#Triple Threat/Chaos || Verse

[dustedmagazine]

Al Karpenter/Al Karpenter & CIA Debutante — The Forthcoming/S-T (Ever Never)

The Forthcoming by Al Karpenter

Al Karpenter swamps threads of song in seething banks of noise and dissonance.  You find yourself focusing on blaring surface noise, while sense and melody percolates somewhere underneath.  It is very modern in that there is too much going on and you are always distracted, always struggling to find the point, but you know it’s there.  If it doesn’t make sense that’s on you. 

This pair of releases allows for fervid collaboration, across and within the noise experimental genre.  The Forthcoming supplements the Spanish outfit’s live line-up—Álvaro Matilla, Mattin, Marta Sainz and Enrique Zaccagnini—with like minded samplers, warpers and droners: Sunik Kim, Dominic Coles and Triple Negative.  The self-titled brings in medieval futurists of CIA Debutante, just off their Siltbreeze outing Willow, Down, reviewed here a month or so ago (“The sound is immersive and disturbing, noises like factory equipment clashing with eerie Suicide-like beats.”).  You can’t really call one disc a solo album and the other a joint effort since both gain intrigue and unpredictability from outside influences. 

But let’s do it anyway  The Al Karpenter disc dissolves and reforms across six tracks, now muttering imprecations over inchoate punk noise (“The Forthcoming”), now approaching bass thumping electro-dance clarity (“A Brand New Brontophobia”), now disintegrating into incantatory chaos (“Poison Sun”), depending on who is involved.  The title track, aided by London’s Triple Negative, launches florid arias out of a chaotic mesh of guitars and drums, where the instruments natter on towards their own ends, unconnected by time signature or key.  A shimmery, shoegaze-y instrumental break tips into lyricism but slides out of true, an antic beat erupting from it like an irregular heart in flight.  Contrast that with the clean, driving agitation of “A Brand New Brontophobia,” where Sunik Kim guests.  A jittering, techno bass rumbles, clipped onslaughts of snare-like drum machines rattle, as Mattin murmurs and croons.  “Happy B-Day,” one of the cuts with Dominic Coles, opens giddily with keyboard before cutting all the way back to guitar notes and murmured threat (“I’m not afraid to kill or die”), alternately minimal and maximal.  “Drood (Can You Hear Me Now?)” offers the clearest distillation of Al Karpenter’s haunted eclecticism, layering vertiginous synths over muttered alienation. 

S/T by Al Karpenter & CIA Debutante

The album with CIA Debutante also delivers dystopic poetry but couched more rhythmically and with the agitation of punk rock.  “Born Dead” lumbers like a giant mechanical beast, its beat slow and inexorable, giving shape to masses of guitar feedback and intermittent shouts of the title.  “Public Scaffolding” bangs more frantically, as a voice rages against income inequality.  It slips into static but doesn’t lose its structure; you can hear the toms rattling all the way through.  “Medieval Cocaine” sounds the most purely CIA Debutante-ish of all these tracks, the ping and squiggle of electronics framing unknowable, evocative verses. “Fuck You All to Fade No More,” dances inscrutably on synth rhythms and shattering machine beats, as the lyrics shatter the f-word into fragments, repeatedly.   

None of this is especially easy listening, and you won’t be putting it on at your next dinner party.  But it is full of layers and passionate inquiry, and the chaos is like the world right now.  Listen and feel the ground under you crumble and everything sure come into doubt. 

Jennifer Kelly

[burdenedreverence]

Armored Core Verse

World: Karakoram 3b Catalog Number: ISB0373 Type: terrestrial moon, mountainous Climate: varied, glacial or subtropical Population: 49 million Satellites: n/a Notable Features: space elevator

A habitable world only fractionally less massive than Earth, Karakoram 3b is the second moon orbiting a Saturn-like gas giant on the outer edge of its system’s habitable zone. Tidally locked like most moons and kept in an eccentric orbit by Laplace resonance with the planet’s other satellites, it experiences significant tidal heating and lithosphere compression, with the result being an extremely mountainous surface regularly dotted by volcanoes. The moon has low surface water coverage, though this is not the result of any scarcity—rather, its mountainous terrain hosts massive glaciers which lock up most of its water reserves. What seas and large lakes there are boast surprisingly warm climes, as do most lowland valleys, all heated by ubiquitous geothermal activity. The world is a study in extremes, with ice above and steam and sometimes even fire below.

