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thatfoxnamedfinley · 4 months ago

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Ten Heartbeats...aka The Way of Kings thoughts

Holy fuck my friends

holy FUCK

this is the longest book I've ever read while simultaneously being one of the best books I've ever read

Friends, students, juvenile delinquents. LEND ME YOUR EAR.

SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT, this is going to be a long one baby LETS GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooo

Them: Ok so everyone say their favorite character on three. Okay? One, Two, Three! -

Me: Szeth! Wait...er...I think actually it's Dalinar. Wait...but, Kaladin...er...and Syl too. Well, maybe...Wit...er...possibly Teft? Rock! Er...

Them:

The characters are EXCELLENT. Fascinating. Probably because the world building is so solid that they are able to all stand on their own in their own stories.

I know a big complaint is Shallan's parts in the beginning half (because we're so thirsty for Kaladin and Dalinar's stories) but I still really liked them. I know Capsule isn't the guy's name (spelled Kabsal I think) but I'm calling him Capsule. That's the one part I wasn't a huge fan of only because I'm not a fan of romance in anything I consume. There was a payoff at the end but still.

Now, I DO think that Jasnah CARRIED Shallan's chapters because a lot of what Shallan was trying to do revolved around Jasnah and stealing her Soulcaster and what Jasnah was researching and who Jasnah's father was and how intelligent Jasnah is. I actually found the philosophy of her killing those men in the alleyway to make Shallan more open minded to different ways of thinking to be quite brilliant. I also knew through other avenues of the story (Dalinar's POV) that what Jasnah was researching was major and the lore we would get from Shallan's POV would be invaluable to the world building. ESPECIALLY towards the back half when Shallan was drawing weird things and Capsule made his move to assassinate Jasnah (with bread and jam LMFAO bro)

The scene of Shallan running away from those creatures she was drawing was genuinely frightening, especially when she reached out towards the hand that was near her (in her drawing) and felt something there. I was like

And the soulcasting and that both she and Jasnah can do it without a soulcaster because...??????????? oh dont worry we dont know yet

And wtf is Shadesmar

like WTF is that place? WTF is there? What is it? A different plane? Are spren there? Are voidbringers there? Are not all spren good? Like, I know there are painspren and deathspren and rotspren and the question has continued to be asked if the spren are drawn to things or if they create them. But they seem to have limited intelligence (minus maybe Syl). But there's no reason to believe that maybe there are spren that aren't malicious; we just haven't seen them yet. They're in Shadesmar bitch

(side note, anticipationspren and gloryspren may be my fav, I can imagine them as little sprites with their hands raised in the air, lit af)

OH AND BITCH the revelation of the Parshmen being the VOIDBRINGERS????????????????? BITCH WTF

When it was mentioned the Voidbringers "hummed in song" I was like WAIT A FUCKING SECOND THERE'S NO FUCKING WAY

like WTF IS HAPPENING and when Jasnah was like "girlie, these bitches are ingratiated into every aspect of our society" Shallan and I were BOTH like

Kaladin and Syl. Baby boi and baby girl.

do not TOUCH me when Syl was holding up her little arms in front of the highstorm to try to shield Kaladin from it

When she brought him a leaf to make him feel better

Saying she tripped some men to get back at being mean to Kaladin and she was so proud of herself

At moments she gave Kaladin a reason to live and she was AMAZING. BOIIIIIII when she appeared a full woman next to Kaladin and the look on her face and the echo of his father's words making him go back and save Dalinar. Syl appearing like that honestly carried so much weight, especially when you find out she's an Honorspren. Spirit of oaths. Of promises. And nobility. And all of a sudden that moment and that battle had so much more gravity. I can close my eyes an imagine her hair blowing around her face as she watches Dalinar's banner fight to survive and the moment Kaladin realises he HAS to go help them....

BOIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

ok wait wait wait my heartrate is increasing let me travel back a little bit

Kaladin and the process of getting his Bridge Four homeboys to trust him was

Rock and Teft are LEGENDS. Rock being the first one to really see Kaladin as a leader was iconic.

I'm listening to the audiobooks (if you are unaware and this is a first book posting of mine you've seen) I'm a REALLY slow reader. I get distracted and I have ADD so I need to be moving and doing other things (even if it's just COLORING while I listen, I can't just sit and read but I'm trying to get better at it), and there's a bookmark+note I left on chapter 21:

"Rock, I fear, may be an actual legend"

I actually ended up liking Teft a little bit more than Rock by the end of the book but Rock being the first one to actually be open and willing to Kaladin's leadership made me really like him immediately.

I liked Teft a lot because he was the one constantly checking up on Kaladin and asking him if he was okay, giving him space when he needed it but still staying close to him and I thought that was really sweet. When you're depressed, sometimes someone just needs to BE there with you and Teft seemed to understand the burden of leadership. And of course it helped that he saw Kaladin glow like a flamespren on steroids after Kaladin survived a highstorm.

All due respect I'm so glad he survived the highstorm cause, *COUGH* prophecy *COUGH*, but Sanderson described him as basically flapping in the wind like a wet sock

I liked when they were doing the assault to save Dalinar (SADEAS YOU FUCKING BASTARD OH I'LL GET TO HIM) and Bridge Four was watching him fight with his spear and they were all watching in awe and the Teft snapped out of it like OUR BRIDGELEADER NEEDS US COME ON MEN

And they all charged I was like

I came around on Moash too eventually XD

Lopen was funny cause he had like 15 cousins that owed him favors and I'm like BRO WHO ARE YOU

Hoid being Sigzil's old master was a pleasant surprise. When he was telling that story to Kaladin by the fire I was like "Wait a minute is he also a Worldsinger?? He knows all this SHIT!" Then when it was revealed I was satisfied. A pleasant tie-in to that character that made the world seem more connected.

My working theory is that spren gave the Radiants their powers and they have to do like an "equal exchange" thing (like Shallan with that voice that wanted something) for their powers to fully manifest. I don't know that you're "BORN" with powers so much as chosen by a specific spren with a specific power. But girl, idk this is just what my brain is thinking after lying in bed with scrap paper like

Dalinar.

Stoic boi. Soft boi. Emotional boi. Pent up boi. Sadeas and Dalinar have this exchange in which he has this to say about Dalinar. From Chapter 26, ahem, let me read it:

"It's odd, how a leader's influence can affect his men," Sadeas said. "So many of these are like smaller versions of you. Bundles of emotion, wrapped up and tied until they become stiff from the pressure. They're so sure in some ways, yet so insecure in others."

[...]

"But don't you ever want to let it out, as you used to? Doesn't it pound on you inside, like someone trapped within a large drum? Beating, banging, trying to claw free?"

"Yes," Dalinar said.

[...]

"And the Thrill, Dalinar. Do you still feel the Thrill?"

*folds sheet of paper away* And not only does this sound like the beginning of a very intense gay fanfic (note that my bookmark note in the audiobook read as follows: Yo Sadeas, this pillow talk is WILD rn bro. "Do you still feel the Thrill?" BRO WE'RE ON A HUNT FOR A CHASMFIEND RN THIS IS *NOT* THE TIME MY GUY), but Navani echoes something similar later. Dalinar does too when they finally accept their feelings for each other. He says he HAS to live for something or else he spirals out of control. The Codes, Gavilar, the book. If he gives himself any "leeway on the leash" then he rages. I found that to be ever present in his character, always having to calm himself down and ESSENTIALLY do breathing exercises when people pissed him tf off.

I found Dalinar's POV quite captivating. A warlord, a feared warlord, who has visions of...crazy shit during these highstorms and really goes through this internal conflict of if he is mad or not and if he should abdicate to his son. His boon and curse are unknown to us from the NightWatcher (although alluding maybe his curse has to do with his wife as he doesn't even remember her name).

During the battle at the end with the Parshendi when Sadeas abandons him I had several thoughts and feelings during this

1.) Kaladin choosing to go save him was fucking EPIC. When Dalinar sees them charging back to them, a single lone bridge crew...using THAT as a hope and fighting through the army....GOOSEBUMPS BRO

2.) I think that Parshendi that said he had "finally found" Dalinar after searching for him was Odium. I really think this. The odd respectful saluting towards Dalinar...it was all so odd but it makes me feel what I felt since we saw his very first highstorm vision. Dalinar is chosen. A lot of our MCs are. For what, I don't know. But they're chosen for this Everstorm coming.

3.) SADEAS. You insidious POS. From Dalinar's POV, it was written so well that I actually thought Sadeas was an ally. Maybe I'm a dumb mother fucker. I did NOT anticipate Sadeas betraying him. I really didn't. It's a trope and I should of seen that shit from a mile away but I didn't.

4.) It's actually heatwarming how much Adolin loves his father. during his brief POV's he thinks about him a lot in a very loving manner and it's actually lovely to see that the relationships he has with his two sons are HEALTHY. In Chapter 12, Adolin states the reason he fights is that he can never forgive the Parshendi for bringing his father so much pain after the assassination of his brother. That's like...super sweet! He even states in the same chapter that he thinks his father is the greatest man alive. Seeing a loving, healthy dynamic between a father and his son was actually super, super special and unexpected. He still had moments where he challenged his father and Dalinar LETS him but he spends a lot of his time trying to understand his father's thoughts and I can't WAIT to see more of this dynamic as well as more of Adolin and Renarin (I have a feeling this dude will be a dark horse later) in later books.

World building is great. I literally felt like I was dropped into this world with no explanations, expected to figure everything out. While there are frustrations in that maybe, I really liked it. It took me about a week to work through this book (I read along with the audiobook, like someone was reading to me at night) and many a night was I awake til like 4am listening and thinking about it. In my bed all curled up, listening and imagining the world. Giggling sometimes, gasping. Clapping vigorously. I almost cried once.

THIS is how stories should be felt. Like I'm by a fire, wrapped up in a blanket given to me from another world, lost in the stories of the stars when I look up. One of the best experiences I've had with a book and I'm truly looking forward to the next book.

Until next time *salutes*

side thoughts pulled from audiobook bookmarked notes:

Dalinar giving up his Shardblade for Bridge Four and all of the bridgeman was kinda hot, ngl

Syl may be a GOAT

"Brightlord Sadeas," Wit said, taking a sip of wine. "I'm terribly sorry to see you here." LMFAOO WHAT A CUNTY ICON i love Wit

wait if men don't write how does Szeth know how wtf (Szeth is an actual baby angel and he may be the side character I want to know the most about. Super super interesting)

Teft kinda clutch

"What is that?" Gaz said, pointing. "Bridge Crew. Carrying what I believe is...yes, it's a bridge." Kaladin is lowkey a comedian

wait where tf did Gaz go later on

Bridge Four nodding knowingly when they see Kaladin talking to air LMFAOOOO I fear this bridge crew is iconic

#the stormlight archive #way of kings #brandon sanderson #dalinar kholin #shallan davar #jasnah kholin #kaladin stormblessed #adolin kholin #navani kholin #szeth son son vallano #teft #moash #I want to tag Rock but if I do it's literally a tag that says 'rock' and I'm not sure I want people making jokes about sedimentary rocks #torol sadeas #i hope he dies #:3 #sylphrena #the way of kings

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stxrvel · 1 year ago

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i don't wanna live forever (4)

summary: with the winter soldier in action, you couldn't believe who the person behind the mask was

pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!f!reader

words: 5k

warnings: descriptions of weapons, wounds and blood. i'm not that good narrating action scenes but i tried my best! a russian word poorly translated i'm sorry if it's wrong :(, also English is not my first language so sorry for any mistakes!

note: so we are finally here. the secret's out. i'm just figuring by now that this fic is probably gonna take longer than i expected, but i hope it'll turn out as we all want it! thank u as always for all the support and see u next time! if you guys ever have any questions or request feel free to dm me!

part 1 ; part 2 ; part 3 ; part 5

Another two weeks went by and the wound was practically healed. It was uncomfortable to touch, and you could feel a little pressure inside from the contact with the vibranium. But other than that, you were able to live a normal life.

Fury had informed you in a phone call that you would be on your way back to Washington that day. The agents had no news about the soldier, neither about the places you had visited, nor about the purchase of vibranium in the vicinity of Siberia. With the strong possibility of an assassin on your trail, you were back to square one.

Steve had returned three days earlier, having gone on a mission with Natasha Romanoff, and Fury had left the Helicarrier the day after Steve left, assuring you that he would arrange for you to return to the mainland once the doctors had cleared you.

Of course, you hadn't reckoned on the fact that on your arrival at your apartment, just across from Steve's, everything would be a mess.

Your friend hasn't answered your phone calls, despite your insistence for about twenty minutes, nor has he answered your constant knocking on his apartment door. His inability to reach you puzzled you. The last message you received from him was that he would be waiting for your message to pick you up, which never happened, even though you called him for an hour.

Worried, especially when Nicholas didn't answer your calls either, you found yourself on your way to the Triskelion looking for answers when the burner phone you always carried in your jacket or one of your pockets rang as you were about to walk out of the building.

“Hill,” you answered immediately, relieved that someone was finally trying to get in touch with you.

“Act natural. I want you to leave the building and go to the black van on the left corner. Get in the passenger seat.”

You obeyed, the strange absence of Steve and Fury making more sense in the light of the events of the last few weeks. It had to be him.

You quickly spotted Hill's van and walked towards it, shielding your eyes from the sun with one hand, not bothering to look elsewhere. You got into the car in silence, Hill started the engine and drove down the avenue in silence.

“What's going on?” you asked after several minutes of tense silence.

You noticed Maria's disgruntled face, something that is not usually very clear unless the situation they are in is insurmountable.

“Is it him?” you spoke again at her silence, a layer of cold sweat settling on your hands as you saw her pursing her lips.

“Yes,” Maria nodded, never taking her eyes off the rearview mirror. “He's here.”

“Where's Steve?” your voice almost came out on a thread, fearing the answer was worse than imagined possible. You knew this was coming, but so soon? You felt nauseous at the thought of meeting him once again.

“He escaped with Romanoff,” Maria took a turn, accelerating the car's speed. “They're fine.”

“And Fury?”

“The soldier tried to kill him. Twice.”

You let out a choked exclamation, covering your mouth with both your hands in surprise.

“He's alive,” Hill tried to calm you, when you felt like your heart was going to jump out of your throat. You tried to feel the relief her words brought, but the choking sensation kept growing as the seconds passed. “Steve and Natasha don't know, though. We have to let them think Fury is dead, only then can we get some leverage.”

“God, all this happened in two days?”

“And whatever else is coming. We don't know where he's at or who he's moving near,” Maria shook her head, realizing just barely that you'd left a bit of the suburbs behind. “Fury wants you here.”

A sort of abandoned dam gaped through the trees. Hill pulled the car to the left, hiding it between long logs and bushes.

“What's this supposed to be?”

“You can call it another secret section of SHIELD... or Fury's,” Maria closed the trunk of the car, where she'd been rummaging through something as you climbed down, handing you a bulletproof vest that you didn't hesitate a second to adjust around your torso. “How's the wound?”

“It only hurts to the touch. But I can move fine.”

“Who knew the Supersoldier's weakness would be vibranium.”

