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sanasanakun · 4 months ago

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People try too hard to make Curly an active participant in Jimmy's abuse. Isn't the whole point that he's passive in everything Jimmy does? Abuse occurs because he actively doesn't do anything? Not to call someone out or be mean, but I saw a post saying Anya's ID being in Curly's locker at the beginning shows that he intended to prevent Anya from filing an HR report and I disagree. I get where that interpretation is coming from, but I think it's a little uncharitable. I don't like being too kind to Curly because he's like...a morally mid dude at best lol But if we're going by the HR report interpretation, I would say it's more likely he requested Anya's ID in order to file an HR report on her behalf. After all, the only way to contact Pony (that we see) is in the cockpit, he's the Captain, and Pony Express sucks bad so I wouldn't put it past them to only allow the Captain to use the communication device thing. As we see before, Curly is the only one able to use tools around the ship that you would think other employees could use (ex. Swansea should be able to use the axe if he's the repair guy. Idk why they'd need an ax but that falls under manual labor which Swansea is designated for as the mechanic/fixer dude. But it has to go through Curly). I never got the vibe that Curly moved to actively protect Jimmy. He just lets things happen without say a word; Jimmy walks all over him, and by extension, the whole crew. I get why people would think that because he gives the whole "Hey Jimmy, we can get through this together, bud" spiel right before the crash. This part interests me a lot because there's so many ways to interpret Curly's intentions there. My interpretation is that Curly is on autopilot mode. The responses seem so stilted in comparison to Jimmy's. Like it's the kind of thing Curly's said before again and again and again when Jimmy's gotten in trouble. However, as others previously pointed out, I don't think Curly ever dealt with Jimmy doing something this irredeemable. He doesn't know how to respond, so he just goes for the default "You've gotten through tough situations before. Work through it one step at a time." Like the response is lame af lol I think he was in shock; he was scared (and just so I can say it one more time: he's super lame).

Anyway, this is way longer than I intended and I've said things a billion people have already stated. But uhhh tldr the whole point of Curly's character is he's passive; he never acts. He just watches. Making him an active participant in the abuse by taking actions to cover for Jimmy (like preventing Anya from filing an HR report) defeats the purpose of his character. He's a bystander.

#and I'm defining active as in like consciously taking actions to help Jimmy cover his tracks and stuff like that #because I know being passive can be seen as the same thing as actively participating in the abuse (which i agree with)#I just mean I don't think he's actually intending to help Jimmy by doing anything for him like taking Anya's ID away with nefarious purpose #I just didn't get that vibe #again I just thought he sucked lol like he just does nothing #so idk I just don't vibe when people make him too into helping Jimmy if that makes sense? I think it destroys the grayness of his character #they will never make me have a strong opinion of you Curly #but he is fine as hell ok lol I am not immune to buff blonde man #also like I hope this doesn't come off as mean to the person I'm referencing with the ID take if they see it #I just was thinking about their interpretation and was like ehhh i don't know if i agree and wanted to respond on my lil side account ;p #mouthwashing #curly mouthwashing #captain curly #anya mouthwashing #jimmy mouthwashing #ok and I could see people saying he actively covers for him by doing the psych eval for him and being like uhhhh good enough lmao #but to me that's him trying to placate any issues between crewmembers on his ship esp. when it comes to Jimmy #which just falls under the bystander thing because he'll do the bare minimum to keep things peaceful #but when it comes to doing anything he's just like whelp idk what I can do and just stands there #he's so cool #ok also I realize they need the ax for the foam I just forgot about that lmao #i was a little tipsy when I wrote this plz forgive hahaha I just meant like an ax isn’t like normally in a mechanic’s tool kit lmao #adding a link to the Twitter post I mention so people can refer back to it if they’d like

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utterlyazriel · 29 days ago

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i was talking not long ago to @djarinova about how if i were to write a mando series what would it be about and then i rewatched tangled (2010) and then i braindumped and said it would go a little like....

you’re a quarry. not even a particularly unique quarry — you’re the wife of some lord, maybe he’s empire, maybe he’s not, but one thing is for sure; he’s got credits.

enough to lure in even the mandalorian who usually despises a hunt so pitiful as tracking down some spoiled wife who’s grown bored of her rich husband and decided to escape away with her affair.

he’s done this song and dance a thousand times, each wife dramatic in the way they complain of how their rich lord husband doesn’t love them, but din knows life is about choices & living with them — stars forbid the worst choice these women make are marrying a heartless man for his coin. he has little sympathy.

you are different from the get-go, first being that you’re alone. in the days he tails you, it’s clear you have no one watching your back, no other partner in the picture that you’re running off to elope with.

he’s been given strict instructions to bring you in alive, as usual when retrieving pesky wives, but you fight like you’ve truly got nothing to lose, managing to make your fingernails bleed with how you fight him.

he wins easily. and then you’re silent as you’re lugged back to the ship, not complaining, not moaning and groaning but just quiet, your eyes taking in everything around you as if it’s the last time you’ll see it.

it’s only as you’re settled down in the ship, bound hands between your knees that you speak — “i can get you three times your reward.”

and just as he’s beginning to think you’re different, like clockwork the bargaining begins.