Most of the arable land hosts subtropical conditions with hot and humid summers and extremely mild but wet winters, as the planet’s temperature is regulated more by geological processes than stellar flux. That same tectonic activity has resulted in rich and easily accessed mineral resources from deep below the crust, which recommended the moon for colonization above and beyond even its quixotic habitability. Dominated by regional extractive mining concerns with all the attendant ‘company town’ developments one might expect, it functions both as a minor industrial hub in and of itself, and a major exporter of rare minerals to the nearby Seiko system, on account of Seiko 4’s restrictive policies on mining and the comparatively more expensive mining operations on other celestial bodies there. Civil unrest and armed worker strikes are commonplace.

Name: Desmond E. Hayden Augmentation: Generation Eight Occupation: mercenary Affiliation: independent Registration Number: Kr222 Callsign: Liberator Armored Core: Triple Deuce

Karakoram 3b is divided by its inhabitants into two hemispheres depending on what dominates the sky: strandside where the space elevator is more visible, and planetside where Karakoram 3 is more visible. Planetside is rather more remote and wild, with various mining companies possessing more and more control the deeper one ventures. Brigandry is kept in check by both local corporate forces and the Karakoram Elevator Authority's Line Monitors, with the former also regularly suppressing wildcat mining in their zones of control. Some independent settlements do nonetheless exist, and worker strikes in this hemisphere will often attempt to hire the services of their residents in resisting corporate security when contract negotiations break down.

The son of miners who came to Karakoram 3b hoping to make their fortune and move on, Hayden grew up under the total oversight of the Masterson Materials, Metals, and Minerals Corporation (4MC), which occupied an area of higher elevation (and thus more temperate) valleys. Unsurprisingly, his parents never actually made it big. After coming of age, Hayden decided to enter the company's services as a security officer rather than as a miner, thinking the work more in line with his disposition. 4MC had actually been fairly equitable throughout his life, and his activities were indeed focused almost exclusively against external threats for several years, but all things come to an end. When 4MC's workers finally did go on strike, Hayden was among those ordered to break it with extreme prejudice by a management which perceived its employees as thankless. He balked and defected with his Muscle Tracer.

The situation continued to escalate toward the precipice of violence when, sensing an opportunity, a rival company—Geological Exploitation Technologies (GET)—attacked both sides in force. In the ensuing chaos, Hayden attempted to lead local surviving miners to one of the independent settlements. Few made it. He operated from that location thereafter, alternately serving as hired muscle and taking vigilante action against GET as an act of retribution. Gradually pooling the funds for an AC, his patience was rewarded when he participated in GET's eventual demise and subsumption by surrounding companies, as had happened to 4MC. With nothing left for him locally, he finally went strandside, and from there off-world and out-system. Spending the remainder of his profits on Generation Eight human augmentation surgery, he has since worked as an independent mercenary.

Triple Deuce is a medium weight AC, excelling at mid-range combat and closing the distance to eliminate any threat. It's an honest AC with little gimmicks, with a plasma launcher and missile pods to maintain pressure it boasts one of the best Missile Targeting Systems on the market. With it's assault rifle and laser blade, it's a capable AC but in the hands of an experienced Pilot an absolute menace.

The tell-tale mark of the AC is the triple two playing cards displayed on it's right shoulder.

credit @midnightactual

[xynchronicity]

"Your voice is more comfortable to listen to than anyone else's, oddly enough." Sombra @ Reaper?

@bushelofmuses

Soft Fluff || Accepting

@bushelofmuses

"Thanks...?" He doesn't know how to react, really. He's never had his voice complimented or anything really. That is from the Talon side of things...that didn’t reference his monstrous side.

[xynchronicity]

He hadn’t expected the grip on his bicep, a gesture that felt too intimate in this moment. Before his mind could go anywhere else with that, a fist met his throat causing him to sputter and groan. Okay, he deserved that. He can admit that.

