stop and make contact if we can spare the time.”

“Central?” The Commander asks.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Slowly, life has begun the trek towards normalcy. Thomas’s tactless jokes have made a return, as well as the near-nightly card games. Zaytsev is almost ready to return to duty, and Shen’s team is hard at work on some new idea. Despite everything that has happened, and everything that is yet to come, life moves along.

There is still one thing that lingers in her mind, though, a memory she can’t shake. They had stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, for longer than they’d really needed to, longer than they really should have. For all that he is not the John Bradford she once knew, he is close enough to reignite the old ache in her chest.

Stop it, she tells herself. You’re just stressed. Stressed and touch-starved. You barely know him.

But you could get to know him again. Isn’t that what you’ve been doing? Another part of her brain counters.

He made his feelings abundantly clear, she reminds herself. Even if he trusts you, it’s a far cry from where you were. The memory of his accusation weighs heavy in her stomach. You’ve finally made some progress. Don’t fuck it up because you’re needy.

She catches Sally’s eye. “Not a word, you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, ma’am,” she says lightly.

--

Her shift has been quiet thus far, a handful of energy spikes, but nothing unusual. Someone is playing NORAD’s Santa tracker updates over the PA, reminding one and all that it is holiday time and they are all still here, underground and far from the ones they love. It is not how she would have chosen to spend her Christmas Eve.

Picking up her datapad, she scrolls through the pictures that her parents sent, a beautiful tree in the main room of their apartment in Rome, delicious baked goods from the pastry shops, and their smiling faces. It is the first Christmas she’ll spend away from them, a reality she had never anticipated when she’d accepted the position. All the cheery -- distinctly non-regulation -- string lights, trees, menorahs, and snowmen don’t make up for the knowledge that she should be with her family.

It’s not a train of thought she can let herself linger on. The dearth of real light in the base already plays havoc with her if she lets her guard down. She doesn’t need to add to the discontent already simmering beneath her skin.

Happy thoughts, she reminds herself. Happy thoughts. The Council was pleased with the SHIV report, and there’s talk of additional research funding being allocated. She seemed confident enough in his ability to falsify the intrusion. We might just make it through after all.

All of a sudden, the Hologlobe flickers and the power dims. Bile rises in her throat, and she reaches for the gun in her shoulder holster. We haven’t had any hostile contact. There’s no way they could surprise us again. We hit them hard. We knocked their ship out of existence. It has to be over.

“Central?” She says, pressing a finger to the comm link in her ear. “Shen? Vahlen?”

Nothing.

The globe bursts back to life, along with the terminals and other electrical systems.

Except the comms.

Except their internal monitoring.

They are operating in the blind.

It is as if all of her very worst nightmares have come to pass.

The door connecting Mission Control to the Armory slides open and she tenses, bracing for the worse. Instead she is greeted by two-fifths of Strike One, weapons in hand.

“What was that?” Hershel calls from her position. “Do we have a breach?”

“Unknown.”

“Unknown?”

“You heard me. We’ve got no internal monitoring.”

“I knew comms were down, but feeds too?”

“Far as anyone can tell.” She does not like this. “You two know where Molchetti, Bernard, and Martin are?  You know, in case we do have a problem.”

“Edouard was in the infirmary last I knew, working with some of last week’s training injuries,” Royston offers. “I’d assume he’s still there.”

“Bernard’s still in bed after his little soiree last night,” Hershel adds. “Molchetti was in the Mess.”

“Do we have internal monitoring back?” She asks the room.

“No, ma’am,” comes the chorus of replies.

“Shit.”

Her datapad buzzes. What the hell happened? Central’s message reads.

Trying to figure that out, she types back. Hoping it’s not a breach, but can’t confirm.

Can’t confirm?

No internal feed.

Fuck.

“Castiglione, Hollis,” she begins. “Head for Engineering. Grab Dr. Shen and bring him back. Williamson, Moreau, go to the labs and find Dr. Vahlen. Everyone else, do what you can to get us back up.”

She unpins her hair and runs a hand through it. We just had a major power disruption, we’re operating in the blind, and we have no comms. How does this get worse?

There is a sudden crash from somewhere underneath them.

-- It’s an uneventful morning. The weather is good for flying and they remain far enough out of the way to avoid any ADVENT patrols.

She does what she can to feel useful.

She updates the inventory on guns and supplies, checks in with Shen’s team on their armor prototypes, and visits Tygan in his lab. She collects the beer bottles from around the quarters, and empties out the ash trays, making a mental note to do something about the crew’s smoking on board.

Time stretches out in front of her.

She misses having something to do. Yes, there is commandeering and planning and strategizing, but at the moment, they have a plan, one they are working to execute as quickly as possible. Her quarters are clean, the crew quarters and cleaner, and she is at a loss.

