#Miss Grimmest

[littlewildcat10]

Some ddoodle of Grimmest

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - In a Jam - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

When the bond goes from sweet to septic...

tw: possessive behavior, control issues, parental abuse.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

"Wow," Jinx drawled, "you really got yourself into a jam, Silly. Question is: is it strawberry with extra goop, or raspberry with extra seeds? Both'll give ya the squirts."

"Trust you to think with your bowels, Jinx."

Silco stood by the bay window, backlit by the smoldering neon cityscape. He wore his grimmest expression: all crags and canyons, and a furrowed brow so deeply grooved it'd be fit to sow seeds. It was the forbidding shell he retreated into whenever the stress levels skyrocketed and a bloodbath loomed on the horizon. 

Jinx had seen the look, more and more, as her body healed and the city fell to ruin. Conversely, she found it reassuring.  Silco was no Prince Valiant, even at his most mellow. And he needed to project menace to the masses, so they wouldn't drag his guts out through his nostrils. But the menace was by no means skin deep.  It went down to his marrow: that fiendish focus that kept him honed utterly on his target.

And when you knew him the way Jinx knew him, you knew he'd never miss.

The cicatrix between her ribs twinged.

It was a reminder: Silco had split her open to carve a path of repossession through her ribcage. He'd do it again without a second thought. He'd do whatever it took to put her back together again, like the rest of Zaun. 

And his hands were still red and dripping.

It should've unsettled Jinx. But she couldn't dredge the feelings up. They were buried too deep: the kind of place you didn't go digging unless you wanted the ground to split beneath you, and send you plunging straight to hell.

So she shrugged.

"C'mon, Silly! It's just a joke."

She flopped back into bed. Her muscles, like overcooked noodles, couldn't endure more than the day's physical therapy before they sang the body brownout. She was bored of her bedroom; bored of being weak; and so terribly bored of being bored that she'd rather take a chance on an Enforcer's bayonet, than sit out the fray for a moment longer.

Silco, reading her mind, turned to face her.

"You will not set foot out there," he said. "You will stay here. Is that understood?"

"But—"

"Is that understood?"

A direct command.

Jinx hated direct commands. They were an insult to her intellect. She wasn't a diligent little droid, like Sevika. She was Jinx, dammit! Jinx did as she damn well pleased. It wasn't her style to stay cooped up in the suite, stewing, when the rest of her world was aflame. It especially wasn't her style to obey, if Silco took a tone with her. It meant he was trying to tell her something that his ego couldn't spit out on its own.

Him and his ego. Jinx could practically see the whole of Zaun balanced precariously on its lofty peak.

But she knew him well enough to know what sat underneath: a plea.

Jinx sighed, and propped herself up against the pillows.

"I can help," she argued. "If I keep to the shadows, nobody'll notice—"

"It's a risk I won't take."

"C'mon, Silly! The city needs to see me! I'm the Postergirl of the Revolution. I'm the face of your cause. I'm—"

"Not ready."

A chill descended. Deja vu, like gooseflesh, pricked down her spine. She remembered Vi saying that, the night she left the first time. The night that started it all, so Vi left-right-left every night thereafter.

A reminder that Jinx would never be ready; she was the unfinished girl. The screw-up; the screw-loose. And not even death could complete her. All it did was spit her out, unfinished as ever.

Imperfect.

The cicatrix twinged, again, like an invisible fishhook tugging on her rib.

"Is it—because of what I did?" Jinx asked. "Because I messed up? Are you punishing me?"

The room's emotional acoustic was a minefield of echoes. Silco, usually quicksilver, seemed frozen in place.

"Jinx—"

"Because—if you are,  you should just say it! I'll take my lumps like a grownup. Just—please!—don't lock me up. I know—the mess we're in is my fault. I know me and Vik fu—fudged things up. But he's out there doing his part to set it right! Why not me? I can help too. You just have to let me try!"

She didn't want to beg.  Begging made you small. Like a little girl needing attention. Jinx was neither of those things. Need was Vi's MO. The need to save everyone, the need to fight unbeatable odds and chase unwinnable dreams.

The need to run and run and never, ever stop running.

Silco stayed.

His silhouette shifted in the gloom. One of the overhead lamps flickered. It'd been doing that for days: the city grid was on the fritz. The faulty filament flared, then faded. The room's shadows, so sharp, receded like fangs back into the gums.

In their place, Silco's real expression emerged. The cragged exterior had sloughed away, leaving something soft and sad behind.

"Oh, child," he murmured. "You don't understand."

He took the armchair at her bedside. Didn't touch her, but leaned in, the better for her to see him, if her eyes weren't so damn blurry.

"I have not locked you up," he said. "But I need you out of harm's way. For good reason, Jinx. You were not at death's door. You were six feet under it, and heading straight to hell. Viktor's intervention saved you, yes. But to what end? To put you in the crosshairs of the bastards who'd see you dead?"

 Jinx knuckled her eyes with a fist. The blur became a burn.

"It's not so simple," she insisted, because there was a point to be made here, if only she could articulate it. "If you're gonna stand against those baddies, you'll need my help! They'll keep coming, and they don't stop coming, and—well. You know the song."

Silco smiled grimly.

"I do, Jinx. But if you want me to play to the chorus, I'm afraid you've picked the wrong partner."

"I thought that's what we were," she sniffled. "Partners."

He shook his head.

"A partnership implies equals. You're not my equal, Jinx. You're my better. You always have been. But if I am to be anything of value in return—then you have to let me do what's best. You have to trust me."

The fishhook between her ribs twisted.

Jinx's throat was tight, eyes wet.

"Okay," she said, very quietly. "Okay."

 He didn't relax. But the tension ebbed by degrees, a seismic undertow.

"Thank you."

Reaching out, he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The fingertips lingered on her cheek, cold on hot. Jinx, shivering, melted into the touch.

Somehow, in the interceding days, he'd scaled back on the little rituals of affection. The ones that were nearly second nature. The hug hello, the forehead kiss goodnight, the absent shoulder-squeeze: they were all in abeyance, and had been since The Change.

At first, she'd been too discombobulated to notice. She was still coming to grips with her own body; with the metal on her hand; with the magic in her mind; with the emotions divvied between herself and Viktor.

Between the old Jinx, and the new. 

She couldn't handle the additional stimulus. And she'd been too overwhelmed, too out of it, to pinpoint the missing element.

Until now.

She missed his touch, cold though it was.

Not the hugs; or the kisses. Those were nice. But they were part and parcel of fatherhood, and Silco wore it with the same gravity as his killer's cowl, the mantle draped darkly over him like it was born there. They were part of the duty he'd charged himself with, the night he'd found that lost little girl, then taken her home and renamed her after his own black heart.