Maria opened an unlocked metal fence, mentally wondering if this was really such a safe place to have no security of any kind. A long hallway stretched out in front of you, which felt eternal under the yellow lights, until you turned at the bottom right and there he was. Nicholas Fury.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“Whatever you did to the soldier, I already made it worse,” Fury coughed, the slight movement of his body causing him to grimace in poorly disguised pain. “Now he's looking to kill us all.”

“And what did you do?”

“Alexander Pierce,” was all he answered, sharing a look with Hill that you didn't know how to decipher.

“The... secretary?”

“Remember Peggy's theory that we could never prove?”

Fury spoke again, your attention completely directed at him. Of course you remembered that. And of course you remembered the way you had flatly denied that possibility out of fear of what that would mean for your friends' legacy. To Steve's legacy. To Bucky's legacy.

There was no need to elaborate, with one look from the Director you knew exactly what he meant.

“Alexander Pierce tried to kill you?”

“It's him, Y/N. The Winter Soldier was the one who killed Howard and Maria Stark in order to get the serum to HYDRA, to create more supersoldiers.”

“We're infiltrated by double agents, that's why it was always so hard to uncover them,” Maria continued, her words barely echoing in your head, never breaking your gaze from Fury.

Eyes crystallizing, you never felt so helpless as you remembered that you had it in your hands to avenge their deaths and didn't. And now he was here, seeking to claim more innocent lives for the benefit of a nefarious organization. No, no, that wasn't going to happen.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

“Fury.”

“No.”

“Nicholas.”

“No, Y/N. You just barely recovered from that vibranium wound, and you want to risk being face to face with that monster again?”

“I wasn't ready at the moment, but I am now. Nicholas, please. I can't sit idly by when Howard's killer is out there,” you frowned at him, your anguished, desperate voice nothing more a reflection of everything you felt in your chest. But Fury was shaking his head once again, ready to give way to no excuses.

“I can't risk you like this again,” Fury barely murmured, your ears catching the words clearly.

“But I won't be alone. Steve and Natasha are there.”

“And they're hiding, too,” Fury assured, clasping his hands over his abdomen.

You frowned, your back slumping against the back of the chair. Hill's sympathetic look on the other side of Fury's gurney angered you. How could they think the best decision was to leave you behind? You weren't the one lying prostrate on a gurney with a bunch of broken bones.

“They're closer to the lion's den than I am right now.”

“But them the soldier doesn't know yet,” Fury pointed at you accusingly, rearranging himself on the bed with a grimace.

You looked at Fury, his one eye daring you to contradict him. It was probably true, you weren't going to deny it. But that didn't give them too much of an advantage, if it was true that many SHIELD agents really were part of HYDRA. Natasha and Steve wouldn't be able to do much if, in addition to the soldier, a hundred double agents showed up to stop them. Maybe even the three of them wouldn't be enough, but you weren't willing to stand by and do nothing. Not when you had the opportunity so close. Fury might not see it the same way, but you couldn't demand it of him when he hadn't gone through what you had gone through so many years before. He didn't see the blank stare of a young Tony, regretting and chastising himself for what had happened, for something completely out of his control.

Fury wasn't going to accede to your wishes, that much was certain. But the good thing was that as a protected subject of SHIELD, you had your own wild cards within the agency, like bypassing the Director's orders when you saw fit, as in the case of anything deemed an emergency.

“Well, try to stop me.”

You stood up, turned around and started walking in the direction of the exit, the expansive hallway welcoming you once again.

“Y/N,” Fury exclaimed, his body leaning forward as if he had truly believed he could follow you with so many wounds on his body. “Hill.”

As Maria approached you, you raised your hand, her feet stopping almost instantly.

“No,” you looked at her and then looked back at Fury.

“Fuck, Agent Carter really has no idea what she did giving you those powers.”

“You know damn well I can take good care of myself, just as well as she can. I'm not going to let him get away this time.”

“That's what worries me. You're so consumed by this idea of revenge that you'd sacrifice anything.”

“And you wouldn't?”

Fury frowned, the words he intended to counterattack with dying in his throat.

“If you'd had to go through the death of one of your best friends, knowing it had been a murder that would never be investigated as such and go unpunished. When after spending years and years trying to seek justice, life brings you home empty-handed. Do you have any idea how that feels, Nicholas? Maybe I'd be willing to sacrifice anything to punish the killer of Tony's parents, yes, but I swear I'm not leaving this world if I don't take him with me.”

The man on the gurney sighed, sharing a look with Hill to which she responded by lifting her shoulders. The defeated sigh Fury let out was enough of an answer you needed, but he added:

“Let me tell you something first.”

You were trying to follow the black car that was moving at high speed across the bridge. You had no way of communicating with Steve because he clearly didn't have his burner phone with him and neither did Natasha, as Hill had tried to contact her before meeting you with no result.

You had identified four people in the car, one of them being Natasha's reddish hair, before an armored van completely blocked your view. Steve must've been with her in the car, but you had no idea who the other two people accompanying them were.

That is, until you saw him.

The Winter Soldier, getting out of the armored van and moving to jump into the black car where Steve and Natasha were, the panic that ran through your body forcing you to press the accelerator to the maximum.

Despite the armored van blocking your path, you could tell from the left as the soldier smashed the back door glass, your blood freezing for a minute until you recognized Jasper Sitwell flying out through the window, courtesy of the tug the soldier gave him until he landed in the opposite lane of the bridge.

The sound of gunfire alerted you, moving to try to pass the van once again, when you heard a car brake followed by the screech of metal against the ground. The van suddenly sped up, clearing a path for you now that it didn't seem focused on blocking your way, and you caught up to its pace by the time it slammed into the trunk of the car Steve was in. The pickup took the car over the front, with the soldier gaining momentum to get on the roof of the car and not resting until he was able to wrench off the steering wheel and turn back to get into the armored truck.

You kept pace with the van, trying to catch up with the black car, when a second hit on the trunk caused them to lose control of the car. You slammed on the brakes when, before your heart could leap out of your mouth, you saw three people roll against the road using one of the car doors. You didn't have time to react when the soldier threw a grenade in the direction of your companions, Steve pushing Natasha and the impact pushing him so hard that he ended up flying under the bridge.

You opened the car door, getting out as quickly as possible and impacting Natasha in the process. Neither of you had time to say anything as the hail of bullets began.

“Run,” you exclaimed over the noise, pointing to the opposite lane of the bridge. “I'll cover you.”

You pulled out the dual pistols you packed in your belt, using your car as a shield as you fired in the direction of the soldier and his henchmen, hoping Natasha hadn't wasted a single minute. However, with the grenade launcher at hand, it was hard for you to get far. The moment Natasha jumped off the bridge, you didn't waste a second running in the direction Steve had fallen when the shell hit him, the sound of the bullets barely grazing you, the soldier in your peripheral vision walking in your direction.

You found Natasha the moment you hit the ground, the serum helping you keep your balance and she wasted no time in grabbing your arm to pull you into the shade.

“He's a fucking lunatic,” Natasha pointed at his shadow over the bridge at you, moving in stealth for both of you to shoot when his gaze was on a bus that had overturned.

If you hit him, there was no time to know, running straight for cover behind the bus. When the sound of bullets returned, a mutual nod between Natasha and you was enough for both of you to aim directly at the soldier, firing repeatedly.

“Run,” Natasha exclaimed, her pistols steady in her hands.

You wasted no time, instantly moving in the direction of the sidewalk, firing sporadically backwards to get Natasha to your side.

“How did you get here?” the overloaded, muffled voice of Natasha startled you, finding her crouching next to a car activating the voice engine of a holopad.

“All SHIELD cars have a tracker,” you barely replied, trying to keep your breathing in check, glancing over your shoulder in the direction they had left the soldier.

Natasha made an affirmative sound, leaving the holopad with a voice recording right at the bottom of a car tire.

“This will give us enough time to take him by surprise. Come on,” she moved to the other side of the sidewalk, moving between the altered bodies of civilians to camouflage herself before finding cover behind one of the cars, her feline gaze fixed on the approaching soldier. “If Steve finds out you're here, he's going to fall on his ass.”

“I've been in worse battles.”

“Girl, you have no idea what we've seen.”

You frowned at her, the mystery behind her words leaving much to be desired. Before the soldier got any closer, when he was distracted falling into Natasha's trap, she signaled you with two fingers to move to the right, down the path they had taken to get there, and you knew she was expecting she couldn't hold him off for long and needed you for support.

When the bomb behind the car exploded, Natasha jumped over the car and took the soldier by surprise falling on his shoulders, both struggling hard until he threw her against a car ready to shoot her, when Natasha threw a small shock device at him that neutralized his arm and gave him enough time to gesture a run in your direction.

Natasha took the lead, alerting the civilians and trying to get as far away from the soldier as she could, when one of his bullets hit her and you cursed between your teeth. You watched him move to the right, looking to shoot Natasha from behind and didn't think twice before you took momentum and jumped on him, crossing your legs around his torso and using your right arm to cut off his breath.

He dropped his weapon, the thud attracting the redhead's attention. You barely managed to make a running gesture with your hands as the soldier slammed into your side until your legs gave way from his grip and, grabbing you from torso height, flipped you over until you crashed your back against the hood of the car you two had been struggling over.

When you saw him pull one of his knives out of his pants, you arched up quickly, jumping out of the car and taking a defensive position in front of him, who had remained kneeling in front of the place you had occupied.

Just at that moment you noticed that part of his mask had fallen off, finding yourself face to face with blue eyes that almost made you lose your balance.

God, those eyes felt so familiar. If it wasn't because you knew he had died you would believe it was him, because you would recognize those eyes anywhere in the world.

The soldier stood up, getting out of the car and approaching you as if you were his prey.

“Zhivoy,” he muttered, moving the knife between his fingers and cocking his head to the side without taking his eyes off you. You recognized the Russian instantly, barely having a second to process it when the fight started.

You heard a curse behind you followed by quickened footsteps that you quickly recognized as Steve's, and that was enough of a distraction for the soldier to pounce on you.

You narrowly dodged his first attack, managing the speed to your advantage, ready to block it when he lunged a second time. His blade grazed your forearm, but the pain was nothing and you didn't let it distract you from attacking him, sending a strong kick into his torso after you neutralized one of his arms.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Why don't you have your fucking burner phone?” overly concerned for your friend's well-being, you could barely process what he had told you, trying to pull more bullets from your belt to load one of your pistols, finding the cartridge completely empty. You both stared at the soldier, Steve ready to leap into action the moment he stood up.

“You shouldn't be here,” was what Steve said, before lunging at the soldier the moment that one put his feet on the ground.

You seized the moment to go to Natasha, pulling out of your pockets a spray painkiller that you knew you would need to apply to Natasha's shoulder.

“You really are prepared for anything.”

Around the chaos, you managed as best you could to move Natasha as far out of range of the mess as possible, and turned just barely to see the soldier throw Steve's shield at him, who dodged it just barely without stopping running. When you saw the knife in the soldier's hands, a scream almost left your throat.

Steve and the soldier began a hand to hand fight that you could barely follow, looking in every direction for anything that might help your friend. But with nothing but your own strength to defend him, you moved in his direction as the soldier lifted him by the neck and threw him.

About to fall with the fist of his metal arm, you pushed him to the side causing him to lose his balance, helping Steve to his feet before resuming the hand to hand.

The soldier passed his furious glare over you before heading straight for Steve, the same blond pushing you aside and meeting the soldier fist to fist.

You stepped in between the two once again as the soldier pulled out a blade and you intercepted his arm midway, hitting the weak spots necessary for his hand to open and release the blade. His blue eyes met yours for a second, before he furiously grabbed both of your hands by the wrists, which held his right hand, with his metal hand, to raise them above your head and send you to the ground with a kick to your entire torso. He didn't walk away without first exclaiming again, “Zhivoy.”

Steve snarled, once again taking possession of his shield and closing in on the soldier before he could approach you once more. Retrieving the blade from somewhere on his belt, you heard them struggling against each other, but only one thought kept running through your head, racing your heart in a panic.

His eyes are so like Bucky's.

But that couldn't be possible. Bucky's fall was not to survive, how could he have survived? Worse, how could he have survived to become that?

How could Bucky be the one responsible that you had been looking for for so many years?

Hating to allow senseless emotions to take over your rational side, you rose once more raising your legs and landing on your feet, just for the moment when Steve slammed his shield into the forearm of his metal arm and turned to grab the soldier on his back, pushing him with his own back so that he fell off the other side of the road.

But your breath caught in your throat as you heard his voice, barely a whimper before Steve sent him flying across. The blond turned to look at you in concern, for the sound you had let out almost sounded like a groan of pain, when your horrified gaze met his among the masses of air.

For a moment, it seemed like everything around you stopped.

Steve frowned and in a split second turned his head away, tears making their way into your eyes without you being able to take a moment to fully process what you were seeing. Everything sounded a little slower, Steve's defensiveness soon faltering as he understood why you had sent him that look.

The soldier's mask on the ground, his head turned in your direction, that face you never thought you'd see again.

“Bucky?” Steve was the one who spoke, in stupefaction, and the soldier's face contracted in anger.

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

With tears rolling down your cheeks and Steve's frozen stance, neither of you reacted when the soldier raised the gun in your direction, you for a split second regaining your consciousness and moving towards your friend when the sound of metal and a man appeared behind the soldier, large metal wings standing out behind the man who had just pushed the soldier out of the way.

You froze midway through holding Steve's arm, your hand sliding down his pants barely catching his attention.

The frightened look on the soldier's face, on Bucky's face, which he returned to them as he stood up, didn't stop you this time from reacting as he raised his gun at Steve once more, pulling your friend behind you, leaving your back exposed until you heard an explosion and noticed the pale Natasha a few steps behind, the missile launcher in her hands. You wanted to thank her, but you were too overwhelmed to think too much about it, to process fast enough what was happening. You had barely noticed that Steve had put the shield right behind you, holding you tightly against his chest.

When the explosion dissipated, the soldier was gone.

The sound of sirens and cars too far away, as Steve released his grip and looked in every direction he could to see if he could see him again. But the cars surrounded them with ease, Steve's clear eyes falling on yours, his expression a replica of yours, stupefaction and sadness reigning in them.

You didn't quite remember the journey or what had happened to make you end up back at the abandoned dam in front of Fury, Natasha finally having her shoulder tended to. They must've been talking for a while, because you felt their gazes on you, as heavy as the overwhelming pain that had fallen on your shoulders.

It couldn't be hard now. No. You couldn't back out after all these years… You really couldn't…

You couldn't even look Fury in the face.

When you felt a squeeze on your shoulder, even though you knew it was Steve, you couldn't find the strength to lift your head to look at him.

The conversation had moved to a nearby table and you were almost surprised to see Fury sitting there as if he didn't have some broken ribs, but you tried to pay attention because you couldn't risk failing at this plan.

“What's that?” the man standing to the side of Steve, who had introduced him to you as Sam a couple of minutes earlier, turned to Fury, who was showing the programming cards you were to use on the mission.

“Once the helicarriers reach nine hundred meters altitude, they will triangulate with the Project satellites and be weapons,” Maria explained to them, flipping her computer to show the plan visualization.