She misses having practical distractions, some small task to eat at the idle minutes. She’d always had knitting or sewing or a book to read. Even during the invasion, she’d kept a stash of yarn and needles, something to do on the late nights when sleep remained solidly out of her grasp.

She misses the internet, misses the convenience of streaming movies and her enormous music collection. Reddit wasn’t always the wisest place to spend her time, but it was a reliable distraction. Now, she has nothing.

She knows she could watch the ADVENT feed, try to glean something useful about their enemy. Her tolerance for propaganda has always been low, but her tolerance for boredom is even worse.

She dangles backwards off her couch like some petulant teenager, legs hooked over the backrest.

It makes for an awkward moment of rearranging when the knock comes at her door. “In!” She calls.

Sally stands in the doorway with what looks like an old laptop in her arms. “Is that really how people sat on the couch before the invasion, ma’am?”

She rolls her eyes. “If you can’t treat the couch like a jungle gym, then what’s the point?”

“Jungle gym?”

“You know … like …  slide, monkey bars, climbing things?”

“Maman was always too nervous to let me near one. Not enough cover.“

“Sounds like your mom. What do you need?”

She offers the device to the Commander. “Central says you’re making him nervous.”

She takes the computer, and quirks an eyebrow. “So, he sent you to bring me a laptop?”

“One of the Resistance side projects: salvaging old media. There’s a lot on there.”

“Old media?”

“Movies, tv shows, things like that. We used to get what we could in the bigger havens.”

“When you say old…”

“I didn’t see five seasons of The Twilight Zone because ADVENT was broadcasting it.”

“So, when you start yelling about ‘it’s a cookbook’ when he gives the ‘don’t eat the ADVENT meat rations’ speech, it is because you get the reference, then.“

“Central did what he could to make sure I wasn’t totally illiterate in the field of ‘we were warned.’”

She chuckles. “Sounds about right. I used to call Chryssalids ‘chestbusters’ for the same reason.”

“That one I’ve heard.”

She shakes her head fondly. “My thanks, Sal. And pass it on to him, too.”

Sally offers her a half-salute and heads back for her station on the bridge. The Commander returns to her prior position, opening the laptop and setting it up against her legs.

He’s still there, underneath everything, she tells herself, and boots up the device.

--

They have identified the source of the outage: a coordinated power spike from two of the Fog Pods in their possession.

They still have no comms, and no internal sensors. They have resorted to sending teams through the base to manually search for incursions, keeping in contact via walkie-talkie.

She has seen this movie before; she does not like how it ends.

They have, at least, also identified the source of the earlier ruckus. A game of Twilight Struggle had grown too heated and, apparently inspired by the spirit of Nikita Kruschev banging his shoe, one competitor had flipped not only the pieces, but the table itself at his challenger. She is not sure if she should be relieved, or deeply concerned.

“Shen says the system’s been completely fried, “ Central says, coming up alongside her. “We’ll need to replace everything.”

She blinks up at him. “What?”

He nods.

“We can’t repair it?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Can I see you in my office for a moment?”

He nods.

She waits until they are safely ensconced before opening her mouth.

“What are we gonna do? We can’t go to the Council without blowing our cover, but we can’t operate in the blind.”

“We don’t have to tell them where it came from. We can tell them we’re investigating the source.”

“But if they already know? If they’ve just been waiting to catch us?”

“There’s nothing to indicate that they know.”

“But if they do?”

“We don’t have a lot of choices.”

She chews at the cuticle of her thumb. “How long can we operate in the blind?” “There’s a big difference between can and should.”

“Can.”

“There’s no physical impediment, but if we’re hit again, we won’t know until they’re banging down the door to Mission Control. We won’t be able to coordinate a response. Nothing.”

He’s not telling her anything she doesn’t already know. The logic is sound, borne out in past experience. Still, she wishes she could argue.

“Hey,” he says, gently taking her hand from her mouth. “We’re gonna be okay. We were hit with an energy spike of unknown origin, our comms and internal sensors were knocked out, and we need assistance to repair them. There’s nothing untruthful in that statement.”

“We do know the source.”

He shrugs. “Alright, so it’s a little untruthful.”

She swallows hard. “I probably should get it over with. Here’s to Christmas Eve with a dash of mortal terror.”

“Come here, “ he says, pulling her into a hug. She settles against him, tired and terrified, and tries to ground herself in the moment.

“I’m not letting anything happen to you,” he tells her, rubbing slow circles on her back.

“It’s not just me I’m worried about.”