“Glad you understood the message then.” He tilted his head left and right before centering it again. She needn’t worry about him attacking, that wasn’t his goal. At least not at the moment. Sure he could hurt her for the punch but he deserved that one.

Reaper sighed as he reached up to take his mask off fully, placing it within his jacket. “We may be working towards the same goal but in the end we’ll go our separate ways.” It has to be that way. There can’t be any ties. Can’t be anyone he could possibly go to later on.

Isolate and exist.

“I’m only helping you to bring Talon down and get the others out. After that, I’m out. We separate and go on our merry ways.”

@xynchronicity because I wasn't sure which direction this would wind up going

She tensed as his claws lightly brushed over her cheek. An almost kind caress, despite the danger of there being fucking claws at the ends...okay, maybe it was more a little unnerving. Or both. She couldn't decide which, and didn't have time to because they disappeared as quickly as they came, leaving her shivering in a mix of things she didn't want to unpack right then.

Sombra was understandably thankful that she'd managed to pass by grunt status because of her skills. She...really didn't want to know what it was like to be on the receiving end of that. With how much of a brat she could be sometimes...she'd have probably bitten the dust in the most unpleasant way imaginable ages ago.

When claws traced alongside her cybernetics over her jacket, Sombra reflexively shot a hand out to grab his bicep to steady herself when her balance wavered. Then there was only a split second between his touch and her other fist meeting his throat. Sombra was quick to let go, however, and put distance between them to take a defensive stance.

Translocator. Did she have it set up somewhere? Let's see...one in her room and one in her base in Castillo. She could bolt if she needed to. Good.

"Don't you ever fucking touch my back again." He could have touched anywhere else on her and she'd have held still and waited and watched to see what he'd do. Hell, even the implants on her scalp wouldn't have bothered her as much. But there? That's a threat, intended or not, and he was being a creep in word and deed, so fuck no because it was intended.

Wraith was one thing; they'd never been a threat to her, never felt like one. Sieb and Alejandra and Bap didn't feel like one either, and the embraces between friends were safe and okay.

Not Reaper.

He had to earn that right, and that was not starting off on the right foot.

[vermillioncrown]

hello, master-masterpost wip

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jin roast (my inbox likes hating on lanling jin), king jzx (my inbox likes loving jzx), gucci gang (triple threat zyx, jzx, and lqy)

wwx roast (my inbox thinks wwx is a thot), lwj roast (lwj has no infosec), the cabbage list (is anyone in mdzs fiscally responsible), jc is Just ‘Okay’ (jc is not allowed to be impressive)

[that-gay-jedi]

For your WIPs, I'm curious about triple threat or scorched earth?

Aww yeaahh double ask!

So, Triple Threat is. The Jedi have a long-standing theatrical tradition that was put on hold bc of the general galactic chaos shortly before the Clone Wars and some things happen and they think they've won the war, but Sidious is still Chancellor, Order 66 is still waiting to happen, basically it's all a trap.

So they decide to put on a play as one of many little things they're doing to try to be and feel like Jedi again, like reconnect themselves to their way of life from before the war and whatnot. Except. Except.

Their public image took such a nosedive during the war, and dear benevolent Chancellor Palpatine (sarcasm), who is soo concerned for his friends the Jedi and their place in the Republic, says hey, let's also use this as a chance to re-humanize (or alienize... sentient-ize?) them to the general populace.

And ooh he knows just the play, it's not part of the traditional Jedi repertoire but it's VERY popular right now and he's sure it will be greatly improved upon by their Force-augmented performance style, and yes it's a tragedy about a fearless young warrior who destroys everything he is and everything he loves for a doomed romance, but it's only acting, right?

And hey, despite all the controversy General Knight Skywalker is still a holonet heartthrob (& in this verse was a theater kid before the war), they should totally cast him as the lead. Trust me my little green friend, this is a great idea, and here let me lend you this Totally Not a Sith Artifact as a prop. Etc etc.