“you’re not in any position to negotiate.”

you shake your head as though he misunderstands, “no, i don’t— you can still complete your bounty. but if you-” you inhale catches, as you choose your words carefully, “if you delay it, pretend i was harder to find than in actuality, i can make sure he pays you handsomely."

and that gets din’s attention, his body language betraying nothing, his helmet tilting to the side just an inch. “what’s in it for you?”

you laugh mirthlessly as you stare at your bound hands, aware of how ironic what you’re about to say is. “a few more weeks of freedom.”

this, din doesn’t buy. you married this man by your own choice— he knows because he did his research. he’s not in the business of tracking down slave brides or anything of the like. your marriage is completely legitimate.

he says as much, not sure why he’s even giving this conversation time of day— he should be taking off right now, setting course for your home planet, back into the arms of your waiting husband.

yet, he says, “you had your freedom. you chose this marriage.”

you deflate at his words and somehow din doesn’t feel like he’s won the conversation at all. he turns, prepared to head for the cockpit when you speak once more, “i didn’t know.” din stops. he doesn’t turn, doesn’t even tilt his head but that’s enough for you to keep talking, “i— he knew my father, they were friends. i knew him as a child and he used to teach me writing when he came to the house.” something heavy sinks into the bottom of din’s stomach at your words, somehow knowing where this is heading. surely, your father wouldn’t have allowed it.

but din’s seen the galaxy’s worst and knows very well that he would’ve. “i didn’t know what i was signing, i didn’t even know i was signing anything,” you say, voice tight. “just two weeks, please, it’s all i ask.”

it had already taken a week to find you. three weeks to track a bounty with no ability to fight would tarnish his reputation no doubt. but… he believed you.

“i can give you a week,” he says and doesn’t wait to hear your thank you, trudging up to the cockpit, wondering what the fuck he was going to do with an extra passenger for a week.

then you have a classic star wars montage — din decides his best course is to keep visiting new planets as if he’s hunting and you’re more than happy about that.

it takes a bit of back and forth before you convince him you do need your hands free to feed yourself — unless he wants to?— and he snaps the cuffs off you with a curt reminder that there’s nowhere you can hide from him. the threat doesn’t land because you’re too struck by the new planet, a landscape you’ve never seen before.

you tag along to the market and despite coming from a wealthy family, it’s as though you’ve never been outside before. you touch everything, fingers feeling every fabric and texture, and din has to step in when a vendor gets too angry at your lingering, pleasantly surprised when you snip back in the local language.

as you wander, din can’t keep his curiosity tamped down, asking how you learnt the language when you clearly haven’t travelled much— and you respond that, despite its glamorous appearance, there’s little to do as a lords wife and you’ve spent your years in the library, practising different dialects.

“su cuy’gar,” (hello) you say, turning back to him with a smile and din literally stumbles in surprise, hearing the mando’a roll off your tongue. he can’t think of a response so he just strolls past you silently, heading back for the ship.

you think you’ve upset him, maybe offended his culture, but as you walk half a step behind him, he holds out an offering of food, clearly only for you, given the helmet situation. he doesn’t put the cuffs back on you when you get back to the crest.

it’s only a week but it feels like a lifetime — for the both of you. you get to drink in every type of planet, frozen ones, scorched ones, ones bursting with plants and ones crawling with lava.

after the third one, maybe you imagine it but you can’t help but feel like din’s adjusting his choices, sticking to the leafy planets with hot springs to swim in and fruits galore to gorge on. his initial condition of only giving you strict rations is broken quickly and you wonder if he’s letting himself be selfish, indulging in things he normally wouldn’t just for your sake.

when you travel, you stick close for the sake of safety and the two of you murmur in manda’o when you need to be discrete and only once do you save his ass, stepping in front of a flung blade that buries into your thigh. he scolds you vehemently as he patches it up and you let him, too shocked that he’s insisting on doing it despite your two free hands.

he saves your ass ten times over, always managing to pull you back from heated discussions and bar brawls, din having an instinct that you’re barely beginning to form on your own and maker, you had no idea people killed each other this much out in the world.

you insist on cleaning a nasty gash on his arm, almost tucked beneath his pauldron and you never, never even ask about seeing his face.

even though you wish it never would, the week still ends.