[jahaanofmenaphos]

Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

Read the full work here:

ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN

FANFICTION.NET

TUMBLR CHAPTER INDEX

QUEST 07: DISHONOUR AMONG THIEVES

QUEST SUMMARY:

Due to his status as the World Guardian, Jahaan wound up as part of Zamorak’s heist team. Their task? Steal the Stone of Jas from Sliske and return its power to Zamorak. Jahaan gets to learn more about a god propaganda had always skewed, but will he be on board with Zamorak’s plan in the end…

CHAPTER 3: CHAOS OF CORRUPTION

The first man - well, man-ish - he was introduced to was Jerrod, a dark-skinned unkempt looking fellow from the lands of Canifis. Canifis had only one prominent export, and that was werewolves. Jerrod happened to be one of those. As soon as Jahaan had approached him, Jerrod began sniffing the air, the look of unsated bloodlust dancing in his red eyes.

“Von’t worry. I von’t eat associates,” through his thick accent, this was the most amount of reassurance Jahaan got from the werewolf, and decided to stay on the opposite end of the room to him as much as possible, especially since it was a full moon tonight.

Thankful to see another full-blooded human in the ranks, Jahaan felt most comfortable around the Lord of the Kinshra, Lord…

Oh blast, what was it again? Jahaan cursed his memory. Lord… Nefarious? No, that makes him sound like a pantomime villain. Precarious? No, just as bad…

Jahaan silently prayed someone would say his name in the not too distant future so he could make a better mental note of it.

Lord Whatshisname was the youngest appointed leader of the Kinshra, the ‘Black Knights’ as they had come to be known. They were the force that has tried and failed on many occasions to conquer Falador in the name of Zamorak. Despite the Black Knights not having a very formidable reputation, their leader certainly looked like he could handle his sword. Decked out in striking black armour, trimmed with gold and crimson, with spikes on the shoulders and joints, Lord Whatshisname did not appear to offer fools gladly, a scowl permanently embedded in his scarred face.

“Don’t talk to me, human,” Zemouregal sized Jahaan up as soon as Moia brought him close enough, towering over him by an imposing foot and a half. He was standing beside an irritated looking Enakhra, who rolled her eyes as soon as Zemouregal opened his mouth. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“Ah, I see you two have already met,” Moia remarked, smiling exasperatedly to Enakhra with an expression that read, ‘I know, right?’

“Look, we have a common goal, and a common enemy in Sliske,” Jahaan’s teeth were so gritted he felt as if they were going to shatter. “Can we call a truce, for your master’s sake?”

“He’s not my ‘master’,” Zemouregal sneered. “I’m ruled by no-one.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Zemouregal slashed forwards, the armour on his stomach smashing into Jahaan’s chest, knocking the man back a pace, but he quickly recovered ground. “Watch your tone with me, rodent,” he threatened, not even trying to mask the intent behind his words. “Zamorak may have business with you, but not me. You step one foot out of line and I’ll sever that tiny head from your shoulders, peel the skin like a grape and crush your skull in my fist.”

Jahaan did not think it was wise to point out that, after his head was severed, Zemouregal could play kickball with it and he wouldn’t care - he’d be dead, after all - but the angry Mahjarrat had definitely made his point. It’d be foolhardy to pick a fight with him; the room was full of Zamorakians who probably preferred a lukewarm glass of water over Jahaan.

Moia quickly ushered Jahaan away, and Enakhra worked to distract an angry Zemouregal.

The two kept their distance after that.

At least Hazeel seemed friendlier. Well, in comparison, a starving rottweiler is friendlier than Zemouregal. Jahaan had met Khazard at the Ritual of Rejuvenation, and their encounter was still fresh in the minds of both beings. From the glare Khazard was bearing down on him, Jahaan knew it’d be up to him to try and smooth things out.

One Mahjarrat enemy in the ranks was enough.

After nodding in greeting to Hazeel, Jahaan turned to Khazard and awkwardly scratched the back of his head. “Listen, I’m… I’m sorry about your dog.”

“His name was Bouncer,” Khazard stated. He looked a little startled by the apology, but he hid it well under a veil of resentment.

“Yes, I’m sorry about Bouncer,” Jahaan continued. “It all got pretty heated. I just… I love dogs, too. I wish he didn’t have to get hurt.”

“Do you have a dog?”

“Not anymore, but I kinda have a pet troll.”

Khazard seemed amused, his sorrow lifting slightly. “You have a pet troll?”

“Yeah, a baby troll. His name’s Coal,” relieved to find some common ground, Jahaan felt a weight lift off his shoulders. “I helped rescue him from Burthorpe.”

Khazard appeared to smile back. It was a strange sight to see. “What’s your name?”

Extending a hand to shake, Jahaan replied, “Jahaan. I know who both of you are. Your reputation precedes you.”

After having his dominant hand nearly crushed into pieces by the Mahjarrat grip, Jahaan regretted the act of courtesy. To Hazeel, he asked, “How did you get out of your coma?”

“Coma?” Hazeel fumbled the foreign word on his tongue. “If you mean the state of sleep those cowards put me in, I have Zamorak himself to thank for my liberation. He awoke me upon his return. After all, I am like a brother to him.”

“You missed a few Rituals though,” Jahaan winced, his eyes boring into the hollow sockets of Hazeel’s skull. “How do you feel?”