“Intercept those transporters and replace their targets with ours,” Fury complemented, the images becoming clearer on the blue screen.

“One or two won't be enough,” Maria spoke again, her eyes sweeping over those of everyone around. “We must intercept all three of them, because if one of those ships keeps running, a lot of people will die.”

Steve's hand found your shoulder again, apparently noticing how hard you were trying to stay present in the conversation, moving your intertwined hands on your lap tirelessly. Your head kept coming back to that moment in the road, his frightened look enlarging the hole in your chest, the uncertainty of not knowing what had happened to him after that, where he was at that moment, if he was even okay.

But at the same time the rejection, the sadness, the heaviness? How could you stand there and blame him when he didn't even seem to remember who he was? You had spent years looking for that culprit, looking to bring peace to the memory of Tony's parents, and now that you knew who he was, why didn't you feel calmer? Why did the pit in your stomach feel deeper and deeper? Why was your heart pounding with fear because you didn't know where he was?

“Look, I didn't know about Barnes,” Fury's words made you raise your head, his sorrowful gaze directed at your friend and momentarily passing over you. Steve's hand on your shoulder tensed slightly, leaning forward a little, his attitude more hostile than you remembered in the few minutes you'd left the conversation.

“Even if you had known, would you have told us? Or would you have compartmentalized too?” Steve's hard expression gave way to no claim, his hand firm on your shoulder. “SHIELD, HYDRA… it will all go away.”

The green views from the dam's high trail were pretty enough that you could distract your mind for a moment, the weight of Steve's presence at your side keeping you anchored to reality.

“Y/N,” Steve was the first to speak after spending several seconds in silence, his arms resting on the railing with his hands clasped together. “There was something I heard about and I… I don't know how to process it, but I think you have the answer.”

Your body didn't bother to react to his words, barely shaking your head in a subtle nod prompting him to speak.

“With Natasha we used a flash drive that led us to the coordinates of some… old SHIELD facility. There, at the time, Zola was alive,” Steve paused, your brow barely furrowing as the information caught your attention. “Well, his brain was alive because of technology. Everything was a machine. But the point is, he said something, that HYDRA makes a lot of things look like accidents when they're not, and he showed us a picture of Howard and Maria's accident.”

You half-opened your lips, taking a deep breath, too emotionally drained to care too much about what you knew he was going to ask.

“Maybe I wouldn't have made the connection if I hadn't stayed in that room to listen to you and Fury, but those mystery accidents you said were connected to the Winter Soldier, was theirs one of those?”

You felt his gaze on your profile as a lone tear ran down your cheek. There was nothing more you could say to him, at that point it was more than fair for you to give him a concrete answer.

“That's why you stayed after Howard's funeral, besides Peggy. She told me you had spent a lot of time investigating something you couldn't tell Tony. That's why you're running away from him everytime.”

Surely it was because you felt guilty, but more tears ran down your cheeks as Steve beside you only sighed.

“Why didn't you just… tell me?”

“I don't know, I didn't… I didn't want you to carry that around. You'd barely been back, knowing about his death had to be too much already, and I couldn't add to the fact that it hadn't been an accident. You have no idea how long I've been carrying this weight on my shoulders trying to find the culprit… and now… now this…”

“I wouldn't have minded sharing that with you,” Steve frowned. “It would've helped either way.”

“I'm sorry," you whispered in the middle of a sob, his deep breath sounding close as he wrapped his arms around your shoulders. “I'm so sorry, Steve.”

“It's okay, it's okay,” his soothing, comforting voice sent you spiraling, not understanding how he could put it all aside and accept your apology without further explanation. His hand running up and down your back caused emotions to explode inside you, your body breaking into a sob that Steve was already expecting, his arms holding you tightly as you cried your soul out.

You didn't deserve someone like him in your life. You seemed to be doing him more harm than good.

tag: @rubyxx16

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky x you #bucky fluff #james bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky fic #bucky barnes angst #bucky #james bucky buchanan barnes #winter soldier #the winter soldier #steve rogers #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #captain america

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pers-books · 7 months ago

Text

Obituary

William Russell obituary

Stage and screen actor who was part of the original cast of Doctor Who

Michael Coveney Tue 4 Jun 2024 17.40 BST

William Russell, left, as Ian Chesterton, with William Hartnell as the Doctor, Jacqueline Hill as Barbara and Carole Ann Ford as Susan in the Doctor Who serial The Keys of Marinus, 1964. Photograph: BBC

On 23 November 1963 – the day after the assassination of President John F Kennedy – the actor William Russell, who has died aged 99, appearing in a new BBC television series, approached what looked like an old-fashioned police box in a scrapyard, from which an old chap emerged, saying he was the doctor. Russell responded: “Doctor Who?”

And so was launched one of the most popular TV series of all time, although the viewing figures that night were low because of the political upheaval, so the same episode was shown again a week later. It caught on, big time, with Russell – as the science schoolteacher Ian Chesterton – and William Hartnell as the Doctor establishing themselves alongside Jacqueline Hill as the history teacher Barbara Wright and Carole Ann Ford as Susan Foreman.

Russell stayed until 1965, returning to the show in 2022 in a cameo appearance as Ian and, since then, participating happily in all the hoop-la and fanzine convention-hopping, signing and schmoozing that such a phenomenon engenders.

Before that, though, Russell had achieved prominence in the title role of the ITV series The Adventures of Sir Lancelot (1956-57) – he was strongly built with an air of dashing bravado about him; he had been an RAF officer in the later stages of the second world war – and as the lead in a 1957 BBC television adaptation of Nicholas Nickleby, transmitted live in 18 weekly episodes.

William Russell on the set of the 1950s television series The Adventures of Sir Lancelot. Photograph: Mirrorpix/Getty Images

When Sir Lancelot went to the US, the first British TV import to be shot in colour for an American audience, Russell rode down Fifth Avenue on a horse in full regalia, like some returning, mystical, medieval knight in the heart of Normandy. The show was a smash hit.

By now he was established in movies, playing a servant to John Mills in The Gift Horse (1952) and a clutch of second world war action movies including They Who Dare (1954) opposite Dirk Bogarde, directed by Lewis “All Quiet on the Western Front” Milestone – he met his first wife, the French model and actor Balbina Gutierrez on a boat sailing to Cyprus to a location shoot in Malta – and Ronald Neame’s The Man Who Never Was (1956), the first Operation Mincemeat movie, in which he played Gloria Grahame’s fiance.

Until this point in his career, he was known as Russell Enoch. But Norman Wisdom, with whom he played in the knockabout comedy farce One Good Turn (1955) objected to his surname because he felt (oddly) that it would publicise a vaudevillian rival of his called Enoch. So, somewhat meekly, and to keep Wisdom happy, he became William Russell, although, in the 1980s, for happy and productive periods with the Actors Touring Company and the RSC, he reverted to the name Russell Enoch. Later, he settled again on William Russell. All very confusing for the historians. His doorbell across the road from me in north London bore the legend “Enoch”.

He was born in Sunderland, the only child of Alfred Enoch, a salesman and small business entrepreneur, and his wife, Eva (nee Pile). They moved to Solihull, and then Wolverhampton, where William attended the grammar school before moving on to Fettes college in Edinburgh and Trinity College, Oxford, where his economics tutor was the brilliant Labour parliamentarian Anthony Crosland.

But Russell didn’t “get” the economics part of the PPE (philosophy, politics and economics) course and switched, much to Crosland’s relief, to English. In those years, 1943-46, he worked out his national service and appeared in revues and plays with such talented contemporaries as Kenneth Tynan, Tony Richardson and Sandy Wilson.

Derek Ware, a fight co-ordinator, runs through a scene with Russell during a break in filming the Doctor Who story The Crusades at the BBC studios, Ealing, in 1965. Photograph: Mirrorpix/Getty Images

On graduating, he played in weekly rep in Tunbridge Wells, fortnightly rep at the Oxford Playhouse and featured, modestly, in the Alec Guinness Hamlet of 1951 at the New (now the Noël Coward) theatre. He had big roles in seasons at the Bristol Old Vic and the Oxford Playhouse in the early 60s, while on television he was in JB Priestley’s An Inspector Calls with John Gregson, and was St John Rivers in Jane Eyre.

He played Shylock and Ford (in the Merry Wives of Windsor) in 1968-69 at the Open Air, Regent’s Park, before joining the RSC in 1970 as the Provost in Measure for Measure (with Ian Richardson and Ben Kingsley), Lord Rivers in Norman Rodway’s Richard III and Salisbury in a touring King John, with the title role played by Patrick Stewart.

His billing slipped in movies, but he played small parts in good films such as Superman (1978), starring Christopher Reeve, as one of the Elders; as a passerby drawn into the violence in the Spanish-American slasher film Deadly Manor (1990); and in Bertrand Tavernier’s Death Watch (1980), a sci-fi futuristic fable about celebrity, reality TV and corruption, starring Romy Schneider and Harvey Keitel.

With John Retallack’s Actors Touring Company in the 80s, he was a lurching, apoplectic Sir John Brute in John Vanbrugh’s The Provok’d Wife, possessing, said Jonathan Keates in the Guardian, “a weirdly philosophical elegance”; a civilised Alonso, expertly discharging some of the best speeches in The Tempest; and a quick-change virtuosic king, peasant, soldier and tsar in Alfred Jarry’s 1896 surrealist satire Ubu Roi in the Cyril Connolly translation.

Back at the RSC in 1989, he was the courtly official Egeus in white spats (Helena wore Doc Martens) in an outstanding production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream by John Caird, and both the Ghost and First Player in Mark Rylance’s pyjama-clad Hamlet directed by Ron Daniels. In 1994 he took over (from Peter Cellier) as Pinchard in Peter Hall’s delightful production of Feydeau’s Le Dindon, retitled in translation An Absolute Turkey, which it wasn’t.

He rejoined Rylance in that actor/director’s opening season in 1997 at the new Shakespeare’s Globe. He was King Charles VI of France in Henry V and Tutor to Tim in Thomas Middleton’s riotous Jacobean city comedy, A Chaste Maid in Cheapside. Many years later, in 2021, his son Alfred Enoch (Dean Thomas in the Harry Potter movies), would play on the same stage as a fired-up Romeo.

Russell is survived by his second wife, Etheline (nee Lewis), a doctor, whom he married in 1984, and their son, Alfred, and by his children, Vanessa, Laetitia and Robert, from his marriage to Balbina, which ended in divorce, and four grandchildren, James, Elise, Amy and Ayo.

William Russell Enoch, actor, born 19 November 1924; died 3 June 2024.

-- I'm a bit annoyed there's no mention of the fact that William continued to play Ian Chesterton for Big Finish.

#RIP #William Russell #Obituary

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musicallisto · 5 months ago

Note

jesper fahey + 💿

· · · · ♡ VENOM (jesper fahey)

… starring jesper fahey x f!reader ... based on venom by stray kids ... 1.7k words ... in which jesper and you are the best shots in all of ketterdam, but assassination missions never go as planned ... warnings for death, gun violence ... what were the ODDS of pulling this song i'm still screaming!! anyway i went a bit more literal with the title than the song really says but i hope you enjoy this

𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐈𝐍 Kerch never dressed in the morning with their impending assassination in mind.

Out of hubris, perhaps – they thought themselves above the black canines of Ketterdam, as though Ghezen’s favors shielded them in the starless alleys. Or out of negligence – after all, they had many an important matter on their daily schedules, meetings with partners and stock markets to analyze and speculation bubbles to burst… it all left little room for death.

But death, undiscriminating, sent her rats forth to bite into pale, delicate necks ruffled collars and striped ties had no chance of protecting. Today, the rats were Jesper Fahey and you.

“So… which of these toys should I use to take them out this time? Your pick.”

“You? Do you want to get us killed?”

Both of you were lying on your stomachs on some sooty rooftop, overlooking a shopping avenue of the capital. Beautiful Ketterdam awakened gently, caressed by the first rays of dawn; shutters creaked upwards, windows opened to let the sea air flood in, and the earliest risers stifled their last yawns in the shopping street below. They were few; this part of town was lazier than what you were used to in the Barrel, its residents accustomed to the silky warmth of mid-morning rustling them awake on Sundays.

Thankfully for you, that meant fewer witnesses to sound the alarm… and an easier time locating the target.

“What? You know I’m the best shot in this hellhole,” Jesper turned to look at you, frowning. Difficult to say if he had really taken offense at your words or if he was only pestering you for fun, as always. You kept your gaze firmly locked on the comings and goings of people below, strolling back home with steaming pastries or braving the Northern breeze for an invigorating promenade.

“Yeah, and also the loudest. We need to do this the subtle way.”

“Subtle,” Jesper scoffed. “Why the hell did Kaz sent me out here if he wanted subtlety?”

“He probably wanted you to cover me. You know? Be my second…”

“Pfft!” Your acolyte rolled his eyes, his chuckle rumbling through the finely carved bricks under your chests with just a point of humor. “There’s only one second in this team and we all know who it is.”

You resisted the temptation to elbow him – it would only encourage his antics further. Both of you knew you were, out of all the Dregs, the best-matched duo, both in terms of temperament and skill. To Jesper’s brash hyperactivity, you brought level-headed professionalism; where his sarcastic quips and surprisingly wistful tales of infinite Zemeni fields distracted you on long, grueling covert missions, your quick wit and lightning-fast reflexes got you out of all sorts of sticky situations – that Jesper never failed to recount on Crow Club evenings, with all their exaggerated epithets. Besides… you were at least the second-best shot in this hellhole. Kaz knew as much, and so did Jesper, though he never failed to highlight the fact the boss still believed him superior; and so Kaz never sent one on the field without the other. No matter how many times you returned from operations swearing on all the Saints that one day, you would gouge out Jesper Fahey’s eyes.

“There he is,” you tensed all of a sudden, narrowing your eyes, and Jesper stopped fidgeting next to you.

A red beret that concealed nothing of already advanced baldness… the swaggering, smug gait of a man who has everything and therefore thinks he can lose nothing… and that ridiculous collar, typical of influential merchants, that exposed the entire nape of his neck. There was no mistaking the description Kaz had given you – if anything, you were surprised to see him up so early, and not flanked by a wife or bodyguards. As to why Brekker wanted the man dead, well… inconsequential to you. You weren’t close enough to him to expect a justification, and if Jesper knew the grudge his friend held against yet another rich middle-aged man in Kerch… he hadn’t thought it relevant to mention.

“Okay, get set,” you ordered. When your tone got cold and your hands tightened around your dart gun, Jesper knew better than to keep up with the bravado. “Remember, soon as he’s on the ground, we’re outta here.”

“Got it, boss.”

A faint ember of light shimmered in your belly, but you stopped it before the emotion could get to your cheeks. The rare moments when Jesper acknowledged you as his equal did feel nice. Your admiration for the sharpshooter, practically an idol to all the famished mouths in the Barrel, was a secret to no one… but him.

Slowly, you lifted the visor of your gun to your eye, keeping your finger away from the trigger. Your breathing slowed as you scanned the faces below… and stopped, once you had your sights on the target. Not once did he look up… and not once did you think about the family who’d mourn him.