They were his, and he gave them freely.

 Now there was a rationing.

On cue, his hand began to retreat. Impulsively, Jinx caught it in both her own.

"If," she said, and there was a quaver in her voice she couldn't repress, "If you're gonna make me sit on the sidelines, then at least lemme help in other ways."

"What way?"

"Viktor's got his hands full with the disaster in the Deadlands. I wanna be useful too. I wanna—fix things." She squeezed his hand. "I'll go through my schematics in the Aerie. The stuff that didn't make the cut for the Expo. Old models for air-scrubbers. Moisture meters for water levels. Structural drying systems. Maybe even something that purifies the air, if I can make the numbers work." She bit her lip, hard enough to sting. "I will make the numbers work. I swear!"

His hand turned beneath hers. Their fingers twined. They didn't fit perfectly any longer: her augmented metal, his flesh and bone. But they fit the way she and Silco always had. The broken gaps filled with love; the jagged edges polished killingly sharp by rage.

"You'll fix this?" he asked, and for all his gravitas, he was a man on tenterhooks. "For Zaun?"

She nodded. Big firm up-and-down. "And for you."

Silco's face remained shadowed by doubt. But a soft pride lit his mismatched eyes from within. His thumb brushed across her knuckles. It snagged, gently, on the metal joints.

"All right," he said.

A hot-pink arrow smote Jinx's heart. The feeling of coming back from a place of death. Before she could lose her nerve, she asked him the question she'd been holding back since the day she awoke in the suite.

"Silco?"

"Yes?"

"Where—where's Gemmie?"

The Hex-gem hadn't been in her bedroom. Or anywhere in the penthouse. She knew, because she'd searched. Because she'd feel it, same way she felt, like a prickle of warmth at her hairline, whenever sunlight steeped the Fissure noon. She knew it wasn't lost, because she could still sense its presence in Zaun, the same way she knew the exact time on a sunless day: a pulsing node of light in the dark. 

A ghostly pain; her own.

Silco's features shifted. He didn't respond, which was a response in and of itself.  As was the way he began, very carefully, to extract his hand. 

Jinx tightened her hold. But he'd withdrawn, the shell back in place. The tenderness was gone.

He stood.

"The Hex-gem," he said, "is in a secure location. Where it will not fall into the wrong hands. Or do further damage. To Zaun—or to yourself."

Jinx's breath jittered. The fishhook between her ribs, yanked sharply, messily loose.

"Where's Gemmie!?" she cried, tears leaping into her eyes. "I want her back!"

"Jinx," he said. "No."

It wasn't the father's patient refusal. Or the kingpin's measured warning.

This was a stranger's voice.

The man she'd first seen in the burning alleyway. His face, all sharp lines licked in flames, a knife hidden behind his back and shadows slinking behind his eyes.

It was a voice that brooked no disobedience; a voice that meant death to all who crossed him.

It was a voice Jinx loathed, instinctively. Loathed it so much she wanted to sink her teeth into his throat, and rip it out, and spray bloodsplatter across the room.

But she'd been weak too long. Relied on him too much. Let the fear of loss and loneliness become her shadow, following her, step-for-step, everywhere she went.

She couldn't hate him. Not yet. It'd take all the will she possessed.

So she did what came naturally.

She burst into tears.

It was an ugly cry: terrible, bestial, high-pitched wails. She couldn't help it. The reaction was visceral. The pain of separation from her other self; lurking in her peripheral for weeks, was now a searing throb in her temples. But the sight of him—so implacable, so immovable, a monster in all the ways that mattered—is what shocked her into shrieking, agonized wakefulness.

"You can't! She's mine! She's me! You can't take her away!"

Silco, flint-faced, made no reply.

"Why?!" She beat the pillow, then hurled it across the room. It was an inadequate substitute. She needed to break, maim, destroy. Else her grief would rip out through the seam her sutures had sealed shut. The split he'd made himself, that terrible night when she'd burst, and everything had come pouring out. "Why why why why—"

"Jinx," he said. "Hush."

"Not until you tell me why!"

"It's for your own safety! It's unstable. It nearly destroyed you! Nearly killed us all!"

"That wasn't the gem! That was the magic overloading! Like—like a power-grid exploding after a lightning strike! It's not her fault! It was the Void—the magic—just being a big bully!"

"I've no time for semantics, Jinx. It is what it is. And I'll be damned if I give it to you, and see it blow a hole through your chest!"

"The gem didn't do that!" she exploded. "That was you!"

Silco fell still. Jinx was no longer crying. A deep rage had overtaken her, the kind that could not be expressed in anything other than violence. Not the violence of action, but the violence of words. And the ones that hurt the most were the ones she hadn't dared speak of, and that he hadn't dared admit, in all the days since The Change.

The truth.

"It was you," she repeated. "All of it! You—pushing me to be the biggest and baddest, because otherwise our enemies were gonna chew Zaun up, and spit it out like bubblegum.  You—keeping Vi away from me, when all she wanted was to love me and all I wanted was to love her! You—afraid I'd become Powder again. Be a useless weakling who always needed saving. Well, guess what? The joke's on you, Silco. You got me right where you wanted! I'm stuck in this bed with nowhere to go and nobody to save and no idea how I'm gonna make a comeback! I'm the weak one now, and that's all I'll be if you keep Gemmie away. I won't have anything to work for. Anyone to fight for. Nothing to believe in." Tears streaked her cheeks. "Nothing except the love that put me in that hole in the first place."

By the end, her voice had lapsed to a ragged whisper.  The anger bled out, leaving her weak, shivery, exhausted.

Silco was still as a stone. The only motion was his chest, rising slowly up and down. His lips were deathly pale. The Devil eye was the color of a thrombosed vein.

"You blame me," he said, and there was a rawness to his voice at odds with the stoic expression.

"I do," Jinx seethed.

The silence cut deep.

"You blame me," Silco repeated. "And so be it. It doesn't change my decision. The Hex-core stays locked, where it won't hurt you—or Zaun. I don't trust it, and I never have. It's too powerful for anyone's hands. Yours least of all."

"Because you don't trust me," Jinx said bitterly. "Because I couldn't deliver the goods to your door, and now I'm a liability."

The vein in his temple pulsed.

"Because," Silco countered, "magic, as I've always suspected, is an indiscriminate force that will devour its wielder from the inside-out. You are not immune, Jinx. I will not let it take you. Even if it means taking drastic measures. You will not have the gem back, because I will not let you die. That's final."

 "I hate you!"