“I… am weakened, it is true,” Hazeel regretfully informed. “My life force is critical. I shall not be able to accompany you on whatever mission Zamorak has planned for us today. Once the next Ritual of Rejuvenation is complete, finally I will retake what is rightfully mine.”

“Ardougne?” Jahaan hazarded a guess.

“Precisely. I will reclaim that which was taken from me, just as Zamorak intends to reclaim the Stone of Jas.”

Khazard put a gloved hand on Hazeel’s thin shoulder. “There was a time when between us we controlled all of southern Kandarin. Our reign was glorious. With the combined might of our forces, we will crush them like ants under foot.”

Smiling with an empty jaw, Hazeel replied, “It has been too long, Khazard.”

“You taught me how to conquer. Now it is my turn to help you.”

Despite feeling like he’d awkwardly stumbled into a nice little bonding moment between the two Mahjarrat, Jahaan tried his luck with the Zaros question once again. Thankfully, Hazeel’s response was much more measured.

“Zaros was unfit to rule,” Hazeel declared. “We never spoke with him, or saw him in public. He only ever conferred with that pious Azzanadra. Zamorak spoke the truth, that the Empire was stagnating, the priesthood - headed by Azzanadra - was corrupt, and that we had to take back control.”

“And you, Khazard?” Jahaan inquired.

“I was born into the Zamorakian forces,” Khazard replied. “I am the youngest of my brothers, born on Gielinor during the God Wars. My mother, Palkeera, died during the Battle of Uzer, shortly after my birth.”

“And your father?”

Shrugging, Khazard attempted to look nonchalant, but his eyes darkened slightly. “No doubt he perished too.”

The last person Jahaan was ‘reintroduced’ to was Nomad, a Soul Mage that Jahaan had the pleasure of encountering once before, and it was NOT a pleasant experience. He was undying, a man that had cheated Death numerous times and had somehow grown in power after every defeat. Nomad was known to be an apprentice of the late Lucien, before obtaining enough power and battle prowess to challenge his former master.

Nomad’s large bald head had blue veins appearing through the thin skin, drawing patterns like a trail map. His stance was perplexing, too; he was crouched down like he was about to break into a sprint any second, with an arm bent to guard his scarf-covered mouth. His jagged staff was held behind him, traces of blue energy emitting from the point. He was quite a bulky gentleman, with armour blending in among his robes, the combination providing decent magical and melee protection.

Though Nomad was still technically a human, his obsession with souls and magic had corrupted him over the years, making him something more and, simultaneously, something less than a mere man.

Oddly, Jahaan found himself sympathising, if only somewhat. After the power Guthix had bestowed upon him, making him the World Guardian, Jahaan no longer felt like a mere mortal anymore. Perhaps it was narcissism? Perhaps it was naivety? Whatever it was, it was a feeling Jahaan couldn’t shift…

It wasn’t long before Zamorak graced the chamber with his presence, teleporting in just in front of the throne; the Mahjarrat only bowed their heads in respect, while the others took to their knees. Jahaan remained standing.

“Arise, my disciples of chaos,” Zamorak began, motioning for them to stand. He stepped forward from the throne and settled between Moia and Bilrach. “Good to see you all again. Now, I’ll get right to it. If you don’t already know, we’re going to steal the Stone of Jas from Sliske. I’m not playing his stupid games any longer - just like I taught you, we’re going to take what is ours through strength and chaos!”

The cheers were interrupted by Moia who declared, “My lord, apologies for the disruption, but Viggora has returned. I can sense him.”

Smirking, Zamorak replied, “Perfect timing. Khazard, I need you to enter the Shadow Realm and get Viggora.”

“As you command,” Khazard nodded, stepping forward to gain some ground. He concentrated hard, his eyes closed and fists clenching, but… nothing. Bafflement turned into panic as he failed once more to disappear into the shadows. Darting his eyes towards Hazeel, he exclaimed, “I can’t enter the Shadow Realm!”

Puzzled, Hazeel calmly stepped beside him and tried the same motions, but to no avail. Gravely, he turned to Zamorak and declared, “My lord, I fear Sliske has been meddling with our ability to enter the Shadow Realm. I had sensed something afoul. I believe he has corrupted the boundary. I do not know how this is possible, but it is the only explanation.”

Sighing, Zamorak said, “It’s okay. Only that bastard Zarosian is a better manipulator of the shadows than you two. The failure is not on your shoulders - it’s just another reason to strip his power away. Can you at least create a window into the Shadow realm so that we can see Viggora, even if you can’t enter yourself?”

“I’ll try, my lord,” Khazard responded. With a few motions of his hand, and a slight strain on his part, a large enough window into the darkened mists of the Shadow Realm was created and a figure emerged on the other side. He was bald, but sported a radical two-pronged beard and a bulky suit of steel armour, trimmed in black. There was also the small matter of him being translucent.