Many talented Jedi audition for the role of romantic lead, but despite Palpatine's best efforts to get him sent halfway across the galaxy for a mission or have a piano fall on his head, Obi-Wan is cast for it. He only auditioned because the 212th pressured him into it while they were drunk.

He's like no I'm rather too old for all this, what about my Council duties, and besides the press will be expecting Kenobi and Skywalker if I play the role, can't [Insert better actor here] have it? But the rest of the Order decides the Force willed it (and they may be right), so Obi-Wan stars opposite Anakin and shit hits the fan.

Scorched Earth is one of my possible continuations of Fire and Salt, which had Anakin as Lucifer and Obi-Wan as a god of bereavement and mourning. They're sort of getting to know each other as beings after the whole "love at first sight between two forces of the universe that were made for each other" thing from the gathering of the gods.

Of the many co-existing pantheons, some have an apocalyptic tradition and others don't, so I'm kind of playing with the relationship between belief and prophecy, and how the roles Anakin and Obi-Wan each fill has shaped their experience of the universe. They also both have kind of complex relationships to their own cosmologies so there's that. Dating for deities isn't easy.

[hobiiwan]

tethered • o.k

pairing: obi-wan kenobi x mechanic!reader

summary: obi-wan returns after too long spent on the battlefield, away from where he’s meant to be

warnings: kinda angsty, alcohol use @ new year’s, fluff mostly

word count: 6k

notes: happy secret santa! @starwarssecretsanta @stars-trash-18 i really hope you like your gift! this is the first time i’ve written anything this long so hopefully it turned out alright! biggest thanks to @lilhawkeye3 for organising this! have a safe holiday, no matter what you celebrate~

If there was one thing you would never understand, it would be why Coruscant was so damned cold. The Galactic City enjoyed warm, balmy weather all year long. The underworld, on the other hand, not so much. The morning chill was the type to seep into your bones, the sort that no amount of layers could shut out, even with the radiators turned to the max. Not that you had much chance to complain, especially not on the days, which were most, spent on a creeper, wrench in hand. 

Working occupies your mind. You easily fall back into the same routine you’ve been following for as long as you can remember—replace, tighten, oil. It doesn’t hurt that it pays, nor the fact that it keeps your mind from drifting. To him.

A client pulls into the garage, speeder releasing a puff of ash-grey smoke. Your eyes linger on the doorway.

--

The underside of the standard speeder became your new sky, replacing the one you didn’t get many chances to see. It was easier not to venture to the upper levels, you learned, knowing the return to the chaos underneath was inevitable. 

Still, you don’t spend years in the lower levels without learning a thing or two. It had its charms which, if you kept your valuables close, could be somewhat appreciated. Not much could be said about the sunrise, but watching the street vendors gradually open shop for the day, the glowing signs relighting after a night and the city waking—the underworld had its moments. 

Though, it’s best not to overlook the obscure corners. The best thing about living in the underworld was the unpredictability. If you’re handy with a blaster and keep your head down, that is. It keeps things entertaining, on the days where you could afford time off. 

Admittedly, a Jedi blasting open your garage door at the asscrack of dawn would definitely equate to ‘unpredictable’.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The man is midway through clambering out of the now-crashed speeder. He turns, only to meet the barrel of your blaster. A shit-eating smirk graces his lips as he brushes the auburn hair out of his eyes and regards you nonchalantly.

“My apologies, miss,” the man says, head lowered in a slight bow, “I must admit, though I do enjoy making an entrance, this isn’t what I had in mind.”

Your eyes scan the man before you. The long, beige robes and the mechanical cylinder hanging at hip-level, clipped to his belt. It doesn’t take a genius to recognise a Jedi, especially when chaos follows. A handsome one, yet a Jedi nonetheless.

Your gaze narrows. “Do you have a reason for crashing into my shop, or is this just more ‘Jedi business’?” The venom laced in your tone is hard to miss. The message is clear - Jedi aren’t taken to well in the underworld.

He huffs, raising a hand to gesture to the steaming, sparking mess laying in the middle of your shop. “I’ve had an accident.”

Your eyes roll without a second thought, “I can see that.” 

“I need transportation to get back to the Galactic City as quickly as possible,” he states, voice overtaken by a firm, well-versed timbre. “Would you happen to offer any of the sort?”