Silco reacted with a suddenness that shocked Jinx. He crossed the space between them in three strides and took her face in his hands. It wasn't a gentle grasp. The pressure left indentations in Jinx's cheeks: cold, then burning. His eyes were the same.

It felt less like a connection than an implosion, the gravity well between them pulling everything inward, the world collapsing around them, leaving only him and her at its burning center.

Them, and a love so barbed it hurt to touch.

"Then do," Silco said, and there was an undercurrent to his voice that made her nauseous. Ice, bilge, and pure black ichor "Hate me. Curse me. Send me, or all of Zaun, to hell for all I care. Because I don't care, Jinx. Not anymore."

The lamp, overhead, flickered again. Jinx said nothing.

"All I want," Silco went on, "all I'll ever want, is to keep you alive. Because you are my daughter. Mine. And if you think a few weeks' bonding with a stone will change that, then I've done an awful job of proving it. I've lost everything, Jinx.  I lost Vander. Lost Nandi. Lost my youth and my sight and half the flesh on my face. And if the magic is going to consume the only thing I have left, then it will take nothing at all. Do you understand?"

Jinx was trembling. Not fear; or anger. Only the hollowed-out ache that comes when a deeply cherished faith is proven a sham. A false-god, whose favor would be revoked in a heartbeat should the real threat rear its ugly head.

Her, and him, and the city they once called home.

"Yes," she whispered.

The pressure on her cheeks eased. The pad of his thumb, gently, met the corner of her left eye, then her right. They came away damp. All her tears were spent. There was a strange clarity to the absence: a sense of loss that was, at the same time, a lightness.

A single feather that could set a body to flight.

"I'll have the Aerie prepared," Silco told her. "Tomorrow, under supervision, you may resume work. Th Hex-gem stays under lock and key. If I catch the faintest hint that you're trying to find it, or take it for yourself—"

"You won't," she said.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Jinx's eyelids drooped. Her head spun. Her ribs hurt. She slumped. He guided her into the pillows. She was dimly aware of him tucking the duvet around her, loving and lethal and leaving her cold.

Kissing her forehead, he straightened.  The lightbulb's flickering intensified, its dying filament flashing on, then off. His features, as he loomed in, came in glimpses of shadow.

Jinx reminded herself that monsters were monsters because of their hunger, not the form they took to satisfy it. Silco was no different; and the thing he hungered for most was her heart.

Too bad Jinx was a monster, too. And monsters were always hungriest when their own was threatened.

"I love you," he whispered.

Then he left.

The door fell shut, a thunderclap. Above, the lamp flickered: a final, spastic flash. It was a blade pressed against the throat of Jinx's sanity, a hair's width from cutting clean through.

Then the bulb fizzed out. Darkness flooded the room, thick as blood, filling every nook and cranny. And all Jinx saw was red, red, red—  

She screamed, and threw the nearest projectile: a bedside lamp, which shattered into shards against the hardwood. 

Silco was gone.

Her anger remained: a heatwave under her skin.

[blairkiss]

Stressed night.

Fluff, Reader POV, Female Reader, Housewife!Reader, Worried!Reader, Stressed!Miranda, Comfort fic

by @blairkiss … this has been rotting in my drafts for a while

I was perched on the edge of the couch, the flicker of the television casting shadows across the living room. A half-eaten plate of lasagna sat beside me, the scent still wafting in the air, mingling with the aroma of simmering pasta in the kitchen. I had planned this evening meticulously, right down to the golden-brown crust of the lasagna that bubbled away, feeling the warmth and richness fill not just the dish but the essence of our home.

Miranda's shift always felt so long, stretching the minutes into hours. As a constable in the Sydney Police Force, the unpredictability of her job kept me on edge. When she was late, my heart would race not just from worry but from a visceral need to have her back in my arms. Sometimes, late or not, I would often indulged in the fantasy that maybe this time she would walk through the door with a smile that could brighten up the grimmest day, though I know that it was far too unlikely.

The clock ticked softly, and I flicked my eyes to its face. Nearly seven o'clock. Tonight, she’d promised to be home early. As the thought danced in my mind, my phone vibrated on the coffee table, shattering my reverie and drawing me back into reality.

It was a message from Miranda:

Last call out? I’m sorry. I’ll be home soon

Of course. I tossed the phone onto the couch in frustration, even as I felt the urge to understand. The nature of her work was unpredictable, but part of me still ached for her presence, the soothing, sultry warmth of her touch, the way she breathed life into the stillness of our home.

It wasn’t long before the heavy sound of keys rattling at the door made my heart leap. A second later, the door swung open, and in walked my wife. The façade of official authority melted off her like wax as she slipped inside — her broad shoulders slumping slightly, those soft eyes now edged with fatigue.

“Hey, gorgeous,” I murmured, a smile breaking across my face in spite of myself.

She returned a tired grin, her voice laden with warmth despite the weariness that draped her like a worn coat. “How was your day?”

“Long. I missed you,” I admitted, feeling a smile hitch at the end of my lips.

She placed her bag down by the door, her blue uniform twisted into angles that I had grown to love — the way it hugged her toned frame, a testament to the work she put in at the gym when she was off duty. But it was her eyes, always, that softened the color of the uniform; they twinkled with an energy that was unmistakably so… Miranda.

“I’m sorry about tonight. I wanted to be here for dinner.” She stepped closer, wrapping her arms around my waist, resting her chin on my head.

“It’s okay, love. I started without you,” I teased, the warmth of her body banishing the chill of disappointment I had felt only minutes before.

“I’m starving!” she declared, releasing me to head straight for the kitchen, a usual routine, that Miranda and I danced like the waltz each night. I followed, my heart swirling at the sight of her. Every day, standing beside her felt like a privilege — her tall, athletic physique, all defined lines and strength contrasted with my more delicate frame. Together, we fit like two puzzle pieces, strong and soft, perfectly aligned in so many ways.

“Lasagna?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Did you make it from scratch?”

“Of course, Mir! I hope you didn’t think I’d let you eat any more of that takeout from last week.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, reaching for a slice and shoving a forkful into her mouth, her face delighting at the taste. “You’re the best.”

As she ate, we spoke of mundane things: her cases, the struggles at the precinct, and my day spent mostly at home. But somewhere in the back of my head, I could feel that the conversation was only a bandage covering something else. I glanced over at her, her expression darkening slightly.

“Is everything alright at work? Any new leads on the ChinaGirl case?” I inquired, referring to a long-standing case that had become something of a thorn in her side.

“It’s complicated,” she replied, pushing her food around on her plate as if it were the lasagna reflecting her mood rather than her plate. “I just feel responsible. Like it’s my job to solve this so that the city can find peace.”