When he saw Zamorak, he knelt. “WoOoooooOOoo.”

Crinkling his brow, Jahaan looked around him in bafflement, wondering, Did… did anyone else hear that?

“So it’s true,” Zemouregal stepped forward, a slash of a grin on his face. “Viggora, I’d heard you lost your mind, doomed to wander the Shadow Realm for all eternity.”

Moia quickly realised that Jahaan did not speak ‘ghost’, and lacking a spare ghostspeak amulet that the other non-Mahjarrat had thought to bring with them, acted as his translator.

“Zamorak's return broke the curse that was laid upon me,” Viggora stated. “I may be confined to this realm, but my mind is my own, at last.”

Zamorak had warmth in his expression that Jahaan had only witnessed fleetingly before. “I think back to that night on which we marched upon Zaros. It was beyond living memory that this many of us stood together. Rise, Viggora. What information do you bring?”

“My search took me deep into the swamps of Morytania, to the Barrows where Sliske's undead servants rest. There I discovered his lair, my lord. A stones throw to the south.”

“More. What more did you find?”

“I passed deeper into the lair, past tricks and contraptions. It was at the heart that I found it.”

“The Stone is there?” Zamorak’s eyes grew hungry.

Viggora confirmed, “Yes, Legatus Maximus Zamorak. In a cavernous vault behind a bolstered door. In the Shadow Realm he hides it.”

“You’re one of my most exalted followers, Viggora,” Zamorak commended, “If I could give you back your life, I would.”

Bowing slightly, Viggora stated, “It is my duty. I am forever in your service.”

Enakhra asked, “What else can you tell us about the defences?”

“On your way to the vault you will find several rooms, trapped and guarded,” Viggora explained, “The door preventing entry to the vault will be particularly problematic - an intricate system of rune locks and trickery. Inside, I could see the Stone of Jas. That is all I know.”

Nodding to his ally, Zamorak said, “Thank you, Viggora. That will be all.”

“Good luck to you all. Through chaos, victory is in your hands.”

With that, Viggora disappeared, and Khazard let the window to the Shadow Realm drop, visibly relieved at being allowed to relax his hold.

Zemouregal stepped into the centre of the circle that had formed, barking, “Let us strike now! We have the Stone's location - we must storm Sliske's lair by force!”

“Predictable,” Enakhra muttered. “No, we must plan. This opportunity cannot be squandered.”

“Enakhra is right,” Zamorak agreed. “Sliske will be able to teleport the Stone away. He must not be alerted.”

Lord… something or other… added, “If I may speak, it would seem our best option is a stealthy approach.”

“Leave it to me,” Nomad boasted, “The guards will pose no threat. I'll be back with the Stone before sundown.”

“Ha! A likely story,” Zemouregal snapped back. “No, I’m best suited for this mission. Sliske won’t even know what-”

“Quiet!” Zamorak cut in abruptly. “You will ALL be needed for this mission. Here’s what’s gonna happen: the World Guardian is resistant to divine power, so if that smug bastard really has become a god, he can’t hurt Jahaan. Jerrod’s an agile guy, he can stealthily take out the guards in the outer chambers. Moia’s got a unique memory infiltrating ability; they won’t be able to defend against something like that. Daquarius, you’re a smart guy, you’ll be good at breaking the rune locks on the vault door. Enakhra and Nomad, your mastery of magic is going to be our tank power against whatever Sliske throws at you. Khazard, despite Sliske having handicapped your ability to enter the Shadow Realm, you can still open windows, which is damn important - that’s where he’s got the Stone, after all. Zemouregal, you’re a necromancer even more capable than Sliske, so show his undead hordes no mercy. And Bilrach, you’re gonna lead this group.”

“It would be my honour,” Bilrach bowed lowly, ignoring the side-eye Zemouregal was giving him.

“I will remain with Zamorak,” Hazeel stated. “In my weakened state, I will be more of a hindrance than a help. Once you reach the Stone, Khazard has a communication device that will be able to alert me, and I will inform Lord Zamorak who will be able to retrieve the Stone from the Shadow Realm.”

“But if Khazard can’t get into the Shadow Realm, what makes you think you’ll be able to?” Jahaan asked Zamorak.

However, the reply instead came from Zemouregal who barked, “You dare question our lord’s power?!”

Holding an easing hand out to Zemouregal, Zamorak broke into a sinister sneer and assured, “If we can’t get the Stone out ourselves, we’ll just have to make Sliske get it out for us. You understand?”

Gulping, Jahaan did.

Bilrach added, “I must remind you all, do not underestimate Sliske. I have sensed his power growing rapidly for some time now. He seems to flit in and out of my reach. In and out of focus. He knows I can sense him. Curious, yes. The Shadow Realm, perhaps.”