Death, too, worked her hours. Everyone had to make a living in Ketterdam, indeed.

“Y/N, don’t-!”

You pressed the trigger, and the recoil barely got a blink out of you as the air whistled past the dart. A second passed in stunned silence, just enough time to hear your heart beat, and what you could’ve sworn was Jesper’s too. Then it all erupted at once.

It was the screams that first caught your attention. The first, hoarse and purposeful, rose from the sidewalks below and grazed the brick walls like blades against metal. Most of the policemen had their sights and guns raised at you, screaming unintelligible words; the rest of the unexpected patrol rushed to the merchant’s side right as he collapsed on the damp ground, pierced through the neck with impeccable precision. He was dead before he hit the ground, the dose of venom you’d injected him largely above the lethal threshold.

Then the shrill, biting howls of the bullets fusing in the air between Jesper and you tangled with the high-pitched shrieks of horrified passersby.

“Crap! Where did they come from?!” you screamed, both of you ducking behind the brick ledge for cover like well-oiled machinery.

“You wanna stick around long enough to find out?”

“Not really, no,” you huffed through gritted teeth.

So much for not making a scene.

You grabbed Jesper’s hand, the one that wasn’t holding his handgun. Later on, you’d play the gesture off as a reflex, merely more than accidental, evidence of you being a true team player – but you’d long ponder the way his clammy palm in yours had cleared your mind and clouded it all at once, filled you with immense safety and overpowering fear, if only for an instant.

“Let’s get out of here!”

“Hold on a second-“

“Jesper! Now’s not the time to play hero!”

You doubted he heed your words. Jesper was damn predictable to those who had worked with him long enough – there was no way of distracting him when his brain registered the smell of burning lead, when his ears caught the unmistakable tinkling of cartridge cases on the ground. The duel was Jesper Fahey’s favorite game, merely a competition he could never turn down… let alone die from.

He sprung to his feet, crouched against the ledge, and as if the whole death match was just another joke to him, he twirled the handgun in one hand, blew on it, and murmured as a good luck wish, “Do your thing, love.”

The next second, his face was swallowed by the billowing white smoke from the barrel of his gun, as he spewed leaden poison from his unshaken hands. From the safety of your hiding spot, you watched him, your heart pounding with what, admiration or terror, you no longer knew, but the city and the whole earth disappeared in the space of a gunshot and only remained the bulletproof braggart, all draped in white clouds like a demigod.

And then, as quickly as the torrent of noise had swept down the street, it dried up, and an unreal calm descended on the dazed neighborhood.

Jesper leaned over to you, making sure he was out of reach from the attackers below, and took in your parted lips and wide eyes with uncharacteristic worry.

“Are you okay? You’re not hurt, right?”

It took you a few moments to register his words, and then some more to notice his hand had gently cusped your jaw, lifting your chin to examine your face and neck for any trace of injury.

“N-No, I’m good,” you snapped out of your trance, and immediately Jesper retreated his hand… leaving you to miss the calloused heat of his fingers more than you’d care to admit.

“What’s that? Oh, thank you Jesper for saving my life! You really are the best shot in all of Ketterdam!” he trumpeted in a comically high-pitched voice with a smug grin. “Oh, well, it was nothing. Don’t bother. Just doing my job!”

“Shut up. Come on, let’s get out of here before they send any more our way.”

“I hope they do. You’re down four kills to one and you’re not even trying to catch up?”

This time, you made sure you grabbed your sleeve and not his skin; nothing to give him more leverage to use against you later, when he’d be boasting to Inej about leaving Y/N speechless with his sharpshooting skills. With a good-natured sigh, he got to his feet, and you retreated towards the lower roofs you’d used on your climb together.

And death called back her rats to her side, vanishing into soot and silence.

· · · · ♡ tags! @retvenkos @sassyscribbler @lettersoftroy @rosesnink

#six of crows #jesper fahey #grishaverse #shadow and bone #six of crows imagine #jesper fahey x reader #six of crows x reader #six of crows x you #mywriting

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gorbalsvampire · 2 months ago

Note

D'you have any player-facing or secret ST-eyes-only systems that you like to use for tracking SI exposure in your games? Or (shunting you a soapbox here) for seeding and making good on consequences generally?

So in general, my absolute favourite way to generate The Quencies is Succees At A Cost. "I'll offer you a devil's bargain," to quote the Master, Mr. Carl.

Kick enough Successes at a Cost down the trail and you can have them escalate into something quite spectacular, whatever that turns out to be. The same for Messy Critical consequences. "There's been a Masquerade breach, but I need to work out the details, so it'll be with you in a couple of sessions' time." That sort of thing.

I also like to frame story beats as poison chalices and sadistic choices. Yes, you can have the Dunsirns' help in covering up the assassination attempt on that Baron you murdered, but they want her property, her territory, and you to know exactly who took the fall for you and what that's worth.

What else? Every chronicle needs a character who's talked about more than they are seen. Telegraphy is key, but don't go too hard on it - we don't want players going "we've got a BADASS over here" about them. I think the trick is having other SPCs be afraid of them, or answerable to them, or clearly dependent on them.

In my Glasgow game, Miss Drake the scourge didn't appear very often, but she was mentioned in the context of "what keeps this praxis running?" and "why doesn't anyone hunt in the West End?" Sir Thomas Dunsirn - Big Tam to his family - was the unseen hand of the nocturnal economy and, more to the point, the hand holding Alistair's leash.

There's this horrid old man who somehow gets you to do whatever he wants. You first met him when he physically and psychically assaulted his way into your turf and your crime scene. You owe him your continued liberty. And he has a boss. At that point, player imagination is doing the work.

But while we're here, I'm also going to talk about Nemesis Points. I took these a late-series Fighting Fantasy gamebook, Night Dragon, and I love them. As you quest to find the location of the titular Night Dragon and prevent its resurrection by the cult who worship it, you have various avenues of investigation to pursue, some of which are of course dead ends: you also have various bits of side business, in accordance with custom. Every prevarication, every attempt made, even the successful ones, adds some Nemesis Points to your tally. If you haven't found the Night Dragon's lair by the time you reach a given Nemesis score, Your Adventure Is Over in a sense far greater than "you got mugged by three pirates and died again."

When I was running face to face games, I'd sometimes put one of those spindown - or in this case spin up - life counters from Magic on the table. Whenever my players prevaricated, overthought, faffed about or otherwise didn't make the most of our time together, the die would spin up a little.

I think something like that could adapt to Masquerade cockups very nicely. People love a meter.

I find the Response Algorithm and Institutional Conflict systems in the Anarch and Camarilla books are a bit of a headache, but they're there if you need them. Of course, Second Inquisition also has a chapter explicitly for doing this, for running your SI presence as an active and hostile force with its own goals - almost a solo side game for the ST.

This isn't something I've used - yet - as Wild Roses was very much me finding the transitions I needed to make out of Revised era thinking, and one of those was vampire-focus, less interest in what mortals want and are doing. The SI there was a cool threat that warmed up in the third story when I wanted to raise the stakes and do a cool bank heist opening session, and again when a returning player gave me the opportunity to tell a story about collaborators and how they should die in shame. I had ideas for how they served the vampire story and they were only developed in so far as they did that.

I'm not actually very happy with how I characterised and played my SI characters, and I'd like to do them justice with another outing. One where they actually have a project. It'll be more work for me, but if I'm going to do this Spy vs. Spy chronicle concept justice, I'm going to have to do that work, aren't I?

#vtm #vampire the masquerade #meta #advice #second inqusition #chronicle: wild roses #chronicle: mancunium

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norel-ravenclaw · 1 year ago

Text

The Haunted Mansion

Ikepri AU - Part 1

Fandom: Ikemen Prince (otome game)

Featured characters: All 13 plus allusions to unknown new trio

Genre: Paranormal Tragic Romance

Rating: 14+

Word count: Part 1 - 3400

Description: Ikepri Haunted Mansion AU - The regional princes have had an awful time getting servants to stay at their grand manor. A young woman takes the job and quickly discovers why no one else applied. Despite the strange occurrences, she finds home and even love among them. But tragedy seeks to cut short the possibility of a happy ending. Be warned, this is a story for those who like a twisted sort of satisfaction.

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

An axe swung, and an axe dropped.

A staircase, and a duel he never wanted to be fought.

A lantern dropped onto wood that had rotted.

A poisoned bottle, long forgotten.

A window, and a grave for two.

A chandelier, and a dagger for two.

A noose taken down before being used again.

...

This is the woeful tale of the haunted mansion.

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

Once upon a time, there was a grand, old castle.

This place was built ages ago on the outskirts of a small town, at the edge of the hills where nothing else could be built.

Here, at the edge of town, the once small cemetery grew larger over the centuries, eventually encroaching on the property of this magnificent estate. And so, one knows they are nearing the place when they start seeing tombstones. Once you enter Crypt Avenue, you've just about arrived.

Ancient legends tell of the great Lords of this château. A warmonger, a cold prince, a powerful soothsayer, and a terrifying genius. Each met with mysterious and violent ends.

With the passing of the last of the Von Obsidian heirs, the estate went up for sale. It was purchased by the wealthiest young lord of the region, one Mssr. Rhodolite. Its management was eventually passed to his second son, one Chavalier Michel.

He was a tactical genius and a warrior. And he claimed the entire region for himself, uniting it under his rule. He became a prince, and the grounds were soaked with blood.

167 of the deaths were particularly brutal, so the rumours went. Assassins and politicians that never left the grounds of the palace, men and women alike. The size of the cemetery grew.

But the years had warped all of the rumours such that no one knew for certain what had transpired.

Either way, the place left a haunting feeling in all who entered it. As it did with a lovely young woman named Emma.

The woman came to apply as a maid, responding to an ad in the paper. She was the only one to reply.

When she arrived at the imposing, elegant estate, she was greeted by a strict yet equally elegant man with a pair of glasses and a snake skin coat.

"Welcome. You have come to serve the young lords of this estate? The Princes de Rhodolite are the half-blood sons of my former employer." With a bittersweet smile he said, "You could say my soul is bound to this place because of them."

He invited her into the entry hall, where she gazed in awe upon treasures of centuries past. A grand chandelier, austere paintings of extraordinary lifelike quality, chalices, and suits of armour.

The butler left to make tea, and in the silence, distant gusts of wind sounded like voices hushedly whispering in a labyrinth of halls.

Then through the silence broke a steady sound - the tap of a cane.

However, the man that emerged from around the corner had his hands full with the tea set.

Miss Emma's first impression of him was much like the feeling of meeting a friendly dog wagging its tail. He was blonde and handsome, his nearly goofy grin tempered by the sharpness in his azure eyes.

"Ah! So you've really come to join us here? I'm so happy! You're so lovely, mademoiselle! My name is Rio, and I will take care of everything you need!"

She blushed and chuckled at his eagerness. "I am excited to be here in such a beautiful place," she said with a smile.

Beaming, he guided her to a room like an indoor garden. The most beautiful of flowers bloomed all around. Little wolfsbane and and hemlock and creeping vines. They chatted over tea and the blond gentleman seemed more enamoured with every word she said.

Partway through their cups, a brunette peeked in the doorway. His smile made his golden eyes narrow charmingly.

"So someone finally applied for the job, hm? I hope you can keep all of the beasts in line around here. It won't be easy."

She marveled a little at his grace as he swept into the room, leaning his arms on a vacant chair. "Beasts, monsieur?"

"I'm Leon. My brothers and I have a bit of a reputation, let's say." He offered a smirk that did indeed invoke the image of a grinning lion.

"So I've heard. Well, I hope that my work will be able to allow you all the time to be happy," she replied shyly.

His eyes widened, and he broke out into hearty laughter. "Ya know, I have little doubt of that, miss." Ruffling her hair, he laughed again before leaving the room in just as much a whirlwind as he'd come in on.

Rio chuckled fondly. "Master Leon is a good guy. I think you'll like him."

She smiled. "I do too."

When her cup was empty, the attendant - Mr. Noir - appeared and walked her to her room. They passed countless paintings, all from different eras. All with such lifelike faces, despite the many artists and styles.

As they turned a corner, a pair of red eyes suddenly appeared in her path, drawing a scream.

"Whoops, sorry there."

Beside the burgundy-eyed man was another blond, in full disapproving pout. "Jin! Don't go scaring people like that!"

Jin smirked. "What, did I startle you too, Evie?"

The shorter blond sniffed and looked back to her. "And who is this, Sariel? Don't tell me you of all people found a paramour?"

Emma squeaked a little, flushing red. Jin and Mr. Noir's smiles turned beastly.

"Oho, you sly devil. You finally stole someone's heart rather than their soul, did you?"

The butler chuckled, answering simply, "This is Miss Emma. She will be working here from tomorrow."

"Ah, a new maid, hm? Well, if you ever get lost, or get in trouble with ghosts, or just lonely, feel free to come find me. I'll make you forget all your troubles by morning~"

"Oh hush, you deviant! Now then, you." The imperious blond stepped squarely in front of her. "I am Yves Kloss. And I expect the best quality of service. No slacking off, you understand me?"

"Y-yes, sir. I'll do my best."

And with that he nodded and marched away, his amused older brother following behind leaving a wink to the new girl.

Her mind, however was still caught up on what Jin had mentioned. About ghosts?

Mr. Noir continued on, and the air seemed to chill after leaving the boisterous men behind. The candle light seemed dimmer, the windows fewer. Her mind wandered to old stories.

Nervous by the silence and oppressive atmosphere, she asked, "Did the old lord Obsidian really kill his own family in the dining hall?"

"It has always been a lively place," was the man's enigmatic answer.

She shivered, confused and concerned by his evasive answer. "It feels like there is so much tragedy around here."

"Just so. It is said that 987 poor souls are bound to the place. Many were the victims of the first five owners - the warlord from the far east, the cold prince, the mysterious soothsayer, and the trampling beast."

Their footsteps echoed through the empty halls.

"However, the rest of the spirits on the property actually belong to townspeople from the cemetery just beyond. Ancient spells and curses drew their wandering, earth-bound spirits across the burying fields to this castle to wander and moan."

The dark haired man stopped, his violet eyes glinting. "Rumour has it that every night for centuries, a ball is held by the captive spirits in the many ballrooms and dining halls."

She stared at him, her heart pounding, thudding nearly painfully in her chest. "Haha, my what imaginative rumours."

The devilish attendant chuckled darkly. "They are most intriguing, no? Good evening, miss. Rest well."

He walked away, leaving her alone, facing the door to her room. When a voice came from her other side, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Aww, did that mean old snake scare you with his ghost stories? Come here, I'll comfort you."

Her heart racing, she looked to see a man with pale grey hair leaned casually against the wall a few doors down. He smirked, slinking closer and holding out a hand.

"I'm Nokto. You look like you need some air."

"That might be nice," she confessed, tentatively taking his hand.

He smiled a fox's grin, his ruby eyes glinting in satisfaction. Pulling her close, he hooked her arm in his.

He led her down the hall and around a few turns until they reached a broader pass through with tall windows.

"It will be so nice having a woman around. You'll take good care of us, won't you?"

Despite his airs, Miss Emma looked to him and immediately saw a man masking loneliness. And so she smiled.