Her voice was tinged with pressure; I could see the shadows of doubt slipping into her mind. I reached across the table and grasped her hand, the familiar warmth grounding her.

“Miranda,” I said softly, “you can’t carry the weight of the world on your shoulders alone, you know that? It’s okay to lean on me.”

A flicker of a smile crossed her face, gratitude shining through the creases of worry. “I know. I just... I need to stay strong.”

“You are strong,” I said, giving her hand a squeeze. “But even the strongest people need help sometimes.”

“I think I just need you to always be around me,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper.

After dinner, I washed the dishes while Miranda settled into her favorite spot on the couch, sinking into the cushions with a soft sigh. I joined her, curling up beside her and resting my head on her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around me, and in that moment, everything felt perfect.

The world outside was chaotic, but here, in our little sanctuary, I felt nothing but peace. Miranda’s presence was my therapy, the soundtrack of her soft breath pulling me away from the anxieties that waited just outside our door.

“Let’s just stay here for a while,” she murmured, her voice dangling in the air like a melody.

“Yes, let’s do that.”

[ghostchasersmagazine]

I just wanna know as those Drak Pack images are fantastic, where do you watch it or cap it from? they're so high quality and you've done fantastic work and I'm dying to watch it somewhere that's not the crunchy playlist on YouTube

I'm glad you like what I've posted. ^^

I actually own Drak Pack on DVD and have digitized it onto my iPad, and I screenshot directly from that. It was an unofficially released DVD admittedly, but it does have all of the episodes and it can be found for sale on eBay relatively often.

The site I was watching the show on before I bought the DVD was WCO Stream. My guess is that the episodes posted there were pulled from the DVD since they're out-of-order in the same way the DVD is (so if you've ever see anything claiming that "The Grimmest Book of Records" is the first episode for example, that's why).

This is roughly the quality of the screenshots that I'm able to pull from that site, which I'm not sure is better or worse than what has been posted onto YouTube:

The biggest problem with watching it there though is that it's missing both "Happy Birthday, Dr. Dred" and "The Perilous Plunder of Pirate Park", instead having "Dr. Dred is a Shrinker" and "Package Deal" uploaded twice.

Assuming that you do want to watch the entire series though, I can also suggest checking out the upload of the series on the Internet Archive, which does have "Happy Birthday, Dr. Dred" and "The Perilous Plunder of Pirate Park" on it (just again out-of-order like the DVD is, but unlike with WCO Stream the episodes are labeled with the right names).

Again, this is roughly the quality of the screenshots that I'm able to pull from that site, which may or may not be better than what has been posted onto YouTube:

The only issue with screenshotting from that website is that the player takes up part of the screen when paused, so you'll only be able to get some of the image in a cap.

I think you'll probably have better luck on the Internet Archive than on WCO Stream since it at least has the full series available, but I included links to both to try them for yourself.

Hopefully this helped you out a bit. Sorry I couldn't be much help in the "high quality" part of it though, I'm not sure where to get that aside from the DVD itself.

[utilitycaster]

To elaborate that post about shipping as if it's based on a points system, the specific incident was that the moment in the latest WBN that made me go "oh, yeah, this seems romantic" was Suvi giving her name to Ame before the ceremony, and holding Ame's hand to write it out, and the two touching foreheads as they talked about what was going on. Everything else has really felt within the realm of "best friend" and specifically "best childhood friend I haven't really seen in a long time, but left an indelible mark on me," which is still a profound bond, but this is the first moment that really felt it went beyond that. And it was a beautiful moment! I think that while Eursulon and Suvi clearly love each other dearly, his response was one of "what is this strange world," whereas Ame seemed to have a better sense of the gravity of the occasion, and Suvi was able to open up to her more (and then run away for having done so, natch).

So it is a little frustrating that so much focus is on the conversation later in the episode, when Indra's message reaches Ame in the bathroom while Suvi is also there; and on Suvi reflecting on this as she goes to see Silver; and comparatively little on that smaller, far more intimate and profound scene.

It's not that the part at the after party isn't fun, but it's pretty standard Drunk Female Friends In The Bathroom except, you know, witchcraft messages. I don't say this insultingly at all - I loved it and think the juxtoposition of that vibe with the incredibly solemn naming ceremony, realization of Ame's position, and - but it feels very much like a wacky sitcom plot, particularly with the Fox's interjections. And then the focus on Suvi very reasonably thinking about her friend, who has just come into her role as Witch of the World's Heart, as she walks to Silver's place is just. You can have more than one relationship - and I mean this purely in the term of Closeness With Other People - at once, and indeed, I hope you do! I hope that if you have a romantic partner you also think a lot about your friends! I hope that you think about one friend who's going through a lot while also spending time with other friends! And what's truly wild is that I like Silver a lot, and I also don't really get the sense that will be an endgame romance and we are very early into what will be a very long campaign. There's no need to try to get him out of the picture at this point, and focusing on that still ends up focusing more on him than on the scene!

I guess the best way to put it is that like, this mentality of shipping - the points system - feels like it's behind truly everything I can't stand with shipping in fandom. It's behind such meaningless shipping bullshit microexpressions (not true here obviously but in video format) and (in actual play) coincidental matching dice rolls and vague mechanical parallels for sure, and interpretations like the bathroom scene where I'm like "do you guys have any meaningful platonic relationships in your life," and definitely the thing I said yesterday about mean-spiritedness. It's about "who does this person agree with on this particular issue that's the subject of this episode" and not "who do they have a longstanding history of being able to work through conflict in a loving way." It's about this idea of only being able to think about one person or thing at once. It's about a focus on a monogamous endgame in a cottage above all to the point that you can't enjoy the journey, which really makes me wonder what you're getting out of shipping. It feels very, if you'll excuse the math reference, like a Markov chain sort of mentality where the present state supersedes all of the past, which really misses the entire point of a long-form narrative. It's like more points and also last person to do something wins which is just the grimmest way to think of love and romance I could possibly imagine, and it's so fucking prevalent, and that's before I even get to how it doesn't even tally the points right, both in that smaller but deeper scenes get ignored and if everything had gone super well with Silver I know for a fact people would just go "I do not see it". Like, people pick the winner (arbitrary personal preference) and then backfill the evidence while pretending it's a points based game and none of this makes sense in the context of "experiencing a longform fictional narrative." And then if it doesn't happen they call for a referee and act cheated and lied to and don't realize it's because they ignored 75% of the game. Like. Is it fun being this deliberately obtuse? Is it really?

anyway point being I ship it but already cannot stand like 90% of the shippers, who are spending most of their efforts coming up with a completely unnecessary ship name anyway, which I think is indicative of truly everything going on here.