Your arms cross over your chest. There would be nothing more satisfying than throwing out a Jedi to the underworld streets with no way back to the surface. He can walk, for all you care, but fuck. You’re short on funds. 

Your gaze drifts to your own speeder sitting proudly in the corner as you gnaw your lip hesitantly. The mangled mess he’s brought in is a lost cause—that much is certain. Your pit droid confirms this with a series of beeps, orbiting helplessly around the crash. There’s no way he’ll be getting out on that.

Begrudgingly, you stalk over to fetch the keys to your own vehicle. “It’ll cost you,” you grumble, tossing the keys to which the man catches with ease. “If there’s even a hair of a scratch, I’ll throttle you myself, Jedi.”

The man grins triumphantly, and slides into the driver’s seat. You instantly regret your decision when your eyes meet his. “My name is Obi-wan,” he hums, pulling the speeder out of the driveway, “your speeder is in good hands! We’ll be back in no time.”

Those credits better be worth it. 

--

It’s a few days later, when the sensor over your doorway rings out in a chime you’ve memorised by now. Half of your torso is obscured by a banged-up thrust pod, but the droid at your feet is going crazy. 

You hear it before you get to see it, but the spluttering of an engine is unmistakable and you perk up at the prospect of a new repair. That hope, however, is quickly shot out of the sky when you catch sight of the source of the noise.

The grip on the wrench in your hand tightens a noticeable notch as the Jedi brings your speeder to a halt. The layer of painted coating has been chipped away in a long streak along its side, revealing the steel underneath. The navcomp is long gone, a wide, burnt crack singeing across the controls.

Obi-wan grins a sheepish one when your eye twitches, surveying the faulty engine that makes the speeder tilt on its side.

“What am I looking at?” Your voice is disturbingly calm, not even an inkling of what he knows is rage in its purest form to be seen. 

Obi-wan inhales as his gaze flickers to the wrench curled in your fist and chuckles hesitantly, “Your speeder, of course. I did say we’d be back.”

“No,” you snap, wrist raising so the wrench is inches from his chest, “my speeder was alive and well when it left my shop three days ago. So, do tell me, Jedi,” you hiss,  “what have you brought back?”

The man, indifferent to the weapon directed at him, climbs out of the wreck gracefully to stand before you. “Unfortunately, we got into a bit of an accident,” he says, “but you’ll be happy to know your speeder greatly contributed to the capture of a fugitive of the Republic.”  

It takes every fibre in your being to resist the urge to lunge when he nonchalantly reaches up to brush the strand of hair fallen across his forehead. 

“I don’t give a damn about a fugitive,” you seethe, “you owe me a new speeder! And double the credits!” 

Obi-wan’s mouth opens to bargain, but you cut him off before he even gets the chance to negotiate. 

“You know what—triple it!” Your arms cross over your chest and the droid follows suit, ushering the Jedi in the direction of the exit. If looks could kill, Obi-wan Kenobi would be dead three times over in four different galaxies.

He bows his head, gaze sweeping across your garage, “I’m afraid I don’t currently have such funds—”

Your eyes roll in indignation. 

“—perhaps we can come to some sort of agreement?”

The wrench goes flying.

--

The holonews plays distantly in the background while you work, filling up the hollow silence in every nook of your mech shop. Silence is a killer in the underworld; it’s important to let people know there’s someone home—burglars not welcome.

You’re halfway through wiping your hands clean of grease when the blue Twi’lek reporter’s perky demeanor dissolves into a still of a battleground. 

Felucia, the woman says, as more holos of piles upon piles of B-1 droids flash across the screen. Your breath catches in your throat and the air in the garage hangs heavy. That’s good news right? Droids in piles usually mean there aren’t as many troop casualties. There’s no mention of a General either, so you let out a breath of relief.

Celebrating early is a curse, because the reporter’s next words steal the air right out of your lungs.

“We have lost all contact with our journalist on the Felucia front, as last transmissions report a sudden aerial ambush. The fates of the GAR troops remain unknown.”