"Of course I will."

Surprised by her earnest reply, his smile turned somewhat softer. Through only for a moment.

He suddenly froze in place, his entire demeanor turning to ice in an instant. "Licht..."

Following his gaze, she looked to see a man silhouetted in the window up ahead. He too had silvery grey hair; a sort of exhausted tension was etched in his posture.

Nokto dropped her hand and moved as though to block her view. "Don't you dare do anything to him, you hear me? Don't talk to him, don't ask him questions, don't try to get to know him. You'll only send him deeper into hell. If you do anything to hurt him, I'll make your life hell."

Shocked and unnerved by his sudden change and threat, she nodded and bolted to run away from him.

However, the labyrinthine halls betrayed her, and within moments, she was lost. Rounding a corner trying to go back the way she'd come, she collided with someone.

"Oh dearie me, what have we here? A fair maiden throwing herself into my bosom, hm?"

Startled, she looked up to see the gleaming golden eyes of yet another noble man. Though she could tell that his mischief was of a different sort than of the man she'd just fled.

"Never fear, missy. I'll protect you from everything that stalks these halls - brutal beasts, vengeful spirits, lurking assassins. You just let Clavis take care of you, pet~"

With every word, his grin became more like the Cheshire cat's. Offering a forced laugh, she tried to back away.

Another man's voice interrupted her plans to escape.

"You there. Maid."

She caught a glimpse of the troublemaker's expression twist before looking back. A handsome man with an imposing aura glared at her from behind a desk in an elegant office. He stood, moving swiftly to the doorway with a hand on the sword at his hip.

"You will not humour their mischief," the blond ordered menacingly. "If you dare get in my way or keep us from our duties, I will not hesitate to remove your traitorous self from this estate."

Her heart pounded in her chest. "I-I wouldn't dream of-"

A flash of silver was her only warning of the sword coming to rest at her throat. "See that you don't. Our responsibility to this region far outweighs the importance of a careless simpleton's life."

Dizzy with fear and confusion, the woman's patience finally snapped. "Now see here! I can understand that you don't want a silly girl running around flirting and causing problems. But you have to right to assume who I am or to threaten my life! I came here to serve you, and that is what I am going to do. Good night!"

With this bold declaration, she turned on her heel and marching down the hall. She did not see the stunned expression on the face of the man called the Brutal Beast, but she did hear the raucous laughter of his younger brother.

As she hurried away, the sound became distorted and echoey the further away she got.

Heart racing, hopelessly lost, confused and discouraged, she stopped in the middle of yet another hall. The portrait of a trio of haughty looking women seemed to mock her, Clavis' distant laughter nearly seeming to come from it.

A quiet voice finally cut through the shadows encircling her heart.

"Hey, you alright?"

She turned around to see a tall man with red hair and sympathetic green eyes.

"Was Chev being an ass?"

Unsure of how to reply, she remained silent, and he chuckled sardonically. "That's a yes. I guess all of them were, huh?"

He slowly approached her, as though she were a frightened wild rabbit. Smiling, he placing a large hand on the top of her head.

"It's okay, I'll protect you. Come on, I'll help ya calm down, okay?"

Tired and ready to surrender, she simply nodded, following him to his room. The long journey and emotions caught up with her fully, and she ignored all protocol to sit on the edge of his bizarrely diagonal bed. He plopped down beside her and heaving a sigh.

"Say, I'm Luke."

"I'm Emma."

"Come 'ere. You can lean on my shoulder if ya like." She did instantly, and he chuckled. "You're gonna be fine. You'll see. I get the feeling you belong here."

...

The first birdsong of the dawn cut through the silence enough to rouse her. Miss Emma stirred slightly, nearly succumbing to sleep again as she awoke in the most comfortable and safe coziness she'd ever felt.

But the sight of a shock of red hair and sensation of strong arms around her finished the job.

With a gasp, she tried to sneak out of his embrace, but the movement woke him.

"Mm? Oh, hi. You okay?" he asked groggily.

Still trying to get her bearings, she blinked. Concerned, he propped himself on an elbow.

"Don't worry, I would never hurt you."

His gentle reassurance sent her heart racing. "What? Oh, I didn't mean... Didn't think that... No, I-I'm sorry. I just didn't mean to fall asleep."

He smiled, the pale rays of dawn painting the moment like a sepia watercolour. "You're not scared of me? Good. 'Cus it was really nice to hold you. Like a soft teddy bear."

And now, the last of sleep fled her. "R-right. Well. I should get going. I can't be late for Mssr. Noir."

Jumping up, she rushed to the door, suddenly pausing. "Thanks for taking care of me last night."

"No problem," he smiled.

And she rushed to find her room. Miraculously, she did. When she opened the door to see her new quarters, the first rays of dawn lit it such that the place did not seem so dark and imposing. Ah yes, this could the be start of something wonderful, she was at last convinced.

She donned her maid uniform and reported to Mr. Noir. The drills of her training began at once.

As she served the lords their breakfast (with the exception of Prince Chevalier, who rarely deigned to rise before ten am) the devil-like gaze of her master kept her back rigid, every move of her hands scrutinized.

Seeing her tension, Leon threw her a subtle wink, which gave her the boost needed to endure the first day of grueling training.

She followed Mr. Noir around through his duties. Waxing the floors, washing the linens and silks, cleaning the endless windows, dusting and dusting and dusting and dusting.

When it was time for supper to be prepared, she stood politely to the side while Mr. Noir approached two of the cooks.

What she was not prepared for was for him to pull a whip from under his coat, cracking it just shy of their backs. Their scream of shock was accompanied by hers.

She clapped her hands over her mouth, watching in horrified fascination as her master faced them down.

"Supper preparation was to have begun fifteen minutes ago," said the smiling devil.

"Ah! Y-yes, Monsieur! We're terribly sorry!"

"We lost track of the hour. It won't happen again!"

They swallowed hard as he caressed the long leather line. "See that it doesn't. Or I'll have you cleaning crypts rather than dishes."

Terrified, the men bowed several times as they hurried towards the kitchens.

Mr. Noir glanced back towards Miss Emma, his violet eyes glinting with dangerous mirth. He slowly approached her, still toying with the whip in his hands. She froze, holding his gaze nervously as he brought the handle to tilt up her chin.

"You needn't look so frightened," he teased. "Simply remember that I favour obedience, hm?"

She nodded a little frantically, and he chuckled. "Good girl~"

And so she dutifully fulfilled her responsibilities until the clock's hands teased towards twelve.

Exhausted and overwhelmed, she plodded through the halls towards her quarters. But, through the haze of her tired mind, a strange sound reached her consciousness.

The faintest echoes of voices and music drew her from her thoughts.

Stopping in her tracks, she listened, and determined that yes, she most definitely heard a party happening. Not recalling any news of this, she moved towards the sound in curiosity.

Traversing the winding halls, at last, the grand doors of one of the small ballrooms came into view. By then, she could hear the melody of a familiar old song and smell the feast the many partygoers were enjoying.

Just as she reached for the doorknob, the tap of a cane made her look over her shoulder.

When a voice came from her other side, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Now what is a little rabbit doing wandering my mansion so late?"

Into the hall stepped a handsome young man with one blood red eye and an eyepatch over the other.

His smile was alluring, too intense, yet intriguing.

Seeing her alarm, he grinned. "Aww, did that mean old snake scare you with his ghost stories? You look frightened out of your mind."

Remembering her manners, she hastily curtsied to him. "So you are the owner of the manor? You must be the eldest son then. It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur."

His expression shifted into something unreadable as he stepped closer. Almost too close.

"Welcome, little bunny. I'm ever so pleased you made it. Come, let me show you around your new home."

She nodded and started behind him, entirely forgetting the party she had come to investigate due to the absolute silence.

The steady tap of his cane resounded through the halls as he guided a short tour of the wing. At last they reached a balcony at the end of the hall.

He led her to the railing to lean against it. Smiling all the while, he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

"I look forward to getting to know you better. As a token of goodwill from your new master, allow me to share with you my secret."

She held her breath in surprise as he removed his eyepatch. A beautiful blue added to his eclectic look. "Now that you know my secret, you can never leave~ Welcome home, my dear."

The sight of his gleaming blue eye began to swirl in her vision with the blood red. Gripping the railing in alarm, Emma suddenly felt her knees give out, just registering him catching her.

He smiled down at her as she passed out in his arms.

His step was lively as he carried her to her back to her room, laying her on the bed. He kissed her brow. "You belong to me now, little rabbit."

Smiling broadly, he left the room, locking it behind him.

The trampling beast was satisfied at long last.

To be continued.

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maccaronimassacre · 9 months ago

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What if you did a Golden Compass Bot with either Leon or Ethan? I'm curious as to what their Daemon's would be. 🤔

The Golden Compass was literally my favourite book growing up!!! Oddly enough it’s called The Northern Lights over here but hey same thing. I also have done both with a slightly lengthy explanation on reasoning.

For Ethan I was torn between a wolf and a deer, but ultimately I went with a deer specifically an elk. Chris and the other lords all underestimate Ethan throughout Village, referring to him as a civilian or merely a man even though he singlehandedly killed all four lords and destroyed a self proclaimed god. Elks are often viewed as docile and majestic creatures when they can in fact fuck you up big time. I mean have you seen the size of them??? Not to mention how quickly they can run combined with the fact that they grow literal spears from their head. Plus elks are very territorial and protective over their young and when they feel threatened they will not hesitate to charge at humans to protect their herd. They also rely on agility and speed to outrun predators much like Ethan’s perks in the mercenaries mode “assassination dash” and “lightning speed” which are exclusive to him. Deer are typically prey animals and often symbolise sacrifice but also renewal which fits with the themes of Village of Shadows and "Father's sacrifice". In Native American cultures, Elks are symbols of divine protection against evil like how Ethan protected Rose throughout SoR and continues to watch over her. Deer are also the only mammals that can regenerate an organ (their antlers) and scientists are conducting research into how deer stem cells could be used for humans to one day be able to regenerate their own tissue and limbs much like Ethan’s mould abilities.

Bonus thought: It would be pretty cool if after Ethan died in RE:7 and was resurrected by the mutamycete for his daemon to have also undergone some physical changes similar to Chronic Wasting Disease/zombie deer disease. Of course the BSAA would wave off these changes as Ethan’s trauma being projected onto his daemon, but it would be interesting if that were to be the first hint towards Ethan’s mouldiness.

Anyway here’s your first bot.

Ethan Winters x Reader

Snow continues to blanket the city as Ethan makes his way through the lively cobblestone streets. His elk daemon strides gracefully beside him with its head held high and branched antlers reaching out towards the sky. As they continue their journey, their footprints mingle with those of others and their daemons, gradually fading into the bustling rhythm of the city. “This should be the place.” Ethan murmurs just loud enough for his companion to hear when he sees the familiar avenue. The street is bathed in the warm glow of streetlights and cozy windows where he sees you up ahead, currently waiting by a building.

For Leon I went with a wolf as a subtle nod to the wolf in RE:4 though I was also thinking of a panther to be honest). I think Leon’s daemon was able to shapeshift and change forms up until the events of RE:2 where after the events of Raccoon City changed him so much that it ultimately led to its finalised form. Leon's character accurately represents both sides of a wolf. The first side representing their devotion to their pack aka allies and family as well as being social, loyal and dutiful in a similar style to Leon in RE:2, RE:2R, RE:4R and Death island. The second side is a more lone wolf kind, confident and marches to the beat of their on drum while being stand offish like RE:4 and Remake as well as Vendetta Leon. The idea that they are still the same at their core resonates strongly with Leon when both Ada and Krauser comment that he hasn't changed even after Raccoon City.

I think a wolf dog could be an interesting variation to his daemon as it would exaggerate his loyalty and self motivation towards completing his mission, like how he is viewed as the government's lapdog in RE:4R and Infinite Darkness.

And for the second bot

Vendetta!Leon x Reader

The whiskey slides down Leon’s throat with ease, not even with a passing grimace as he signals the bartender for another round. “Finally… A much needed vacation.” Leon muses to no one in particular besides his wolf daemon resting by his legs, its expression as grumpy and downcast as its counterpart. Unfortunately, Leon’s moment of solitude is shattered by the creak of the door swinging open, revealing the last person he expected to follow him all the way here. You. Annoyance flickers across Leon's features, echoed by a low growl from his wolf companion, as you approach him. He knows exactly what’s going to happen here.

#Didnt mean to ramble that much lmao #but I love his dark materials sm!!!#Thank you anon!#ethan winters #ethan winters x reader #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader

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overthinkingbelle · 2 years ago

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Aaron Tveit appreciation post.

Movie appearances/roles:

2008-Ghost Town (Anesthesiologist)

2010-Howl (Peter Orlovsky)

2011-Girl Walks into a Bar (Henry)

2012-Premium Rush (Kyle)

2012-Les Misérables (Enjolras)

2013-A Dream of Flying (The Young Man) Short film

2015- Big Sky (Pru)

2016-Undrafted (John "Maz" Mazzello)

2016-Better Off Single (Charlie) Previously named Stereotypically You

2017-Created Equal (Tommy Reilly)

2018-Out of Blue (Tony Silvero)

TV roles/appearances:

2009–2012 Gossip Girl (William "Tripp" van der Bilt III) 10 episodes

2010 Ugly Betty (Zachary Boule) Episode: "All the World's a Stage"

2010 Law & Order: Special Victims Unit(Jan Eyck) Episode: "Beef"

2011 Body of Proof (Skip) Episode: "Point of Origin"

2011 Law & Order: Special Victims Unit (Stevie Harris) Episode: "Personal Fouls"

2011 The Good Wife (Spencer Zschau) Episode: "Executive Order 13224"

2013–2015 Graceland (Mike Warren) Main cast; 38 episodes

2016 Grease Live (Danny Zuko) Television movie

2016 BrainDead (Gareth Ritter) Main cast; 13 episodes

2017–21 The Good Fight (Spencer Zschau) 3 episodes

2019 The Code (Matt Dobbins) 5 episodes

2020 One Royal Holiday (Prince James Gallant) Television movie

2021 American Horror Stories (Adam) Episode: "Rubber(wo) Man Part Two", (Jay Gantz) Episode: "Feral"

2021–present Schmigadoon! (Danny Bailey) Main cast; 6 episodes

Theatre works:

2003 Footloose (Garvin) Merry-Go-Round Playhouse [2003 Regional production]

2004 Rent (Steve, u/s Roger, Mark) US national tour [January – December 2004 National tour replacement]

2005–08 Hairspray (Link Larkin) US national tour [August 2005 – July 2006 First national tour replacement], Neil Simon Theatre [July 18, 2006 – January 18, 2007; April 1 – May 4, 2008 Broadway replacement]

2007 Calvin Berger (Matt) Barrington Stage Company: [July 3–14, 2007 Original regional production]

2007 The Three Musketeers (D'Artagnan) North Shore Music Theatre [August 21 – September 9, 2007 Regional production]

2008–10 Next to Normal (Gabe Goodman) Second Stage Theatre [January 16 – March 16,2008 Original Off-Broadway production], Arena Stage [November 21, 2008 – January 18, 2009 Original Washington, D.C. production], Booth Theatre [March 27, 2009 – January 3, 2010 Original Broadway production]

2008 Saved! (Dean) Playwrights Horizons

[May 10 – June 22, 2008 Original Off-Broadway production]

2008–09 Wicked (Fiyero Tigelaar) Gershwin Theatre [June 24 – November 9, 2008;

January 20 – March 9, 2009Broadway replacement]

2009–11 Catch Me If You Can (Frank Abagnale, Jr.) 5th Avenue Theatre [July 28 – August 16, 2009 Original Seattle production] Neil Simon Theatre: [March 11 – September 4, 2011 Original Broadway production]

2010 Rent (Roger Davis) Hollywood Bowl: [August 6–8, 2010 Limited engagement]

2014–15 Assassins (John Wilkes Booth) Menier Chocolate Factory: [November 21, 2014 – February 8, 2015 Off-West End revival]

2017Company (Robert) Barrington Stage Company: [August 10 – September 10, 2017 Regional revival]

2018–22; 2023 Moulin Rouge!(Christian) Emerson Colonial Theatre: [July 10 – August 19, 2018 Original Boston production] Al Hirschfeld Theatre: [June 28, 2019 – March 11, 2020, September 24, 2021 – May 8, 2022, January 17 – April 9, 2023 Original Broadway production; paused due to COVID-19 , Won 2020 Tony Award for Best Actor in a Musical, Returning for limited engagement in 2023]

Feb. 9-May 12, 2023 Sweeney Todd (title role) Broadway revival, Lunt-Fontanne Theater (replacement)

Source: Wikipedia

#aaron tveit #musical #les miserables #broadway #graceland #brain dead #next to normal #catch me if you can #hairspray #wicked #moulin rouge #rent #grease #gossip girl

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evermoredeluxe · 11 months ago

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https://www.washingtonpost.com/technology/2024/02/06/taylor-swift-jet-tracking-legal-threat/

By Drew Harwell

Taylor Swift’s attorneys have threatened legal action against a Florida college student who runs social media accounts tracking the flights of her and other celebrities’ private jets.