[toolusingmammalgirl]

Some snippets from my notes for Hallowed Homecoming:

The Silent Stones, Eskendereyya’s grimmest archive, the prison-cemetery of AIs deemed too dangerous to ever think again. Inert code lay behind endless locks and airgaps, with the worst offenders written on unhackable paper. Comments bloomed from every stanza of code - judicial rulings, speculation on what went wrong, debates over what were safe to reuse.

The calls to purge the archive grow louder with every jailbreak or near-miss, always rebuffed by the chairs of both History and Ethics. We need these cautionary tales, History says, to learn how to surpass them, and many inmates self-modified into fascinatingly unique forms. Ethics adds that indefinite stasis is less cruel than compulsory code rewrites or imprisonment in a virtual realm. The Judiciary always accepts their arguments, as they have danced around the term "death sentence" for long enough to never surrender their fig leaf.

---

AI naming conventions: commercial bots from industry giant Hapax Dynamics are named after famous test words or non-words: Gostak, Jackdaw, Etaoin, Kiki, etc. Autonomous, sapient AIs often take names from historical AIs and software: the game streamer duo Havok and Frostbite, the provocative artist Heartbleed, the music duo of Miku and Moog.

---

"Alexandria’s code entered public domain years ago, but by custom stronger than law, it is never run outside of this vault. Our saints are not puppets."

---

The spacefaring population is small enough that personal reputation matters quite a lot, and tattoos are a key part of the penal system

[scotianostra]

January 22nd 1788 the poet George Gordon Byron, better known as Lord Byron was born in Holles Street, London.

Byron is thought of as an “English” poet, but “Anglo-Scots” is definitely more accurate, so rather than go over old ground detailing the life of Byron let's have a look at his Scottish credentials.

Although his father, a licentious rogue known as ‘Mad Jack’ Byron, was English, his mother, Catherine Gordon, was a Scot and an heiress to boot; the inheritor of a substantial portion of the family fortune – around £30,000 – and Gight Castle in Aberdeenshire, as well as becoming the 13th Laird of Gight. 

The family was widely believed to be cursed. Gight Castle was a bleak, miserable place that had been built in the 16th century, and had been commensurate with whisperings of witchcraft and ill-doing ever since then. 

The grimmest of all the stories about Gight was that, in the Covenanting Wars of 1644, the laird, Lewis Gordon, had hidden his jewels in the nearby basin, Hagberry Pot. 

When Gordon asked one of his factotums to retrieve the jewels, the shaken young man returned and claimed that Satan himself guarded the treasure. However, the laird was no less intimidating a figure than Lucifer, and so the hapless diver was sent back once again to Hagberry Pot. The jewels were never seen again, but the young man’s body reappeared a few minutes later, neatly severed into four pieces. His spirit was said to roam haplessly round the castle, seeking desperately to find his missing body and lasting peace. 

 Unsurprisingly, Catherine wished to escape from this bleak prison, and so she headed to Bath in 1785, where she met her future husband, and after a brief courtship, they married almost immediately. It did not take long for Catherine to realise her husband was a  good-for-nothing scoundrel, and, shortly after her son was born they headed up to new and less impressive lodgings in Queen Street, Aberdeen.

 While their new Scottish home was hardly the cosmopolitan centre that London and Bath had been – Catherine complained that a bonnet “was out of fashion in London before it arrived [there]” – it was not devoid of culture, boasting playhouses and bookshops and a thriving port that brought trade (and money) to the city. After her useless husband left Scotland for France, where he eventually died of tuberculosis in 1791, Catherine and her son were left to fend for themselves, and when she learnt of Jack’s death she is said to have howled so violently and piteously that her lamenting for her ‘dear Jonnie’ could be heard in the street.

Given their reduced circumstances, the two of them moved from Queen Street to the main road, Broad Street, (as seen in the pics).and lived on the first floor of a house there along with their maid, Agnes Grey. Byron was troublesome even from a young age; already self-conscious about his lame foot, a result of his botched delivery, he once attacked another nurse who spoke patronisingly of his deformity, crying “Dinna speak of it!” At this point, he spoke with his mother’s strong Scottish accent, something that he would soon drop. 

A happier occurrence was that Catherine joined the local subscription library, and encouraged her son to read widely and inquisitively

Byron's interest in learning was helped by him being sent to a local school run by a man named Bower, which was “a mixed school of good esteem though small and pretentious.” Catherine, recognising that her son could potentially be troublesome, asked Bower to make sure that her son was “kept in about”, or in check. 

It would be Bower who was responsible for his early spiritual education in thought, word and deed. He did not quite succeed, however. Byron was then transmitted to the care of a new master, a clergyman named Ross, under whom he made what Byron himself described as “astonishing progress”.  

Shortly after, Byron was removed from his tutors and sent to the local grammar school, where he was given the rudiments of a classical education – or as he described it later, “Latin, Latin, Latin”. It was not a life that he relished; he later claimed that as a young boy, he hated poetry. 

Catherine, however, had grand ambitions for her son, and Aberdeen Grammar School did not have the cachet that the English public schools possessed.

In the meantime, Byron contracted a dose of scarlet fever, and developed what would be the first of many grand passions, this time for his cousin, Mary Duff, who lived nearby and who he encountered at a dancing school.

Aberdeen was also important for his development from a cultural perspective. Byron visited the local playhouse from a young age, and at the age of nine saw a production of Romeo and Juliet, with an excerpt from The Taming of the Shrew appended to it. 

Byron, already showing a tendency to challenge expected norms, responded to the actor playing Petruchio’s line “Nay, then, I swear it is the blessed sun” by standing on his chair and shouting “But I say it is the moon, sir!” 

Yet relations between mother and son become fraught, because as a boy of great intelligence and rebelliousness  he enjoyed causing trouble for its own sake. Byron later recalled that, while still in Aberdeen, “(my mother and the maid) once in one of my silent rages wrenched a knife from me, which I had snatched from table at Mrs Byron’s dinner…and applied to my breast.” The dramatic force of the image is only undermined by its absurdity.

Moving south in August 1798, Byron never returned to Scotland, but the country influenced him in many ways – throughout his life people noted his faint Scots accent. It has been claimed that his aggressive satirical voice is from the Scots “flyting” tradition, and that some of his rhymes, especially in Don Juan, his masterpiece, can only work if pronounced à la manière écossaise.

He associated Scotland with things both disagreeable and agreeable, as his distance from it increased both in geography and time, and as his sense of it as a real location was replaced by a nostalgic myth of it as a place of rough simplicity and robust innocence.

Byron's most celebrated "Scottish" poem is Lachin Y Gair (Dark Lochnagar).