The report moves onto the next spectacle, but you’ve stopped listening. The holonews is wordlessly shut off, and you turn to working in silence, heart clenching painful in your chest, as if the very same battle droids had wrapped their cold, dead steel handpieces around it. 

The reporter’s words don’t leave you easily. The fates of the GAR troops remain unknown. 

--

Is threatening a Jedi Master a crime? Obi-wan isn’t sure, but he definitely thinks it should be. You’ve made your rage painstakingly clear and Maker, if he had a credit for every threat you spewed, he would have paid you back by now.

It’s late one night when Obi-wan finds himself in the underworld once more. It’s perpetually dark and most people have retired for the night, save the rowdy chaos stemming from the back-street cantinas. 

The neon logo of your mechanic shop emerges as he rounds the corner and he winces at the singe marks on your driveway. He must get around to apologising for that. The sharp smell of paint makes him wrinkle his nose when he walks in, spotting you in the far corner.

“This, here, is R4,” the Jedi says, announcing his arrival, “I suspect she has some loose wiring.”

Obi-wan can’t pretend the way your jaw clenches at the sound of his voice isn’t the least bit amusing. Your turn to face him with an air of annoyance.

“Can’t you see I’m busy, Kenobi?” You grumble, and his eyes drift from the bucket of silver paint by your boots, then over your shoulder to the refurbished speeder he had left behind the last time.

“I certainly do,” he hums, hand smoothing over his beard appreciatively, “it looks good as new.”

You scoff, arms crossing over your chest,  “no thanks to you.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here,” he says, nodding to the astromech hovering at his side, who beeps in greeting, “to repay my debt.” 

The side of your mouth quirks up as you move closer, regarding the droid, “Is this what you call repaying your debt? Giving me more work?” 

Obi-wan’s jaw goes slack, eyebrows raising at the way you and R4 share the same expression, even with one having no facial indicators. Though, he catches himself before the stare you receive from him can be construed as anything other than bewildered. “That was not my intention—” He starts, but you cut him off with a wave and a gratified smirk.

“It was a joke, Obi-wan,” you sigh, leading R4 to the station on the opposite side of the room, leaving the man gaping after you. “Are all Jedi so gullible?”

He huffs and leans against the wall as you do a quick once-over of his droid. You flitter around R4, retrieving all the equipment you need for the impending checks. You look rightfully in your element.

“Were all the mechanics up in the Galactic City unavailable?” You question, eyes briefly flickering up to meet his before returning to unscrewing R4’s bolts. You miss the look Obi-wan shoots the droid who whirs in response. 

“Not necessarily,” he coughs and suddenly, the gears hanging on your wall are the most interesting thing in the world, “I just haven’t gotten around to crashing their prized speeders yet.”

Your gaze narrows when you stand, but the menace is absent this time around. “I’ve replaced some of R4’s older wires. She was close to short-circuiting,” you remind sharply, contrasting your fond patting of R4, “and stars, Kenobi, it wouldn’t kill you to oil her joints once in a while.”

“Order received,” the man bows his head sheepishly, dropping the credits on your counter, “though for R4’s sake, you may consider teaching me how to.” 

You see Obi-wan out, mostly to bid his droid farewell. “Don’t push it, Jedi,” you simper, “I could still cut your brakes.”

He chuckles at that, reaching a hand up to thread through his hair. Obi-wan grins with a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, “then I’ll have no choice but to come back to repair it.”

Obi-wan Kenobi—master charmer of the Jedi Order.

--

The roof of your garage makes for a good stargazing spot. You use the term stargazing very loosely. The stars, in this case, are the blinking lights of the speeders hovering in the air. 

It’s certainly not the nicest spot in all of Coruscant, but it’s yours. The whole building is, at that, which is saying something considering you live in the underworld. 

You live close enough to the surface that sitting on your roof gives you a clear enough view of the portal leading to the Galactic City and the minuscule amount of light it brings.  The starships lower and rise through the massive ventilation shaft and you catch yourself hoping to see a familiar one. 

It’s hopeless, obviously, you’re too far away to see anything, anyway. Still, you can’t stop your eyes from flickering to the traffic leading into the underworld.

Maybe this time it’ll be his ship. 