Resting his hands on the hilts of his swords, Jahaan cautioned, “I've dealt with Sliske before. Despite his demeanour, he’s not to be taken lightly.”

“Wise words. Another reason why you were chosen,” Zamorak replied. “The snake has taken a vested interest in you. Though if everything goes to plan, the filthy Zarosian won’t have time to react.”

General Khazard hesitantly ventured, “What… what if the plan goes wrong?”

Zamorak’s confidence helped to assuage his doubts. “Then it will be chaos, and you will be in your element. Embrace it and realise your true potential. Now, move out. Head to Morytania and meet up at Sliske’s hideout. Let’s stick it to that daft bastard once and for all.”

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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[theinquisitivej]

SteamHeart Episode 17 Reactions

Chapter Seventeen: Winds of Virginia

There’s something quite affecting about this being the first chapter I tackle after an extended period away; I’ll try my best to explain why as we come to the chapter’s concluding moments and my closing thoughts, but for now, let’s go over the beats and discuss what stands out in this chapter.

         The crew arrive at Indianapolis, still recovering after the news of the Arlingtons’ deaths. Butler reflects on the state of the city, providing some insight into how settlements like this leave vast portions of the city uninhabited due to the significantly diminished population, which is a contrast to how crowded Washington has become after the government re-established itself and civilians began flocking to the city. For those looking for a sense of security which the largest population and a seat of government can provide, it’s an attractive place to live in, but for those who can’t help but feel uneasy around people, particularly large crowds, it holds little appeal. The comparison between Indianapolis and Washington, as well as the discussion of the different attitudes people have towards the capital reinforce the impression that the Reunified States aren’t necessarily so unified; different pockets of civilisation showcase different attitudes towards the best means of survival, as well as different outlooks on the sort of life people want to live for as long as they are alive. It’s worldbuilding, and it’s worldbuilding that draws upon the very relatable idea of different people simply placing different value on human contact; some will need a lot of people around to feel safe, while others only feel safe when they are away from people.

         So, Abigail (looking for any excuse to get out of SteamHeart for a bit and eager to do anything which will help take their minds off of things) suggests taking in a local show, and the rest of the team agrees. It’s not long after the play starts that they realise that it’s a dramatisation of the life of Katherine Holloway, James and Abigail’s former guardian and the newly appointed Director of the National Intelligence Agency. Specifically, this is retelling the parts of her life that she shared in her segment of The Cartographer’s Handbook. It’s set up to be accessible entertainment to appeal to the general crowds with two-dimensional and stereotyped depictions of James and Abigail (though “I like punching!” gets a laugh out of me each time I revisit the chapter) and clichéd lines like “Ms. Holloway, I’m supposed to ask YOU that! Ha!” *pause for laughter from the theatre audience*. It’s also clearly meant to be propaganda, espousing “the New American work ethic”, as well as the virtues exhibited in Katherine’s actions throughout this story which they wish to encourage in the people of America, such as her dedication, resistance against those who would take advantage of flourishing settlements, and her determination to keep fighting. By the end, all the parts which would make those who actually were there roll their eyes aren’t enough to put Team Steam off the play, as even the most cynical of their number concede they got something out of it. It’s fun to have a tongue-in-cheek riff of some of the events up to this point (and yes, there is a clear comparison to be made to a particular episode of a terrific TV show, as acknowledged in this chapter’s epilogue), but I find it especially refreshing that one of these joking looks at a piece of propaganda in a fictional setting comes away from it without being entirely dismissive. It’s important to be critical of over-dramatic entertainment with an agenda, but what is sometimes lost in these discussions, both in and out of fiction, is the ability for media, any media, to have genuinely positive and profound influence over people. Examine and consider the stories you engage with, but don’t disparage the people who take away commendable messages from them which don’t cause harm to others, or who find something legitimately meaningful to them, or those who just needed something to take them out of a dark place long enough that they could take their first steps back into normality.

         Harry speaks for what seems to be the first time in ages, and she commends the Blushing Pilgrims for giving these people something which uplifts them. Her assessment that “The Cartographer’s Handbook… this new story… people like them” is a correct one, and I’m not just talking about within the narrative either. Harry tells us that this doesn’t mean she’s suddenly alright, but she’s nevertheless glad she saw this, continuing New Century’s trend of presenting well-observed depictions of grief and depression, and the steps we take to cope with them.

         Harry asks if they can see it again the next night, and while tickets are selling out, Annie makes a point of telling the theatre staff that the real James Penrose and Abigail Grey will be in attendance, which makes getting tickets a lot easier. As a result, Abigail is asked to give a speech – a test of her developing skills as a high-ranking officer, Cartographer, and, now, highly visible public figure, all three of which demand the ability to inspire. As she speaks, Annie keeps a watchful eye out for potential threats, ruminating on the deaths of Hayes and the Arlingtons and resolving not to let the same thing come to pass with her most recent charge. Annie and Butler are some of the most capable soldiers and fighters in all of New Century, but witnessing these moments of redoubled determination and seeing that they are motivated by regret and self-doubt over whether they really did enough to prevent past losses shows their human vulnerability. It also stresses that the admirable qualities of these two characters aren’t a result of them always winning, but of how they find it in themselves to take their regret and shape it into something which helps their drive to succeed in the future. Annie doesn’t have it all figured out, but her approach to figuring it out is to identify what she can do and still has control over and focus her energy on that.