Jack Sweeney, a junior at the University of Central Florida, has for years run accounts that log the takeoffs and landings of planes and helicopters owned by hundreds of billionaires, politicians, Russian oligarchs and other public figures, along with estimates of their planet-warming emissions. The accounts use publicly available data from the Federal Aviation Administration and volunteer hobbyists who can track the aircraft via the signals they broadcast.

Sweeney’s accounts fueled a free-speech debate in late 2022 when X, formerly Twitter, banned Sweeney for sharing what the platform’s owner, Elon Musk, said were his “assassination coordinates.” The accounts don’t say who travels on the aircraft or where they go once the planes land.

In December, Swift’s attorney at the Washington law firm Venable wrote Sweeney a cease-and-desist letter saying Swift would “have no choice but to pursue any and all legal remedies” if he did not stop his “stalking and harassing behavior.”

Sweeney’s accounts had caused Swift and her family “direct and irreparable harm, as well as emotional and physical distress,” and had heightened her “constant state of fear for her personal safety,” the lawyer, Katie Wright Morrone, wrote, according to a copy of the letter sent to the home of Sweeney’s parents. Sweeney shared the letter with The Washington Post.

“While this may be a game to you, or an avenue that you hope will earn you wealth or fame, it is a life-or-death matter for our Client,” Morrone wrote. She added that there is “no legitimate interest in or public need for this information, other than to stalk, harass, and exert dominion and control.”

The pop star has routinely faced stalkers showing up outside her homes, Morrone wrote, and one man now faces stalking and harassment charges after being arrested last month outside her townhouse in Manhattan.

Asked whether Swift’s representatives knew of any evidence that stalkers had used the jet-tracking accounts, Tree Paine, a spokeswoman for Swift, said, “We cannot comment on any ongoing police investigation but can confirm the timing of stalkers suggests a connection. His posts tell you exactly when and where she would be.”

Sweeney, 21, told The Post he saw the letter as an attempt to scare him away from sharing public data. The accounts offer only an incomplete sketch of which cities Swift might currently be in, similar to the public schedules for her concerts or any NFL games she might attend, he said. And the letters, he added, were sent to him at a time when she faced criticism over her flights’ environmental impact.

“This information is already out there,” he said. “Her team thinks they can control the world.”

Private-jet flights are routinely criticized for their “disproportionately high” impact on climate change, and Sweeney’s accounts have often been used to name and shame their most famous passengers. In 2022, the accounts were cited in an analysis that estimated Swift was the “biggest celebrity [carbon dioxide] polluter” of the year.

Her publicist told The Post then that the analysis was flawed because her jet was often loaned out to other people. Paine told The Post on Monday that Swift bought more than double the “carbon credits” needed to offset her travel before her recent tour kicked off.

Around the time of the December letter, Facebook and Instagram disabled the accounts Sweeney had created to track Swift’s air travel, saying they broke the platforms’ privacy rules, he said. He began posting those updates onto accounts on Facebook and Instagram that he uses to log the travel of planes used by a range of stars, called Celeb Jets. Then, last month, Morrone sent a second letter saying his posts about Swift’s aircraft constituted “harassing conduct.”

The letters included the names of three other Venable attorneys experienced in litigation, including one who says on LinkedIn that she is the founding member of the firm’s “Digital Crisis Planning & Response client solution” and helps “high-profile individuals” manage crises of varying magnitude, such as “celebrity disgrace events.”

Morrone did not respond to requests for comment. Meta, which owns Facebook and Instagram, also did not respond.

Planes in the sky regularly broadcast their locations via transponders so air traffic controllers and other pilots can see where they’re going. Anyone on the ground can pick up those signals using a cheap device, known as an ADS-B receiver, that is widely sold online.

The FAA allows plane owners to request their flights be hidden in the federal data that undergirds popular consumer flight-tracking websites, such as FlightAware. Swift’s jet appears to be blocked through such a request.

But many aviation hobbyists feed their raw data into independent websites, such as ADS-B Exchange, that those FAA requests do not cover. Criminal investigators, journalists and researchers have used those sites to look up historical flight paths or see who’s flying overhead.

Swift, Time magazine’s 2023 “person of the year,” made history Sunday as the only musician to win four best-album Grammy Awards, and her every movement is closely watched by paparazzi and superfans. Her “Eras Tour” last year was credited with boosting the local economies of every city she stopped in; one study cited by The Post estimated that “Swifties” spent about $93 million per show.

Her travel plans have drawn increased attention in recent weeks as she’s flown to watch her boyfriend, Travis Kelce, play for the Kansas City Chiefs, including from conservatives who have seized on the trips to criticize her.

They have also become a key point of interest for her fans, especially because her upcoming concert in Tokyo is just hours before Kelce’s scheduled Super Bowl appearance on Sunday in Las Vegas. Even Japan’s embassy in Washington recognized the public’s interest, posting on X last week, “Despite the 12-hour flight and 17-hour time difference, the Embassy can confidently Speak Now to say that … she should comfortably arrive” on time.

Sweeney’s accounts have in recent months tracked two jets that were owned by Nashville-based companies and registered to be operated by a Swift company called Firefly Entertainment, according to FAA documents. They do not track who travels on the planes or any other chartered flights.

Swift’s spokeswoman told The Post that “there is only one plane.” One of the planes previously tracked by Sweeney’s accounts, a Dassault Falcon 900, was marked in FAA records last week as being transferred to a real estate company. Each jet sells for about $25 million, according to brokerage estimates cited last month by The Post.

After X banned him and his accounts in December 2022, Sweeney opened new Facebook and Instagram accounts for Swift, former president Donald Trump, Amazon founder Jeff Bezos, reality star Kim Kardashian and Meta chief Mark Zuckerberg, among others. All of those accounts except for Swift’s remain online — including the accounts for Zuckerberg, who runs both sites. (Bezos owns The Washington Post.)

Sweeney continues to post Swift jet updates to other platforms, including Bluesky, Mastodon and Telegram. To abide by X’s rule against real-time location tracking, he also created accounts that post Musk and Swift’s flight updates with a 24-hour delay.

The December letter from Swift’s attorney states that Sweeney’s actions are “in violation of several state laws” but does not specify them. The letter does, however, cite nine anonymous Instagram comments saying the account is “scary,” “pathetic,” “weird,” invasive” and “dangerous” “stalker behavior.”

The letter says Sweeney is “notorious for disregarding the personal safety of others in exchange for public attention and/or requests for financial gain” and cites a message he sent to Musk in 2021, during which he countered Musk’s $5,000 offer to delete the Musk-jet account with a suggestion of $50,000, as first reported by the now-defunct tech blog Protocol. Sweeney said no money was ever exchanged.

After receiving the letters, Sweeney said he asked for help from the Electronic Frontier Foundation, a digital rights group, which sent his request to a list of attorneys. James Slater, a Florida lawyer who specializes in First Amendment and internet speech issues, responded on Sweeney’s behalf to the Venable letter.

Slater wrote that Morrone had not identified any legal claim, that the jet information posed “no threat” to Swift’s safety, and that Sweeney’s account had “engaged in protected speech that does not violate any of Ms. Swift’s legal rights,” according to a copy reviewed by The Post. Slater said he has yet to receive a response.

In an interview, Slater said he thought the Swift attorney’s letters were “hyperbolic and unfounded” and sent in hopes that Sweeney would “just delete everything and do what they said.”

“This isn’t about putting a GPS tracker on someone and invading their privacy. It’s using public information to track the jet of a public figure,” he said. “This is their means to try to quash a PR issue and bully my client to have the bad coverage die down.”

#just to have it on here #jet #jack sweeney #arshia talks

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catgirltoofies · 8 months ago

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i think I've realized a problem in a lot of crafting mechanics.

to start, every game with a crafting mechanic has one of two types, in terms of gear. the first type is the Minecraft, where the equipment you craft has durability which depletes with time or use. the second type doesn't have an archetypal game, but it's in such things as atelier and Diablo 3; where the equipment you craft *doesn't* have durability and instead acts as a semi-permanent upgrade that later gets replaced by something better.

now, to the issue I've noticed; the former style (durability) tends to be very simplistic, as you're meant to be constantly replacing your tools and equipment as the old ones break. the latter, as semi-permanent upgrades, need to feel somewhat unique, so they tend to have lots of little intricacies. do you see the problem yet? the former system, if given intricacies like unique sidegrade materials, would be a trillion times more interesting! and this is proven! look at Minecraft tool mods, such as tinkers construct, tetra, and silent gear. every material has something that makes it special, and feel different to every other material. and then the value is completely broken because the new tools from those mods aren't replaceable anymore, they don't break unless you lose them, you can just repair them using the same (or, in sgear, similar) material.

to clarify the problem: simplistic systems such as Minecraft offer no real uniqueness to progression; each new tool is just a flat upgrade to the last; functionally, a diamond pickaxe and a wooden pickaxe do the same thing, the diamond pickaxe is just faster, more durable, and more enchantable. complex systems have many more interesting mechanics and avenues of customization and experimentation, but once you have a best tool, there's no longer any incentive to interact with the crafting system (outside of consumables)

anyways. solution is to bring back assassin's creed revelations' bomb crafting so the player is incentivized to experiment with different combinations on a consumable so they can keep crafting and it stays interesting (until you find the large blood bombs and stop making anything else)

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madefate · 8 months ago

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When Blitz had gone after Striker on his own, Moxxie and Millie had both been worried until they finally heard from him: when he called to get them to alert the hospital. Moxxie had made sure the hospital knew that he was coming in with His Highness, and he'd been able to help Blitz get into his room when he was out of surgery. He'd tried to convince him to let him take him with him when he left, but Blitz had been determined to stay, to keep watch. Instead, he and Millie had contacted Octavia, to make sure that she didn't find out what had happened from the news or from some reporter calling to try to get some sort of reaction from her or her mom, which was probably one of the most important things they'd done during this whole ordeal. Now, even after Blitz has showered and changed, Moxxie's determined to make him get some sleep, even if it's just a couple of hours. "We can keep an eye on His Highness, Blitz," Moxxie says, defaulting to his name instead of the usual 'sir,' to show that he's worried. "You have a team for a reason, and you can't keep an eye on him if you're dead on your feet," he points out. "Get some sleep, sir; we'll let you know if anything changes." / @helldustedstories

If he had to guess, Blitz would put it at two days since Stolas had gotten out of surgery - he's still vague on the time that passed while he was waiting, dissociating the endless hours looking at the same nondescript white walls - and he's managed to at least grab a quick shower in one of the bathrooms, if only to finally get the blood off of himself. He'd taken the opportunity to assess himself, quietly popping his shoulder back in place, apparently.

But when he hasn't been in the room with Stolas, he's been just outside it, a constant presence, vigilant of every possible avenue for an ambush. When he's not occupying the room or haunting the hallway, he just feels - ... lost.

He's expecting Moxxie when he gets back to the hallway - as much as Blitz will tell him and Millie to stay the fuck away lest they get caught up in Striker's sights again, he knows them too well. Avoiding them ( or, rather, their concern ) would only work for a short amount of borrowed time. So, when Moxxie catches him, Blitz stops and listens.

His initial instinct is to argue, because of course it is. There's a hundred reasons to stay here himself, isn't there ? Obviously there's a rogue assassin on the loose that's been a pain in his side for too fucking long - and it's not as if Blitz is a stranger to sleeplessness. Especially when the alternative - a chill rolls down his spine at the thought of letting the hospital out of his sight.

❝ I - ❞ apparently, the warm water and actual change of clothes has worn out his voice. That, or the hours are catching up with him. Blitz blinks, mulling it over. Millie's had his number from the get go - probably Moxxie, too, even if he hadn't said anything until now. He knows that they're capable. That's why he hired them - that's why he trusts them.

❝ - Here's the rundown, ❞ he says firmly, taking Moxxie by the shoulder. ❝ I dunno if Stolas remembers telling me, but he says it was his wife who hired Striker. That means it's personal, and it's probably not over. I don't want you or Millie to get caught up in this either, and I don't trust the staff here to know what they're doing. If you need to sleep, take turns, and watch the exits. I'm not - I'm not letting this shithead fuck with us anymore, okay ? If you need to run, get Stolas and get yourselves out of here. Call me the second something happens. ❞

Honestly, it's only the thought of getting home to Loona, even if for a night, and gathering her up in his arms, appreciating the fact that she's alive and whole and well. He can reassure her, check on her - exist with her.

❝ And remind him that he can call me if he needs me. ❞ Blitz pauses for a moment, then moves his hand to ruffle through Moxxie's hair, his expression softening with genuine gratitude - genuine affection. ❝ I know I can count on you, Moxx. I'll be back in the morning. ❞

#hh tw #( ic. )#( answered. )#( blitz. )#helldustedstories #au. and i'm so ready to wake up now #god i cannot emphasize enough how much he LOVES moxxie #how much he loves M&M - that's his family !!! he's TERRIFIED to leave them alone !!!