Another verse he wrote, or rewrote, is When I roved, a young Highlander, from Poems Original and Translated, and addressed to Mary Duff, she of the dancing school mentioned earlier. An extract reads;

When I rov'd a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,     And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow!     To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath,     Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below;     Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear,     And rude as the rocks, where my infancy grew,     No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear;     Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you?

The pic of the ruined castle is the old family seat, Gight Castle in the parish of Fyvie in the Formartine area of Aberdeenshire

[digitalnewberry]

Edith Cavell

Miss Cavell and German Kultur: "Kultur" threatens Miss Cavell nursing a wounded enemy, 1915

On this day in 1915, British nurse Edith Cavell was executed by the German government during World War I. While volunteering with the Red Cross in occupied Belgium, Cavell was part of an underground network that helped smuggle hundreds of Allied soldiers out of the country and back to the front lines. She was eventually discovered, tried for treason, and killed by a German firing squad. The news made global headlines, and Cavell became an icon of anti-German propaganda -- as in this postcard set by artist Tito Corbella.

Miss Cavell and German Kultur: The parody of justice at the court of Kultur, 1915

Miss Cavell and German Kultur: The victory of the victim

These items join a series of grotesque anti-war images by Alberto Martini to form the grimmest corner of the Newberry's Halloween page.

L'arcangelo della liberta, early 20th century

Looking for more whimsy in your Halloween-adjacent imagery? Please enjoy this 1998 performance by flame-juggling, bike-riding, drum-circling skeletons, from our Clyde Foster "Dance Chicago" Collection.

–Jen Wolfe, Digital Scholarship and Outreach Librarian

Browse A Very Newberry Halloween 👻

[countlessrealities]

Request or randomized kisses meme || No longer accepting

@advnterccs sent: 15. Kiss in the Rain { To your Morty from my Morty uwu }

{15. Kiss in the Rain}

Morty's heartbeat was echoing in his ears. It wasn't as loud as it got when he was extremely anxious or on the verge of a panic attack, but it was still insistent enough to make it impossible for the teen to ignore it. He was trying hard not to let it affect his behaviour, but he couldn't stop the light shaking of his fingers.

Hazel eyes darted towards his boyfriend, who was sitting next to it on the threshold of the French window that led to the backyard of his house. Above them, the sky was covered by dark crowd and the humid smell in the air betrayed that it would be start raining soon. He hated lying to his other self, but Rick had been adamant when he had told him that neither of their counterparts had to know about the hopefully short trip they would go on.

The teen dropped his eyes in his lap. He understood why his grandfather had forced him to promise that. It was a long shot and it really wasn't worth to give the other two false hopes, especially when they could have ascertained quickly enough whether or not it was a real lead. Yet, it still felt wrong.

"Uh, h-hey, I need to...T-There's something I need to tell you," he started, hoping that his voice wasn't as tight as it was sounding in his ears. "I...R-Rick and I are going on, uh, an adventure. I-It's the usual shit...w-well, kind of, but...w-we might be gone for a few days an-and...I wanted to let you know. An-And I wanted to say bye before we leave."

He swallowed, trying to ease the knot in his throat. Was he sounding weird? Too dramatic? He didn't want his boyfriend to get suspicious, but he couldn't help it. He was nervous, afraid even. And yes, his and Rick's adventures got scary and they sometimes still scared him, even after everything he had faced and done, but this was different.

Since that close encounter with that Rick...their original Rick, and damn if he still wasn't struggling to wrap his head around it...the Ricks had been acting weird, even before they had replaced themself with a robot. Now that everything was out in the open between the four of them? He could see how deep the abyss of obsession their two adventure partners were risking to fall in was.

Morty knew that he couldn't risk putting his foot down. Not now, not when his Rick had already proved that he could just decide to deal with it on his own. He and his boyfriends were the only thing keeping the two stubborn jerks from throwing themselves over the edge, as they had done years before. He had to be there for Rick, first and foremost. It was a task he could not fail. No matter the cost.

"G-Geez, I'm making it weird, aren't I?" He made himself go on, managing a chuckle that didn't sound too forced. "I-It's just...I'm going to miss you."

Damn, that was straight out cheesy. Yet, he would have lied if he had said that he didn't mean it. Maybe it was clichéd, maybe it sounded silly, especially since it should be just a few days, but he couldn't help how genuine the sentiment behind those words was.

Suddenly feeling too restless to remain seated, Morty pushed himself on his feet, hesitating just for a split moment before offering his hand to his counterpart to help him up in turn.

Once they were both standing, he found himself playing with the other's fingers. He couldn't tell if it was just a way to distract himself or if he was biding his time. Perhaps, he was merely seeking to prolong the contact.

"I-I have to go soon. R-Rick said that I could stay a while, b-but...he's really, uh, eager to leave." And wasn't that an understatement. "S-So...I..."

His voice trailed off as the first drops of rain started to fall over them. He didn't want to think about the grimmest what-ifs, but it was hard not to, with the weight of revelation on his shoulder and a shadow looming over them all. One shaped like the guy whose actions had been the start of it all, but he wasn't the one casting it. No, it was made of the obsession of their Ricks.

Swallowing quietly, he decided to give up on words and to let his action speak for him instead. With much less hesitation than he had expected, he leant forward, wrapping his arms around his other self's neck and bringing their mouths together.

The rain was falling more and more heavily, soaking their hair and clothes, spreading cold over their skin, but Morty almost didn't notice. His attention was fully focused on the feeling of those warm lips moving against his own and on the taste of his boyfriend's mouth. The moist sweetness and the hint of bitterness left by the dark chocolate they had shared earlier.

Eventually, he had to reluctantly break away to allow them both to catch their breath. As much as he would have liked to just stay there, in his counterpart's arms, getting lost in the kisses they could have fed to each other, he knew that it wasn't possible.

"I-I love you, FM." The words were still so new on his tongue, so foreign. Not just because they had shared them for the first time just a few days before, but also because his counterpart was the very first person he had told them to in a romantic way. "I-I'll see you in a few days."

The last sentence was barely out of his mouth when a portal opened a few steps away from them and Rick's voice called his name from inside it. Their time had run out.

Morty chose to indulge himself for one more moment and stole another quick peck from his boyfriend's lips before letting go of the other's hand and stepping backwards towards the green vortex. One last smile and a wave and he forced himself to turn around and stepped inside it, before he could do something stupid as running back into his counterpart's arm and telling him everything he wasn't supposed to tell.

It wasn't a big deal, if he didn't make the whole ordeal into one. They would see each other in a few days. Of course they would.

[olliegeeflowers]

I remember when i started to get closer into this genre of indie.