“home time,” you say, trying to keep the glumness out of your tone. you have no intention of stalling or guilting the mandalorian who kept his side of the deal. your month on the run was only ever going to be a brief reprieve from the reality of your life.

the mandalorian gets quiet in your last day and as he sets the coordinates to your home planet, he doesn’t say a word. he’s suddenly the same mandalorian who hunted you down a week ago again, steely and cold as his armour.

the flight is short and in a manner of hours, you’re walking down the ramp back into the mouth of your home that begs to swallow you whole.

you keep your end of the deal, conjuring up some story of how the reason it took so long was you were hours away from being sold off into some of the human markets and mando is the reason you weren’t.

“he deserves handsome reward”, you whisper, almost embarrassed by the role you play with your husband now that it’s being observed by the ever silent mandalorian, his visor unmoving. “don’t punish him for my foolish decisions, my lord.”

your husband, thankfully, falls into your words easily and agrees to the high payment, triple what had been promised. you ask only to thank the mandalorian who saved you life as you leave, stepping closer and murmuring

“vor entye, mando,” (thank you) your eyes on his dark visor, for once, wishing you could see beneath it. he doesn’t say anything and you think that’ll will be all, the final words of the best week of your life forgotten from hours ago.

then…

“din.”

you halt, unsure of what it is he’s said.

“my name is din.”

you take the last gift from the world, the name of your hunter who showed you mercy, and watch the crest rise and leave the skies — certain you’ll be content with the memories of the week.

it’s not contentness that finds you though; it’s torture, knowing what’s outside, right out of your reach.

you don’t slide back into your old life at all, you’ve outgrown your mould and discomfort prickles at every severance of your autonomy.

your husband increases the guards around you ten-fold, til you don’t have a single moment alone. you reside in the library and leaf through the books on mandalore, finding more comfort in them than you ever had before.

it’s a quiet evening and you’re absentmindedly drawing circles on the page before you, dreading the upcoming banquet with your husband when you hear a fizzle outside, quickly following by a rapid succession of hits.

a thud hits the ground and you scramble to your feet, knowing with a sinking feeling that it’s your guards, not the intruder, who’s taken the fall.

you hit one of the bookcases as you back up and turn, hiding behind it as the door opens— and you recognise the glint of armour in a moment. it’s second nature to step forward, towards him.

his visor catches the motion and he goes rigid. for a moment, you both just stare at each other, barely processing that he’s come back.

he came back, for you.

“do you want to stay here?” he asks, modulator not hiding the strain in his voice. its not from lack of breath though.

“no,” you answer truthfully, taking another step forward.

“do you want to leave?” he says. “with me?”

you’re nodding before he’s finished his sentence. “yes.”

and then you’re following him through the halls, sticking close like you learnt to do, your heart thumping din, din, din, because never in your life has someone done this—come back and made it your choice.

you manage to make it out the boundaries of the property, your heart rising in your chest at the sight of the razor chest over the ridge when something catches around din’s knee and he crumples with a grunt.

you stop in an instant, dropping to your knees and hands fluttering as you try to tug him to his feet, horror twisting in your stomach at the sight of the arrow through the back of his knee, between his shields of armour—

“din— din, you have to get up,” you say, voice wobbling.

you don’t even get a chance to hear his reply, arms circling you and tugging you back, the guards of your husband having caught back up. and then you’re fighting, twisting in the ridiculous gown you’re in, yowling and scratching in that way that din has only heard once before, the day he found you himself.

as din himself is hauled sluggishly to his feet, it’s with the realisation that something coats the arrow still in his flesh, some poison that’s weaving into his blood.

he’s hauled to his feet and dragged back with you, forced to endure the torture of your cries, the endless no’s that leave your lips. it’s only as he drags his helmeted head up, eyes begging to see you, does he realise your cries are not for yourself— you’re still fighting, not tugging away from your captors, you’re tugging towards him.

you’re both brought before your husband, forced to your knees as he glares down at you, fury engraved upon his face.

“the very man i pay to return my wife is the next to steal her from me?”

the lie surges up within you easily. “no! no, it was a plan of my design. i… i tempted him with credits to help me escape.”

and if din wasn’t already captivated by you before, the very notions of your words that shield him, even when he brought you back to this monster— his heart stirs in his chest.

and what’s worse is that it works.

your husband turns his wicked anger and focuses it on you, stalking forward with a promise of vengeance— “escape? you cannot escape from what you have chosen. what you signed, what you promised to me.”

din seethes beneath his helmet, watching how you shudder and bow beneath the words, til you’re only a shadow of the self he saw in that one week. “yes. you’re right. i should have known better.”

din surges forward with a new wave of strength, blatantly ignoring the awful singing of the wound in his leg— the poison is weighing him down but it’s not enough to dull his senses.

he headbutts the guard behind him, holding his shoulders and takes out the three surrounding him in quick succession— but a sharp ping against his shoulder, a blaster shot, sends him to the ground again with a loud groan. you know instantly what poison coats the arrow in his leg, what you’ve watched killed a hundred trespassers over the years.