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moneeb0930 · 8 months ago

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➡THE FIRST AFRICAN-AMERICAN TO BECOME A NOTED FASHION DESIGNER

Ann Cole Lowe (December 14, 1898 – February 25, 1981) was the first African American to become a noted fashion designer. Lowe's one-of-a-kind designs were a favorite among high society matrons from the 1920s to the 1960s. She was best known for designing the ivory silk taffeta wedding dress worn by Jacqueline Bouvier when she married John F. Kennedy in 1953.

In 1917, Lowe and her son moved to New York City, where she enrolled at S.T. Taylor Design School. As the school was segregated, Lowe was required to attend classes in a room alone. However, segregation did not stop her, and she still managed to rise above her peers in school. Her work was often shown to her white peers in recognition of her outstanding artistry, and she was eligible for graduation after attending school for only half a year. After graduating in 1919, Lowe and her son moved to Tampa, Florida.

The following year, she opened her first dress salon. The salon catered to members of high society and quickly became a success. Having saved $20,000 from her earnings, Lowe returned to New York City in 1928. During the 1950's and 1960's, she worked on commission for stores such as Henri Bendel, Montaldo's, I. Magnin, Chez Sonia, Neiman Marcus, and Saks Fifth Avenue. In 1946, she designed the dress that Olivia de Havilland wore to accept the Academy Award for Best Actress for To Each His Own, although the name on the dress was Sonia Rosenberg.

As she was not getting credit for her work, Lowe and her son opened a second salon, Ann Lowe's Gowns, in New York City on Lexington Avenue in 1950. Her one-of-a-kind designs made from the finest fabrics were an immediate success and attracted many wealthy, high society clients. Design elements for which she was known include fine handwork, signature flowers, and trapunto technique. Her signature designs are what helped her eventually become recognized for her work. In 1964, the Saturday Evening Post later called Lowe "society's best kept secret" and in 1966, Ebony magazine referred to her as "The Dean of American Designers. Throughout her career, Lowe was known for being highly selective in choosing her clientele.

In 1953, Janet Lee Auchincloss hired Lowe to design a wedding dress for her daughter, the future First Lady Jacqueline Bouvier, and the dresses for her bridal attendants for her September wedding to then-Senator John F. Kennedy. Auchincloss also chose Lowe to design her own wedding dress for her marriage to Hugh D. Auchincloss in 1942. While the Bouvier-Kennedy wedding was a highly publicized event, Lowe did not receive public credit for her work until after the assassination of John F. Kennedy.

Throughout her career, Lowe continued to work for wealthy clientele who often talked her out of charging hundreds of dollars for her designs. After paying her staff, she often failed to make a profit on her designs. Lowe later admitted that at the height of her career, she was virtually broke. In 1961 she received the Couturier of the Year award but in 1962, she lost her salon in New York City after failing to pay taxes. That same year, her right eye was removed due to glaucoma. While she was recuperating, an anonymous friend paid Lowe's debts which enabled her to work again. In 1963 she declared bankruptcy. Soon after, she developed a cataract in her left eye; surgery saved her eye. In 1968, she opened a new store, Ann Lowe Originals, on Madison Avenue. She retired in 1972.

➡LEGACY

A collection of five of Ann Lowe's designs are held at the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Three are on display at the Smithsonian Institution's National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington, DC. Several others were included in an exhibition on black fashion at the Museum at the Fashion Institute of Technology in Manhattan in December 2016.

A children's book, Fancy Party Gowns: The Story of Ann Cole Lowe written by Deborah Blumenthal was published in 2017. Author Piper Huguley wrote a historical fiction novel, By Design: the story of Ann Lowe, Society's Secret Fashion Designer, about Lowe's life.

Her work has been admired by the designer Christian Dior, as well as the famous costumer Edith Head.

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thepayloadisgay · 1 year ago

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re-wired

Shimadacest / Genzo

M (so far)

Ch 1/??

Tags (so far): canon divergence, angst and feels, omnics, implied alcoholism, masturbation

Hanzo's found himself in Budapest, one of the few places in the world where omnics and humans co-exist in something like normality. And maybe it's like a home now. Worth seeping off these bones as he tries to form the word exist, to live. Dodging, picking off assassins, deafening himself to the news of his clan. Maybe ignorance is bliss. Different names smother Hanzo, numbers his age. But he still knows what he sees when he looks in the mirror. You're not here. Rumblings in the world of omnics start to break the seams of not just Budapest, but Europe, the world. New faces, new names. And then for Hanzo, he can't quite shift this shadow he's sure is an assassin. Why is he taking so long? Why won't he just take the hit and kill him? Maybe it's a fantasy, and he's dreaming demise again. Maybe.

Read below the cut, or on AO3 here. Enjoy!!

He’d been here too long, it was almost home.

But home was nothing, now.

A hollow word in passing, part of a goodbye when leaving behind another face Hanzo will never see again, won’t remember. For those he will, home isn’t a word for them. Even if it’s false.

Strangers are the comfort, familiarity not.

Had anything ever really changed?

The Danube flows beneath. A mirror of colour. Rippling neons, stars almost lost. Forgotten. The colours mush as a tour boat splits the water two, music and laughter pounding the surface, echoing under the bridge where Hanzo stands, forearms bare. Cold on stone, still and sore.

It was sunset when he stopped here, bag of groceries tucked between feet, sparse with too many things he’d forgotten, denied.

It’s night now as he watches the Danube, the burst of people along its banks, tourists spilling onto boats, into restaurants, out of Buda and back into Pest, the roads rumbling as the bars open wide, the clubs dialled to ten.

He moved between the sides of the Danube, never staying with the same four walls too long. From the cobbled streets, high hills near the castle in a cramped room, barely space to stretch; the old communist blocks by the blistered edges, structured, rigid, peace. To the noise, vibrant colliding culture of the centre at the crown of the Andrássy Avenue, woken at dawn by the bells of the basilica.

Just another place bruised in his penance, a witness to his shame.

One day there won’t be anywhere left that won’t know.

Where will he go then?

His watch buzzes midnight, a reminder of routine. To ground. But right now, all it reminds him is that he can’t feel his arms, numb and cold, still stuck to stone as he listens to the water, wondering what it feels like below.

——

The longest he’d been in one place for months. A hostel off of Múzeum körút. Behind a heavy wrought iron gate between a second hand bookstore, and another. Down an alley, path uneven, pages of an old book torn, scattered, its spine split in the gutter.

Hanzo inputs the code, eyes away, long hair a mask from the cameras above, behind, probably below. Ritual more than anything. His face is already all over this city, continent, to those that cared.

Through a doorway painted blue, carvings dying gold. Top floor, but (nearly) always the stairs. Winding and wide. Patterned stone, wrought iron rails in beauty shaped like the tails of his dragons, the arc of his bow.

First two floors the bookstore. The rest are homes, rooms and flats for the hostel, a hotel he knows is half something else. Some of the flats are empty. One abandoned part-way through refurbishment. One destroyed, boarded off (panels placed back carefully every time by each visitor. He’s not the only one). There’s another that one of the residents simply said “nem” when she first saw Hanzo look at its locked door, scratched symbols, words, too many unintelligible in several languages.

So he listened.

As always at this time, she was leaning out of one of the windows on floor four, throwing seed to the pigeons below, the courtyard a cacophony of their coos.

“Late,” she says, heavy accent. Fall of brown hair braided, striped grey. One green eye, the other blind.

Hanzo pulls out a bag of seed, one of two, and hands it to her outstretched palm. “Took a walk,” he says back in slow Hungarian. Everytime he attempts the language, he can see her smile something. He doesn’t know if it's mockery, amusement, or appreciation.

“Take a walk after, next time.”

“Hm.”

He watches her sit back on the stool at the window, cross her legs and scatter a handful of seeds to below.

“Not much.” Hanzo listens, Hanzo watches. “Maria took the kids for the weekend. Jan is leaving for holiday in the morning. Six days. Stephan’s working an extra shift tonight. Looked like he hadn’t slept since the last. Two new guests at the hostel. One’s an omnic.”

“Short term?”

She shrugs. “Omnic five days. The other just a night. But wants to keep it open if needed.”

Hanzo writes to memory everything she says, hearing the gears, wheels of the lift click into motion as it descends down to ground.

“Hotel is come and go as always.”

“How many?”

“Lots. You want a tally? That’s extra.”

Hanzo frowns, a look near lost beneath the heavy fall of his hair.

“Anyone look-”

“Suspicious? Yes. Out of place? No.”

The lift stops, opening at ground.

“Anything else?” he asks, picking his bag from between his feet.

“I left some cabbage rolls in your fridge.”

The lift starts to ascend, and Hanzo tightens the grip on his bag. “Thank you,” he stutters, taking the last flights of steps two at a time.

——

Two old keys unlock the old heavy door. Hanzo pays extra to service the small flat himself, but Mariann owns the hostel, and does what she does after the trust of bird seed and her alarm at the contents of his grocery shopping.

It’s split into kitchen and room with a divider. Old, ornate, teakwood. Some of the design weathered from touch, time. But she never ventures past the three cabinets that make the kitchen. Rarely the fridge.

Shoes off, he sets the bag on the counter. Bare. Empties it quick, pushing the bag of seed to the side for later. Bread, away. Eggs. Fruit. More lentils. Alcohol. Chocolate.

He opens the fridge, the only light in the room. Some condiments. Expired milk replaced with fresh. And a note, stuck to the top of the tupperware of cabbage rolls. Mariann’s scrawl.

Tilly’s got another job for you. 10am. Nehru part.

He closes the door. Darkness, again.

Tapping his watch (1:33am), he sets the reminder alongside his regular alarm for dawn, sheds his coat, takes a banana, slice of bread, bottle of alcohol to bed and nothing.

(but there’s always a pause before the small wooden sparrow he’d carved in Bali, years, years ago. always perched beside a blunted shard of sword, something green. sometimes he reaches out to touch the sparrow

but he can’t

can’t)

——

“Again!”

Genji taps his arm, excited, as he begs Hanzo to show him the trick with the sword, the coin, Hanzo’s patience wearing thin as his younger brother tugs on his sleeve, clambering for attention-

“Here again?”

Genji slides a glass over wood, the bartop sticky, a mosaic of his brother’s prints, wondering how many others overlap, smudging away Hanzo’s, gnawing at the Genji he knows, becoming the Genji they do-

“Again?”

Desperation, Hanzo’s hand slams to the wall beside his brother’s head, hair shorter, greener. Smells sweet and he inhales. Anticipation in Genji’s eyes as he looks up-

“Again-”

A beg, as he pulls Hanzo’s blade further to his chest. Another to his gut. Spread and wept and a maw of no return. Hanzo wants to look up. He hears a smile, but he’d see nothing but desecration. Hears beauty, loves pain. Licks blood, kisses the grave-

——

Hanzo snaps awake, a fist of sheets in his palm, dented with his nails, near torn. Back damp with sweat, hair awry, stuck to skin and sheets, lining the wave of his dragon.

He runs a hand through his hair, staring at the other side of the bed expecting blood and brutal. (maybe a desperation that it might be you there, whole and love, just for me) Two pillows. Untouched. Empty.

Checks his hands.

Reaches out to make sure.

It’s slow as he hauls himself up, finding the hair tie he’d forgotten. But it’s abandoned again when he sees the slither of the curtain move by the window, ajar.

There’s no open windows here unless he’s awake, a guard. It’s small. Barely enough for a hand, the curtain moving in dance as the breeze weaves into the stuffy room, creeping over Hanzo’s sticky skin.

For too long he just stares, a lock of hair tickling against his lips, uncaring.

Impossible. He’s so careful, so-

The curtains flick, light licking the glass on his bedside table, smudged with fingers, lips; the half empty bottle, obscuring the empty one behind.

Adrenaline wanes. Gut sinks. Head rings.

A swallow, and he unsticks from bed, body lead. Two fingers push close the window, keeping to shadow, curtain exhaling, and stop.

He smooths the fabric, touch lingering as if he’s trying to find something, feel something.

Nothing.

He rolls a shoulder, and peels off his shirt, draping it over the back of the chair. When he notices the small wooden sparrow on its side, beak touching the shard of his sword.

There’s no hesitation this time when Hanzo reaches out, picks it up to right the wrong, sitting it back in ceremony.

5:16 am

The basilica will ring soon at six. As will his alarm. There’s no point in bed anymore. All that’s left is sheets that need washed, dreams given, taken, and an empty space you won’t fill.

He checks the window again. Runs his hand over the locks on the door. Touches the two tiles beside the fridge and then steps into the bathroom, avoiding the mirror as he sheds the rest of his clothes, turning the shower to max.

The light from the room is enough as he steps inside, a shaky inhale as the water burns his skin, the steam clouding vision, muggy air.

Palm to wet wall (Hanzo’s hand slams to the wall beside his brother’s head) he breathes deep, long (Smells sweet and he inhales) forehead smudging tiles, hand smearing chest (Anticipation in Genji’s eyes as he looks up-) and Hanzo looks down, sliding his wet hand over wet cock-

(Licks blood, kisses the grave-)

-wondering if he’ll suffocate or burn, first.

——

Too early.

Hanzo wanders the quiet streets near the park, window shopping mindlessly. Catching his reflection more than wanted. He’s dressed well today. He always is.

But over the months, years, he’s been slipping. Living as a nomad from room to face to place, he was sure a part of him had shed everywhere he’d left behind. Something in him wearing thin he didn’t want to know. Just felt.

He stares a little longer at a shop window selling leather goods, stretching his fingers against his own gloves, old and worn and a shape of his own.

Hair pulled back in a bun, he runs a hand along one side, his undercut growing out too long, pinched grey. The other side he’d let grow long ago, the shorter lengths long enough to catch in his ponytail now. Usually.

He keeps the beard. Sometimes shaving when moving cities, countries, to hide. It’s mostly too much of a comfort, now. Too bare without.

Too long he’s looked, and turns away.

09:37 and he has a coffee. Black. Three sugars.

09:49 and he’s sitting on a bench in Nehru Part, close to the edge of the Danube. And he waits.

Watches the way the wind rustles the leaves on the trees above, hushing the city’s sound to their own, shedding the first leaves before the yawn of Autumn, side to side in a dance, before falling at Hanzo’s feet.

Feels the breeze on his skin. Nothing like earlier in his room. An alarm, unexpected. This might be something like comfort, pulling the shorter strands of hair from his bun, picking up the leaves at his feet, pulling the scent of pastries at his back, the scatter of voices ahead. No words, just noise.

He takes a drink of his coffee, counting another day.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Hanzo takes another drink of his coffee as he ignores Tilly. As she takes a seat at his side, always a little too close. It’s just a bit of fun for her, exploring the intricacies of human’s social bounds, their affection, fun. And with Hanzo, if he has any of the above.

Hanzo just recrosses his legs, foot pointing in the opposite direction.

“What’s the job?”

“I hear cucumbers help for those dark eyebags,” she says, casual. Two of her forehead LEDs are broken, the lilac, sometimes turquoise, brighter on her left side. Which Hanzo also notices that she uses more, moves more, than her right.

“Any other top ten magazine quips for me this morning?”

Tilly laughs, the two elongated sides of her head plate that remind Hanzo of wings, lighting up with the trill of her voice. “As many as you want.”

Hanzo inhales slow. Steady. “Oh, good.” Takes another sip.