One last look. Your heart sinks. Turning back, you head down the ladder. Alone. 

--

Obi-wan gauges that you don’t despise him as much as you let on about the umpteenth time he visits. 

You regard him with a quirked eyebrow and arms crossed over your chest, your default stance whenever he’s around, which is becoming rather frequent, you notice. 

“You want me to go up to the surface with you?”

The man nods, hands clasped dutifully behind him. “That is, in fact, what I said.” 

He’s dressed, once again, in those beige Jedi robes. His beard’s gotten thicker, you note. It’s been a while. 

“What for?” You question, intrigue piquing as you step closer to Obi-wan. It’s been even longer since you’ve been to the city. You tell yourself it’s because you have no reason to be up there anyway, but the thought lingers. 

“To celebrate,” Obi-wan shrugs, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the galaxy, “it’s a new cycle.”

You hum, turning back to rummage through your cabinets, the way you had been doing when he had first arrived. “I’m aware.”

Obi-wan remains silent behind you, but he’s relaxed. Almost too relaxed, as he leans against the wall agreeably. We can’t have that, you think.

“Don’t you have certain Jedi duties to attend to?” you hum, tossing an half-hearted glance over your shoulder, only to find his knowing smirk. Gods, he’s irritating. Yet, you let him be.

“According to the Chancellor, I’ve shaken enough hands for tonight,” he answers and his voice is laced with poorly-masked satisfaction, “my evening is open for meditation.”

“—unless you take me up on my offer, of course.”

You shouldn’t. There’s so much work to be done in the garage, but as you look around, everything’s been taken care of. Sometimes, you’re too efficient at what you do. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to spend the end of this cycle not alone, for once. 

“That depends,” you chide, but Obi-wan sees through it clear as day. He raises a hand to brush over his chin, effectively masking the smile beneath his palm. 

“-I wouldn’t want to keep a Jedi Master from his meditation.”

Hours later, the two of you find yourselves on the viewing deck of a skyscraper. The journey there is a blur, since you spent most of it up to this point marvelling at the city.

It’s so much brighter than you remember.

You can barely tell the time—the sky’s been completely lit up by miles of gleaming lights. The irony is not lost on you—how the Galactic City illuminated is one worthy of the stars while the underworld sees only darkness even on Coruscant’s sunniest days. 

The buildings are denser, packed so tight you could easily cross over into the adjacent balcony. You consider it genuinely for a moment, though pressed so close to Obi-wan’s side, the thought dissolves just as quickly as it comes. 

The viewing deck extends to a cantina, where you squeeze past the bodies pushing against you until you finally reach the bar. 

Obi-wan watches pensively as you fall back against a stool and flag down the bartender. “So, Kenobi,” you swivel around to eye the man who has arrived to hover behind you, “how did a Jedi come to find this place?” 

“Jedi business brings us to all reaches of the galaxy and this place happens to be one of them,” Obi-wan replies simply, as if dangling bait in front of you to ask more.Jedi business, he says.

Nevertheless, you take the bait. “What sort of Jedi business?”

Obi-wan’s eyes widen, taken aback. He’s never had to answer that question before— most people he came across were either Jedi themselves, or correspondents. He’s not sure what he’s even allowed to tell you.

“If you tell me, will you have to kill me?” You jest as he takes a generous gulp of his own drink. You don’t suppose Jedi business to be confidential, though with the current political climate, perhaps it has become just that.

It’s obvious he’s still contemplating your question, but you quickly steer him away from work.

“Where do you hope to be a year from now?” You ask, toying with the glass in hand, pondering your own answer while he does the same. Maker, hopefully not on this forsaken planet any longer.

Sure, you’ve been on Coruscant as long as you can remember and most of it has been spent in the underworld, but it stopped feeling like home even before that.

He hums thoughtfully and takes a sip of his own drink before responding. “Still serving the Order, of course,” he says. Obi-wan pauses and the air stills, as if the words unspoken in his throat have tainted it. 

“—though I fear I sense impending conflict in our future.”

Your brows raise as his lips fall into a grim line. “Oh? Do tell.”