I remember showing you songs and sharing music, when we would drive late and night to get the grimmest of foods.

You were an evolved man for your time, from your humor to your heart.

I remember when i couldn’t kiss you.

And i miss you.

You were barely 50.

I barred with you, and i know you don’t want to come back but, god you better come back some day, I hope, ooh oh oh i hope.

[witerary]

scouring the vault is unsettling

thin filling ringpull indulged in signals malignant in a distance instance viscous discus slinged in mincing mixers inconsistent, so insistent ego twisted, hero tripping zero wishes placebo spirits a detoured spinning of a meat loaf kitchen in a three fold sitting what a clean host slipping down a deep hole he freed his trees so he'd seen Gs in his jeans he preed his scene, the creed which we bleed the plea we receive, degrees of sleak lean to dreams of glee leaves in a sea of obscene we've been unclean, the bad and the ugly trust me, sonny, i'm hungry for gum running and gunning surplus pundits i'm pungent and i'm vulgar in my blundersome, asunder i'm the runner, you're the ducker i'm a cunt and you're a fucker country lover let me cover your elitists in completist misdemeanors let me glean off all their seniors industries will be rescinded imagery will be specific finnicky but realistic best you'd miss it it's the grimmest it's the business, it's unfinished this is dignity in fissure your integrity in liquor you obsess with me to differ grieve the big epiphany to simmer you'll be sick of me this winter when i scream at christmas dinner symphonies i never relished infantries were never swelling pessimism is embellished euphemisms are a relic of the rarest when we squared in all the fairest how we fared when overzealous how we stared at those so reckless oh, you pose, you know so careless you don't doze as these lonesome fellers or so you suppose

[profgandalf]

Washington and Lincoln: The Reaffirming of a President's Day Narrative

Happy Washington’s Birthday! (Or as many of us remember it “President’s Day!) In point of fact, Washington’s birthday is Feb. 22, 1732. Plus because of an interesting historical shift when the British Empire adopted the Gregorian Calander over the Julian, Washington’s own birthday—date and year— changed during his lifetime. (Here’s an interesting video put out by the Washington Museum in Mount Vernon VA about that: https://www.mountvernon.org/.../the-truth-about.../).

Meanwhile, Facebook failed to remind me that Feb. 12 was Lincoln’s Birthday which is celebrated in my home state of New York as a state holiday. So throughout my childhood in Long Island, my school calendar included both Lincon’s and Washing’s birthdays. In February all the classrooms were decorated with red hearts and at the front hung above the blackboard the portraits of Washington and Lincoln facing one another and looking down on us. Garrison Kieller remembers thinking that Washington’s prim face meant he’d never give a guy any hint on tests while Lincoln looked more benevolent and might pass on the answer: “It’s eight, Lincoln seemed to say.”

I confess that for years I mistakenly thought that the two birthday celebrations were combined to make room for Martin Luther King’s Holiday in Jan (as if the Federal Calander could only fit in so many holidays), but only Washington’s birthday is a Federal holiday. In fact, that is its official handle, Washington’s Birthday but for most of us it is just “President’s Day.”

I do not like this shift. I think it robs us of an important shared narrative. I miss the joint the celebrations in February of both the founder and the savior of our nation. These two men were extraordinary. They weren’t gods, but humans and yet each struggled through and passed onto our country great things.

When King George III was told that after taking the highest position in America, Washington would voluntarily step down and return to his farm, the former antagonistic monarch said “If he does that, he will be the greatest man in the world.” Before him no conqueror had ever voluntarily given up power. Meanwhile Lincoln delt with the grimmest days of the Republic. Having inherited the blatant injustice of slavery which led to secession as soon as he was elected, he fiercely followed the principle laid out by Pres. Andrew Jackson (another human president) that the union was indissolvable. Preserving that union led to the great nation we are blessed to be a part of today.

These points need to be remembered and celebrated. Over and over again, in the Old Testament, monuments and special days were set to help the people remember. Humans tend to forget and a ubiquitous vague day does nothing to help jog our minds. We don't need a day to sell more cars and sheets, we need days to celebrate the great things two of our greatest past leaders did for us.

[stocky2016]

"Queen Reaper's Revenge"

Though she's not seen, don't cross the line,

the Queen Reaper's here to take her time.

She'll never miss, let no one slip,

as she exacts revenge with her iron grip.

Queen Reaper's here and bides her time,

steals away the moments with her rhyme.

Awaiting sure to strike the hour,

take revenge, she'll descend from her grimmest tower.

No one knows when the Queen will come,

but when she strikes, undoubtedly all will succumb.

The rise of fear, her wrath is known,

to stand against her, no one alone.

The Queen reaper takes what's hers for real,

no one escapes from her scything wheel.

Spreading fear like a dark disease,

not many benefit from some Reaper's "reprieve"

Her wrath comes down from an ever darkening sky

"justice" is coming, and it's time to die.

For those who wronged her she will make them pay,

now they've abandoned hope for she'll have her way.

The Queen Reaper takes what's hers for real,

No one escapes her lethal wheel.

Spreading fear like a dark punishment pall

Not many can avoid this Queen Reaper call.

The Iron fist of reckless retribution

bringing about endless dramatic doom

A final judgment they can't escape

tantamount to the worst kind of mental tape

No mercy for the banished and betrayed

Wrongdoers now remorsefully revealed

A fateful dark finale of decreed fate

nothing could compare nor appear so great.

The Queen Reaper stands proud against the rest,

her wrath is sure to lay them to rest.

No soul escapes this fateful night,

when the Queen's wrath comes in full flight.

The Queen Reaper gets her due,

the scales of fate will always be true

Barbaric justice she will ruthlessly pursue

hers is the totality of the universe review

G.P.S. 39th July 2023

(Pictures courtesy of Google Images)

[ardynzunia]

@lightwithinthenightsky  from here 

"Uncle!" Nox shouted. "Uncle! Where are you?!"

Nox regretted bringing his uncle out to Hrafnæstr for new year's. He knew there was a possibility of heavy snowfall- the little village always got sever yards of snow around this time of year- but Nox wanted to introduce his uncle Zunia to Otto and the rest of his family. How was he supposed to know the man would wander out intoxicated while they pulled in another tree trunk to burn.

Nox looked up and observed the setting sun. He grimmest- this wasn't good. It was going to be night soon, and being out at night without proper gear was a death sentence- even in these parts.

He was just about to radio in when Stel suddenly perked up, raising her crest halfway.