         Back to Abigail’s speech – she discusses the assassination of the Arlingtons and the instructions of their replacement, Katherine Holloway. She reads out Katherine’s letter to the audience, showing some of the real-life strength of character of the woman who inspired this play as she acknowledges what has been lost, and affirms her intentions to work with Truth to ensure that what the Arlingtons were working towards will come to pass. After Abigail finishes relaying the words of her mentor figure, she starts to say her own thoughts as she speaks to the crowd. She makes a point of commending what these people are doing, and after the parts of the episode where she rolled her eyes at the blunt depiction of her character, the sincerity of her words illustrates the perspective and thoughtfulness she has developed over time. Her speech is positively received by the crowd, but, more importantly, it stirs something in Harry. It’s a testament to how much of a chord Abigail struck with the crowd and the person who most needed to hear those words, and it indicates that the fires of Harry’s spirit and creativity have been rekindled by the note of hope and resilience in Abigail’s speech.

         We reach the chapter’s concluding moments as we transition to a few days later, and Harry is back in the driver’s seat. Seeing her return to her work and to the upkeep of SteamHeart is heartening, and hearing this wonderful mechanic’s process of returning to a kind of stable normality be described as attending to “much needed repairs” is a beautifully fitting phrase. As Annie watches Harry’s focus, she says the words which surprised me by how much they affected me; “[I] pondered my own return from inactivity. Was I moving now to meet one frightening scenario, or to get away from another?” At the time of writing this, I am coming back to writing on this blog of mine after my own period of “inactivity”. This year has not been without progress and personal accomplishments, but what has loomed over me for far too many months is an ineffable sense of uncertainty, inadequacy, and, at the worst of times, despair. I’ve felt out of balance. But little by little, I’ve tried to right myself, take back control, and regain a sense of who I am and what I want to be. As I consider the practical and mental challenges ahead of me, I can certainly say that there are frightening scenarios ahead of me. But like Annie, I can’t help but look at the last few months and feel as if I’m taking some steps away from the frightening scenario I so desperately wanted out of.

And that’s why this chapter meant as much as it did to me right now.

[babaleshy]

Change of plans in learning a foreign language.

I have Serbian heritage, and wanted to learn about it to incorporate it into my witchcraft (largely to avoid accidentally appropriating other cultures’ practices), and because the Serbian language uses both the Latin and Cyrillic alphabets, it would make it easier for me to learn Russian because they use the Cyrillic alphabet exclusively. I wanted to ultimately learn some Russian (or at least how to phonetically sound out the alphabet) before going back to school because I wanted a headstart so I wouldn't easily fall behind due to struggling because of how my brain works. Kent State requires all students to take at least 2 levels of a foreign language, and I figured Russian would be useful as a paleobiologist when searching the Russian permafrost for Pleistocene megafauna carcasses.

Unfortunately, it is with heavy heart that I must abandon this altogether. Due to a severe lack of resources, I cannot properly learn Serbian/Russian. My last living relative that I was close with that knew Serbian quite fluently passed away a couple years ago, and with the severe lack of resources, I’d need a teacher. And I know of nobody that knows Russian, and I thought texts teaching how to speak Russian would be easy to find. I’m wrong. I’m lucky to find a damn phrasebook.

I don’t know if the severe lack of resources available in libraries and bookstores in teaching the Russian language is because of the Red Scare being so ingrained in US culture or what, but I was shocked to find out that it’s even harder to find Russian language books than it is to find Serbian ones (at least textbooks that aren’t ass-expensive). But I also need a teacher to help me out. And i’m not spending money to watch tutorial videos on skill websites. I want to be able to talk to an actual person if I have questions.

I’m still planning on attending Kent State. I’m still going to try as hard as I can to be a paleobiologist. But I still have to pick a language. And I did.

Back in high school (I graduated in 2007 for context), I and so many other students were told to take at least 2 levels of a foreign language if we wanted to get into college. At the time, I was obsessed with Rammstein and wanted to learn German, but my school didn’t offer that. All we had were French and Spanish (and eventually Italian). My parents had me prepared.... in a way.