“stop it!” you plead, stepping forward to try to reach him, your movements futile as your husband’s hand snares in your hair, ripping you backward.

“stop,” he snarls. “trying to get away from me,”

“no!” you cry, twisting and clawing at his arm, gleeful when he shouts and releases his tight hold. you drop square on your ass and scramble back, putting yourself between the barrel of your husbands blaster and your mandalorian.

“i won’t stop. i will never stop trying to get away from you for every minute of every day, for the rest of my life,” you pant. your husbands face grows more gnarled with every word but all you can hear is the faint breath of din behind you, growing weaker with every breath.

“but,” you begin.

“no,” din’s voice comes from behind you, reedy and weaker than you’ve ever heard it.

“if you let me give him the antidote,” you voice trembles. you’re running out of time. “i will stay with you. i will never try to leave, never try to escape—”

“no,” din says again, barely a pained murmur. you continue on, chest heaving as you stare down your husband. “i will be your wife, just like you want, i promise. just let me heal him.”

the blaster wavers before your face and you hold your breath, waiting judgement before finally it’s lowered an inch— your husbands hand sneaking into his pocket to steal a vial of the antidote. he tosses it into the sand before you with a sneer and turns his attention to his remaining guards. “cuff him.”

you’re snatching up the vial before he’s even finishing speaking, turning with a speed that makes your hands blurry. you scramble to din’s weakening form, hands fussing as you realise you need to find some bare skin to puncture.

apologies garble out your mouth as you yank up the flight suit on his arm, putting the vial between your teeth to pop off the end, revealing the needle. you can hear how laboured din’s breathing is even though his modulator and you hurriedly line the needle up, preparing to push— when his arm sways back, away from the needle.

“no,” he says once more, breathless. “not… for your freedom.”

you make a noise that might be a sob, grabbing his arm and pulling it forward, shaking your head.

“i’m not worth dying for.” you counter, voice trembling, and you jab it into his arm before he can argue, a pained groan threaded through his modulator as the antidote spreads rapidly.

your chest heaves, the finality of what you’ve done sinking in, especially as the guards step forward, cuffs out and ready. your husband drawls your name, casual and snide, as though he hasn’t just terrorised you and nearly killed your closest attempt to a saviour.

“goodbye, din,” you whisper softly, you lean back, drawing a deep breath, prepared to relent, to submit— when din’s gloved hand reaches out, catching your arm with an alarmingly strong grip.

you barely get a moment of confusion before he’s murmuring, “get down,” and cocking his wrist, something blue lighting up.

you fold in an instant, trusting him completely, and din’s hand tugs you forward so you’re upon him, his hand shifting up to cup back of your neck. something whistling dangerously close to your ear and you screw your eyes closed, hearing several yells and thuds.

din’s body rolls, tucking you beneath him as the loud shot of a blaster goes off, burying in the dirt beside your head. another follows it and there’s another thud, a crumpled body hitting the ground.

the silence rings out, deafening in the rush of your emotions and the ebbing sounds of the fight. your eyes spring open and you stare up at the dark visor in disbelief, unable to grasp the hope rising in your chest. is he alive? are you alive? is… this real? are you free?

“breathe, mesh’la,” din commands softly.

you realise you’re holding your breath and you deflate as it rushes out of you — then din’s shifting back, groaning as he lowers himself to the ground. you realise there’s blood beneath you and you follow it in a panic to his leg, still leaking blood around the arrow wound.

“your leg—“

din waves you off, already pushing to his knees with a woozy balance. “i’ll deal with it at the ship. c’mon.”

he stands like it’s no big deal to have an arrowhead still stored in his flesh and you rush to your feet, only just then looking around at the bodies littered at your feet. a dozen guards or so and… your husband.

he isn’t moving but something sudden seizes at your throat and you reach out to grab din’s blaster, unloading several shots into your husbands body for good.

din’s gaze is on you when you stop pulling the trigger and for a moment, you wonder what he’ll think, then he nods, a minuscule motion, and holds out his hand for the blaster.

you hand it over and he holsters it, hand hovering for a moment as he assesses the distance between here and the ship. you take the pause and gently reach for his arm, slipping beneath it to take some of his weight, hearing the surprised inhale from under his helmet. together,

the two of your straggle back to the crest, trailing blood but lighter with the knowledge you never have to return — that your mandalorian trusts you enough to patch his leg up and then asks you, gruff and low, where it is you want to go next.

your choice.