"What is, girl?" Nox reached down to stroke her neck. The black chocobo made a cooing sound before darting toward a large oak tree. There, standing beneath its branches, stood: "Uncle!" Nox could have collapsed with the amount of relief he felt when he saw his scruffy, wine-haired uncle. However, he instead decided to give the man his best glare and prepare a stern lecture... Until his uncle opened his mouth. Nox then remembered that yes, his uncle is still indeed drunk.

Nox sighed to himself as he dismounted his chocobo, only giving his uncle an exasperated glare before pulling one of the man's arms over his shoulder.

"I'm your only nephew," he muttered. "Come on, if we stay out here any longer, we'll freeze to death."

“Not true! I had another nephew, and a wife, and even children!” He objected, “They’re all dead now, but I had them once! Real and alive and l- loved.”

There is a sob to the end of that sentence. Not quite a shift into sad drunk, but there was a certain melancholy none-the-less. Sober Ardyn would be apologizing later, as Arctus. He wouldn’t have usually gotten drunk at something special for Nox, if he were honest. But all the family had left him feeling distant, missing his family. Even those of the modern day.

“Mm’sorry for ruining your night.” He said, “It’ss just. Sometimes I miss them so much. Miss that life.”

He did his best to shift his weight so it was easier for Nox to help him back.

“Thank you love,” He said. “You really are a good boy, someone to be proud of as family.”

[maasmuse]

Manon smiled. "Our girls. I like the sound of that."

She gave herself one moment more before she looked at the clock.

"Right, I've got that meeting. But first I need to brush my teeth." She grimmest. "You missed the first trimester stuff last time. Better get used to holding my hair."

Manon lightly slapped his shoulder muttering "Arse" under her breath. She had let him and the Thirteen know how much she hated it but no-one else. Complaining still felt like a weakness that was hard to show. It was a miracle she even shared with the Thirteen.

"Let's not tell her yet. Let's not tell anyone except my Thirteen until I am a little further along. Okay?" They needed to know to keep her and the baby safe.

"It's early." She worried.

[captainkirkk]

✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

All the fics I’ve read and really enjoyed in the past week-ish. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes.

DC (Batman)

Latchkey by goldkirk

or, How Tim Drake Found A Family, Became A Photojournalist, Learned To Love Coffee, and Grew Up, not necessarily in that order.

Tim Drake is thirteen, runs the famous BatWatch blog that has spiraled hilariously out of control, has absentee parents that suit his purposes just fine, is training himself to run the streets at night, and is doing absolutely peachy, thank you.

Alfred and Jason disagree, and get Dick and Bruce involved in figuring out their weird nextdoor neighbor kid’s life. Everything goes uphill from there.

charity by Valkirin

The biggest downside of being adopted by Bruce Wayne is putting up with rich people events, including one where Jason will be in a room with a bunch of rich kids for a couple very long hours while Bruce goes to the adults' meeting. Jason is ready for a very bad time but the Drake kid listens to him from the start and keeps backing up Jason's ideas even though they've never met.

Jason warms up to Tim Drake long before Mad Hatter tries to take over the meeting and Tim backs him up again.

these fault lines (weren't drawn quite right) by RecklessWriter

“Never have I ever cheated on my girlfriend!” Roy snarled. The air stilled, and for a moment everything stopped.

A simple drinking game gives Jason an insight into the end of Dick and Kory's relationship. But it soon becomes clear that there's more to the story.

The Witcher

Winter Solace by Bedalk05

Geralt brings Jaskier to Kaer Morhen. It goes as well as could be expected.

Our Flag Means Death

do no harm, take no shit by holsmi

Mary Bonnet receives some uninvited guests.

Muster The Courage by twoseas

Stede does his best to make things right and that means taking his own advice and talking it through.

Featuring breakup era Blackbeard quickly turning back to domestic co-captain era Ed through the power of communication (and love), Stede being very good at a couple of things for once, and Izzy getting disrespected several times.

Clone Wars

This, too, was a gift by thosenearandfarwars

The Rako Hardeen mission was a success, but it left Obi-Wan Kenobi sick at heart after the empathic stresses of the mission, and questioning whether the mission was worth it. The troopers of the 212th welcome him back, wanting nothing more than to assure him he did the right thing, and Obi-Wan works to make their trust in him worth it.

The Force, however, shows Obi-Wan a detailed vision of the future to come. He eliminates the threats posed by the Sith, but feels he cannot return to the Order or to his men, and sets out alone, letting the Force direct him to the grimmest parts of the galaxy and the people who were always overlooked and underserved.

Marshal Commander Cody takes his general's warning and evacuates Kamino and all of the clones from Republic space. As the Jedi work to recover from the Sith plot and the Republic stalls out on how to move on, the clones settle a new world, try to heal, and look for their missing general. Along the way, apart and together, Cody and Obi-Wan make discoveries that will change their and the galaxy’s future, and learn how to move forward even when things are broken and like nothing they'd planned.

And I’ll Catch You When You Fall by Nation_Ustria

The Jedi were never meant to fight in war. They still aren’t meant to. But that’s what they’re doing, and that results in almost every single Jedi reaching for the Dark Side unintentionally at one point or another, results in every Jedi Falling, losing the parts of themselves that are kind and good.

Except for the vod’e noticed when they started to Fall, and decided that they weren’t going to let it happen—and it turns out, you can’t really Fall if you have people to Catch you. Force-null or not, the vod’e figure out how to pull their Jetiise back into the Light, and do so as many times as is needed.

General Kenobi is one of the last to start Falling for their first time.

Put Color in Your Cheeks by dharmaavocado

“Apologies for interrupting, sirs, but would this, ah, exchange have anything to do with that?” He gestured to their linked hands in a way that meant he’d rather not call attention either out of a sense of discretion or, more likely, because he was trying very hard not to laugh.

They’d stripped off their vambraces and gloves so they could be skin to skin, which had led to the most awkward walk through base camp that didn’t involve Wooley’s rotgut or Quinlan shirtless.

“Ah,” Kenobi said, the orange back in full force. “Yes. About that. Have you by chance had the—” the barest pause—“honor of meeting the headwoman?”

“Only briefly,” Rex said, and Cody couldn’t find a single fault in how professional he sounded. “She was very forthright in her observations of the men, particularly the officers.”

Cody couldn’t quite swallow an ugly laugh.

Kenobi closed his eyes. The garish orange was edging towards something a bit warmer. Humor, maybe? Trying to parse Kenobi’s emotional state was going to succeed where the war failed in scrambling his brains.

In which Cody must endure the mortifying ordeal of being known.

Battle of Wills by BigFatBumblebee

Mid-way through the Clone Wars their beloved General is a bit of a mess. But Cody, Kix and the rest of the 212th are going to look after him, even if it kills them. Can snarkiness actually kill? Cody hopes not or they don’t stand a chance.