So... Back in the stupid-late 90s, we got a Gateway computer complete with Windows ‘98 (I know, I’m old now), and I don’t know how my parents got these CDs with these educational programs on it, but one of them involved foreign languages on it (AND I NEED TO FIND THIS GODDAMN CD CASE FULL OF THESE PROGRAMS), and the 3 languages (at least I think it was 3) involved on it were Spanish, French, and German. My parents told me that I need to learn Spanish. Why? “Becuz dem damn illegal Mexicans keep comin’ into our country an’ stealin’ our jerbs! Might as well learn how to communicate wif’em if half your co-workers er gunna be Mexicans!” That didn’t bother me, honestly. Why? Because I’d be learning a second language, that’s why. I always found that concept really fucking cool.

I cannot for the life of me remember all of the features on that disc’s program, but there were clickable parts on photos that had in text and in audio both the English and the language you were learning translations. And when you clicked on them, it said the object in the language you were trying to learn (in my case, Spanish), and then the English word. This was the whole fucking reason why I knew a handful of terms when I got into high school. I didn’t focus on it too much, but I did remember some of them for some reason, such as “el ojo” meaning “eye” and “la cabeza” meaning “head” and “le agua” being “water.” The same reasons for taking Spanish classes in high school were repeated by my parents and I took those two levels. There was a problem. I passed with C’s... the bare minimum for colleges to be satisfied with what you took.

I was mentally in a bad place; I was dealing with depression and anxiety, I had one former “friend” who had a crush on me and she was manipulative and abusive and knew of my (at the time) people-pleasing nature and my gullibility and took great advantage of that, because I’ve had so many people who I called a friend who weren’t actually my friends and used me, I ended up questioning the actual friendships I had and didn’t fully trust them, I didn’t go anywhere because it cost money to do anything in this area (aka my dad didn’t wanna drive me around and mom couldn’t because she worked), I dealt with being bullied, I dealt with teachers who claimed I was smart and coulnd’t understand why I was failing classes yet at the same time woulnd’t actually try to help me and got pissed whenever I asked them for help, I was culturally starved and lived under a rock and my only window to not being fucking stupid regarding current culture was whatever I could rent from Blockbuster at the time.... I was hopelessly addicted and NEEDED my escapism and that’s all I focused on instead of studying. I accepted I was dumb, embraced my “slacker” status, and just watched movies, eventually sitting on my computer when I had my own dial-up connection, and spaced out or daydreamed a LOT when I would bury my ears in my headphones of so... many... CD.. players... (fuckers on the goddamn bus kept breaking my shit but that all stopped when I kicked the lead shitstain in the face). And then there’s my parents being emotionally absent/distant and most of their interactions with me are belittling, screaming, insulting, putting me down, treating me like I’m always 5 or that I am of college age and should know these super-advanced words (from my dad) and another parent (my mom) sort of tried to live her fucking life she wanted as a child through me.

On top of all of this, the concept that I may have EFD (legally still recognized as ADHD) crossed nobody’s minds at the time because people reduce their knowledge of ADHD to stereotypes, and people just said I was fucking stupid and lazy. Nobody thought I had a learning disability, and I (as I type this) suspect I may even be dyslexic and hope to get tested about that soon. So how my brain works, on top of all of the abuse and shit I had to put up with, caused me to cling to my escapism and coping mechanisms. It made learning how to speak Spanish at the levels I’m taught at the last thing on my mind.

I’ll be turning 30 this coming Thursday. I’ve grown a lot since then, figured a lot of shit out, and now that i’m in a better mindset, I’m ready to try again. I have so much at my disposal now: Duolingo, libraries and bookstores carrying books on the Spanish language, etc. I don’t mind the language itself, I just wanted to find frozen mammoths and shit without struggling in a foreign country, lol.

But that’s okay. It’s probably for the best, and I’m going to strive to be the best that I can at speaking Spanish. Even if I don’t do excavations in the southern states, let alone in Mexico or any Spanish-speaking country of South America, I can still help shoot down any possible deliberate mistranslations that right-wing propaganda might try to push to further their racist agenda. So even if I never use it to help out refugees directly through interaction with them, even if I never aid colleagues in an excavation in an area where a lot of its inhabitants speak the language, Spanish is still a useful language. I just hope that, if I do have dyslexia, that it isn’t going to give me so much trouble to where I’d do no better than I did in high school.

So learning what I can now is extremely important. I don’t want to take anymore extra time in college than I have to now because again, i’m going to be 30 this coming Thursday. I don’t exactly know when I’ll be moving north with my parents, but with the way our financial situation is looking, it could be within the next few years. I want to be able to complete my bachelor’s at Kent State and get to Washington (the state, not the country’s capital) and go for my master’s and do this all before or by the time I’m 40. I don’t want to enjoy my dream job in old age when I won’t have enough energy to thoroughly enjoy it. I want the majority of my life spent wishing I went to college sooner for my dream job. So my best bet is to get a headstart on as many things as I can right now, and learning Spanish is one of them.

So to help reserve as much memory space in my brain as I can, it’s probably for the best that I try again with a foreign language I’ve had prior experience in.