“Got you another observe and report at Blood and Chrome tonight. Maybe protect if shit goes down. They liked you last time.” Tilly sits chin on palm as she waits for Hanzo’s reply, knowing his answer already. Money good. Low risk. Trusted.

“Bartend again?”

“Yup.”

A last, long drink of his coffee. Hanzo stares at the university of technology and economics across the river, sunlight picking out the details on stone, the pillars, the gold and mosaic on its red roof. Age and beauty, stories worn, time crumbled. He wants to sketch it every time he sees it, despite never having drawn a single thing before. He’s gotten as far as purchasing a sketch book, pencils. Next time.

“Send me the details.”

“Thanks, Han.”

“Thanks, Han.” Genji always talked with touch as well as tongue. Hands busy forming the words, contact, their meaning. It became a second language in public. A third, in private.

“Hanzo.” He doesn’t look at her. A voice firm, but not unkind. A way she’s heard many times before, and will hear many times again.

“Wish I could stay, but I got more messages to deliver,” she says, climbing over the back of the bench. “Get some sleep Han.” A quiet ‘Hmph’ “ Eat Mar’s stuffed cabbages at least.”

“Goodbye, Tilly.”

“Szia.”

He sits for a while, coffee cup empty, fingers cold. The trees stretch, the Danube sighs. Sun quiets behind clouds.

And from the small bag in his coat pocket, Hanzo throws a handful of bird seed to the ground, watching pigeons, great tits, a sparrow swoop down, and dance at his feet.

——

It had taken months. Trial and error with several prototypes, but Hanzo had managed (with some help) to have his own collapsible bow, without compromising performance or integrity. A labour of love.

Compact enough to fit in a bag. The arrows were the problem. One couldn’t simply split them in two, assemble and fire like he could his bow with a touch, flick, done.

Luckily few people cared what others carried here. Pistols on hip. Rifles on back. Swords in sheaths. As long as you had your permit, of course.

“Just a bow, arrows?” asks the omnic. Mariann had said her name was Tilly. Seven LEDs on her forehead. Three eye slits, not two. It looked like the third she’d carved herself. “No sword? You look like a sword guy.”

“Bow, and arrows.” “Alright alright. I’ll get one done.” “I’ll need a few, with different names.” “That’ll cost ya.” Hanzo sets down a stack of Euros, sinking back against the metal dresser, the bass of the club below stuck in his throat. “Help yourself.”

A city of humans, omnics, side by tentative side. Many still walked on tiptoes, ready to flee. Some settled to heels, shoulders dropped, calling Budapest home.

A city now almost its own state, rolling its own laws, walls, declaring stability for omnics (safety was arguable), work, if they proved themselves (we don’t talk about what happened if they didn’t).

Fast becoming a multicultural epicentre like London, it was expanding out, and up. But also, down.

And down, was where Hanzo walked. Lived. Worked.

Crime thrived here. A congregation of humans and omnics brushing side by side, co-existing but wanting to live, bred a rich, vibrant underworld that lived seen, unseen. World, within world. And even if it felt like the city was holding its breath, it seemed to work.

It wasn’t lost on Hanzo that he’d turned his back on his family, their legacy, ways-

-only to fall right back in, just a different shade, name.

At least here, he felt like he was helping people (didn’t you try back home too?), useful and giving back (funny what memories we pick and choose).

Mostly, though, he was doing it to survive. What money he’d taken from his family dwindling, and it was a reliable way to keep an ear to the ground, connected. Safe, within harm.

And Hanzo knew the world. How to move. Talk. When to run, when to bleed.

Tonight, he was back at Blood and Chrome, one of the less mainstream mixed clubs for humans and omnics (there were segregated clubs, of course. The omnics only clubs never staying in one place too long, rotating locations, word of mouth, last minute). Fewer tourists, less desirable location away from the Danube, tucked underground - but it mattered in almost every other way in the world he walked.

Here you find people you want, people you don’t. People you won’t anywhere else. Money changes hands more than some banks. Names change when you walk through the door. Faces forgotten when you walk back out.

The drinks are good, the music a mix of rock, metal, EDM depending on room, night, with places to dance, talk, and doors to close for things you don’t want anyone to see. All tucked underground in an old metro station, decommissioned and reclaimed.

The club is built around its exposed bones, dented with years of nights like this. Graffiti immortalising Budapest’s metamorphosis to today. LEDs lining floors, walls, hanging from exposed beams and concrete, under tables, part of chairs. Murals spread over walls, some on ceilings. There’s colour everywhere, and it changes when you’re not looking. When you forget, and are dragged back weeks later for a job you don’t want.

It stinks of alcohol. Sweat. Metal. Oil.

It tastes of whatever you want.

And it sounds busy, voices indistinguishable between the music as Hanzo slips in through the back, the omnic bouncer stepping aside, expecting him. It’s a Friday, so not unusual. He’s working the room they call The Boiler. Downstairs again and one of the bigger rooms, sometimes closed off for exclusivity. Sometimes for a dead body.

The first time he came here, it felt like a community more than a club. More rooms unfolding after each door. Stairs leading to more floors he wondered how far down it really went. Owned by an omnic and human couple, there was always a buzz when they were spotted at their club, tucked in a corner, private.

There was a buzz tonight, but it felt different. As if something new had cracked open. Bristling hairs on skin, sparking exposed wires, the seams of the city picked.

Hanzo hangs his coat, and a last glance at the mirror in the bar staff room, tucking his hair back into a bun. The shorter strands of his outgrown undercut already falling free.

He tucks his small pack at the back of his waist with his bow, arrows already long stashed underneath the bar from his last few jobs here. And pushes the swing doors open for work.

All Blood and Chrome’s employees were like Hanzo. Well. All those down in The Boiler floor and below, anyway. Criminals; former, current, no-choice in the matter. Everyone vetted heavily by the owners, recommended from all the way down from Mariann and even Tilly, he was sure (“hey I’m just your messenger and forgery bot”).

“Oh hey-” she stops, trying to pick his name from memory.

“Morio.”

“Oh, that’s right. Mo.”

A short, sharp sigh. “What is it with people and nicknames, here.”

Hanzo tucks a cloth into his belt, dressed in black jeans, purple long sleeve t-shirt (tattoo always covered, here), half hanging off his right shoulder. Some nights there was a dress code. Usually, it was whatever the hell you wanted. Hanzo tried to dress unassuming. Like anyone who might walk through these doors.

He missed his hair ribbon.

Sometimes he still caught himself reaching up to touch, run his fingers along the silk.

“Easier to say,” she says tapping something into her phone. Hanzo’s burner beeps (everyone has a burner just for work. Sometimes two). “Remember mine?”

“Adrienne.”

A smirk. “Not nickname but, accent’s getting better,” she says with a wink under her mane of red curls. “Anyway. You’re assigned to the veranda tonight.”

(Excerpt from mixed nightlife spots of Budapest for the traveller: …The Veranda: despite being underground, this section of The Boiler Room looks a lot like a veranda might. Or not. Aglow in faux nature, bloom changing weekly, wood fused with metal and the lights, it’s become a favourite corner of those that matter around here…)

“Who?”

Adrienne nods to his burner and she turns back to the bar, asking for the customer’s request, flicking two glasses onto the bar with flair.

Hanzo unlocks the file with thumbprint, a secondary code following.

Rav[REDACTED] Approx 20 active years [REDACTED]tor. Tall. Smooth voice, apparently. Controlled and calm. Purple colourings. You’ll know him when you see him. Rumblings of him through the omnics like livewire right now. Heard he’d rather skewer a human than sit next to one, but when you're desperate, right? Think he’s here for connections, money, help, fucking anything for his cause. I need to know. You have ears like a bat and some weirdo intuition. You ain’t failed me yet, Katniss.

Hanzo glances at The Veranda. Two humans. Omnic. Some vacant tables. Empty glasses litter their table. He takes a tray, and walks, weaving through bodies, blaring music, faces he knows, doesn’t.

None of them know him as Hanzo. He wonders when he’ll lose his name, too.

The music muted as he steps into The Veranda, the words and whispers of every face he plucks to memory all that matters now.

His mark isn’t here yet, so he waits. Watches. Works.

——

He sits in a corner, arm over a woman he’s known for an hour. Couples less inconspicuous than alone. He hasn’t talked to her since walking in the door. Neither has she, her face pin lit from her phone.

Eyes follow his mark. Back. Forth. Cybernetic eyes building on what he already knows.

Not tonight, they said, he’s here. City’s a livewire. Guest of honour.

So he waits. Watches. Works.

#shimadacest #genzo #hanzo shimada #genji shimada #fic: re-wired #genhan #hangen #des writes #here we go des writes longfic again aaaaa #this first ch is also a bit of a love letter to when i visited budapest #more chars and tags to come #more ships???#who knows #first of all we got a day in the life of hanzo's depression and self deprecation by the danube

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baiika · 1 year ago

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//I don't really get why so much of fanon incorporates like... ascension & godhood to Sousuke's zanpakutou. Like the entire thing is about trickery. So I'm going to dump my headcanon on it here!

I cannot impress this strongly enough; Sousuke is a depraved human being & his zanpakutou is a reflection of it. Topics of narcissistic abuse, homicide, violence, & surrealism are explored in depth. Reader discretion is advised.

Sousuke's inner world is a wetland rife with cranes. In the center is a Torii gate rotated forty-five degrees counter-clockwise & suspended midair. It's a representation of his zanpakutou turning everything topsy-turvy via illusions. The imagery is deliberately simple because, in reality, Sousuke is simple to understand.

Kyouka Suigetsu as the entity is an animated kimono. The kimono itself is red & painted with cranes in a wetland. Her "head" is a black orb with a purple eye in the center. It seemingly turns to meet Sousuke's gaze no matter how he's positioned relative to her. For instance, he can be behind her, but the the orb will seem to be staring at him forefront.

Sousuke only needed to complete one task to obtain his zanpakutou, but because he's an asshole & a moron, it took a whopping six attempts!

First attempt: Kyouka Suigetsu presents herself to Sousuke after he coerces a classmate into having anal sex with him. Kyouka tells Sousuke the reason she presented herself is because he's a mighty warrior. Really, she just likes when people are in pain. Kyouka Suigetsu tells Sousuke that if he cuts off & eats his toe, she'll give him her powers. It takes two hours for Sousuke to get the nerve to cut off his little toe & eat it. Kyouka Suigetsu didn't want his little toe eaten, though, she wanted his big toe, but she didn't tell him that, & chastises Sousuke for being a coward. Sousuke argues he did as she wanted but Kyouka tells him that she refuses to give him so much as her release command until he proves himself fit.

Second attempt: Sousuke envies the attention his classmates are giving a handsome upperclassman after they obtain their shikai, so Sousuke seeks out Kyouka Suigetsu through meditation. Kyouka Suigetsu offers to give Sousuke her release command if he reopens the stump of his little toe & brings her one hundred freshly-excised human tongues while it free bleeds. Sousuke agrees. He enlists a peer, whose family is a retainer of the Shihouin, for reconnaissance. This classmate gives Sousuke the location of a militia holdout if Sousuke agrees to give them the credit for the assassination. Sousuke, only needing the tongues, agree. They kill the militia & Sousuke offers Kyouka Suigetsu their tongues. Sousuke is then given the release command of his zanpakutou.

Third attempt: Kyouka Suigetsu asks Sousuke to drive someone to kill themselves to be given her name. Sousuke spectacularly fails this task. Kyouka Suigetsu chastises him for being stupid. This prompts Sousuke to attack Kyouka Suigetsu. He is swarmed by cranes & his liver is eaten.

Fourth attempt: Sousuke is revived in his inner world & chastised by Kyouka Suigetsu for attacking her. Kyouka Suigetsu offers an avenue for forgiveness. If he captures one of the cranes & gives it to her, all will be forgiven, & they can resume as normal. The cranes of Sousuke's inner world are unusual. When he touches them, it's like dipping his hands into a pool of water, but they can touch him perfectly fine, which means they can easily hurt him. Sousuke tries leading one to Kyouka Suigetsu, but they leave as soon as they're close enough to her. Sousuke eventually figures out he can craft a net out of the grasses & brings Kyouka Suigetsu a crane. In the net, the crane's wings are broken & its feathers ripped off it. Kyouka Suigetsu agrees to keep going with training.

Fifth attempt: Sousuke must isolate himself in the mountains. This is cleared with the academy once Sousuke explains its purpose. Sousuke is guided to the perfect place by Kyouka Suigetsu, which is a waterfall & large lake hidden by greenery. He is told to strip naked & meditate under the waterfall & that he must not move, no matter what. The only thing he can do is open and close his eyes. The first two days are uneventful, but then Kyouka Suigetsu sics illusions on him, were the cranes are eating his liver and lungs, dreams where he's being sodomized by black hair, among other disturbing images. He manages to go a month without moving & Kyouka Suigetsu gives him the gives him the first part of her name.

Sixth attempt: Sousuke returns to the academy & is met by his classmate who helped him acquire the tongues. They make friends after sharing progress with their zanpakutou. The classmate tells Sousuke that their zanpakutou is being uncooperative & Sousuke says his zanpakutou is being demanding. They then bond over violence & exploitation of women. Kyouka Suigetsu demands Sousuke kill his classmate for the second part of her name. Sousuke wants to refuse, & then remembers the cranes attacking him, so he knows he cannot decline. Sousuke & his classmate go drinking together & after his classmate is blackout drunk, Sousuke strangles him. Kyouka Suigetsu explains that something so simple won't appease her, despite not being specific about her instructions. She tells Sousuke she'll give him the rest of her name once he decapitates his friend. Sousuke decapitates his classmate. Kyouka Suigetsu takes the head & gives Sousuke the rest of her name.

Sousuke obtains shikai after this. Kyouka Suigetsu enlists him in forty-two more trials, which are significantly less gruesome & far easier to accomplish, to master her power over the next two years.

Sousuke alleges that he & his zanpakutou are on good terms, but in reality, Sousuke loathes Kyouka Suigetsu. Not because of the pain she inflicted on him, but because she treats him the same as he treats other people, as objects for pleasure, which embitters him. He's also displeased that a woman subjugates him.

I've been debating whether or not to detail Sousuke's bankai & its obtainment for awhile since it's something I wanna do in character, but I doubt I'll have to opportunity to, so I've decided to detail it anyway.

Kyouka Suigetsu offers to give Sousuke bankai after he sees what the Soul King really is. I will post more on that & how it shaped him as a person another time. However, it's the time Kyouka Suigetsu offers Sousuke bankai.

As is typical of Kyouka Suigetsu, Sousuke must pass a trial in order to obtain bankai. The trial is a three-day endurance test where Sousuke must maintain a massive illusory field while Kyouka sics cranes on him. It's hilarious.

Kagami Emon (mirror costume) shatters his zanpakutou. The shards resemble mirror shards & embed themselves into his skin. The shards on his head & shoulders stand taller, resembling shoulder adornments & a crown. It stands to reason their mass increases since there's not enough material in a sword to cover his entire body. The shards are still sharp & make him bleed.

#sousuke aizen; here ye sit on a throne of corpses #//I FORGOT TO POST THIS HC LIKE. A MONTH AGO.

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