Obi-wan shakes his head, as if doing so will clear the atmosphere of the words he had spoken. Recently, he finds himself saying more than he means to.

“I just hope peace will be kept in our galaxy. But for now, I think we should celebrate a year gone by.” 

A statement you can get behind.

“Cheers, I’ll drink to that,” you grin, downing a generous swing of (what remains of) your drink. You wince at the burn, but stars, if that isn’t better than anything you’ve had in the underworld. 

Obi-wan chuckles, a sound nearly drowned out by the crowd of cantina patrons. “You drink to everything.” 

You nod, exuberant, before swiping another glass of deep blue liquid off a passing tray. “Cheers!”

Further into the night, your body start to heat up, the pleasant tingles crawling from your fingertips all the way to your chest. 

In the dim lighting of the cantina, the edges of your vision go fuzzy and Obi-wan becomes just a bit more handsome, though it’s unclear how much of that is due to the alcohol. 

The room begins to empty, most people pushing their way out to the balcony as time ticks closer to midnight. 

“Would you like to watch the fireworks? I hear they’re known to be quite beautiful.” Obi-wan offers, gesturing to the gathering mass. 

“I bet they are,” you murmur, chin propped loosely against your palm while your gaze never leaves him. 

Amused, he offers an outstretched hand to help you off the stool that you had settled into so comfortably. He half expects you to slap him away and insist on standing on your own, but you take it instead. 

Your palm finds his after a moment of contemplation, coming to the conclusion that it would not be fun to trip face-first. 

His hand is warm against yours and you really hope he doesn’t feel the way you heat up beside him. This is really against your brand. 

Obi-wan effortlessly weaves through the crowd and manages to secure a spot at the very end of the deck, where the bodies are dispersed more loosely. 

You lean against the railing, peering over the railing, met with the sight of hundreds of floors below you with balconies overflowing with people. 

The knowledge that you blend into the crowd is soothing. You don’t need to be anyone here. Not the grouchy mechanic, so you don’t get taken advantage of. Surrounded this way, you get to be faceless, and it’s something Obi-wan seems to enjoy too. 

Coruscant, or as much of it as you can see, is plunged into darkness, save the hologram numbers projected against the walls that tick down with every passing second. 

You blink in earnest as the people around you begin to shout. Ten seconds to midnight.

One last glance around you, and you’re really glad you took Obi-wan up on his offer. 

You think to tell him, but then the crowd is chanting “one” and the entire balcony holds its breath before it erupts into deafening cheers of celebration. 

The grin on your face is hard to erase when the first sparks of light illuminate the sky. All the colours you can think of burst in different patterns, sizzling into thin wisps of smoke—leaving the faintest ghost that they had been there in the first place. 

You want to do that too. 

Turning to Obi-wan, you find him already looking at you. You stumble impossibly closer towards him, hands landing on his chest as you teeter on wobbly legs. 

A look of mild surprise graces his features, lips quirking into a smile as he looks down at you. “Hello there.”

Before you allow yourself to think twice, your fingers reach up to brush the strand of hair constantly falling against his forehead.

Obi-wan’s eyes widen minutely but he makes no move to recoil. You take that as a green light, but maybe that’s just the ongoing fireworks. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, leaning just close enough so he hears, “your hair was in your face, thought I should move it so I could see you better.”

He huffs what would have been a laugh if he wasn’t so breathless all of a sudden. Only then, do you realise how close you’ve actually gotten, when the warm air brushes your cheeks. 

Perhaps it’s the liquid courage, but something comes over you when your gaze lands on his mouth, so close but far from your own. “Can I kiss you, Obi-wan?”

Obi-wan stills. He knows he shouldn’t. His mind screams to walk away and meditate until you and your damned lips are no longer at the forefront. 

Yet, his hesitation doesn’t go far. Blame it on the alcohol if you will, but all his reservations go out the window when you blink at him, waiting with bated breaths. 

It’s a new year, he thinks, I’ll regret it tomorrow. 

The man throws caution to the wind as he closes the distance. 

Obi-wan tastes of sharp alcohol and comfort. Your lips press gently against his, as though your previous boldness had dissolved along with his resolve. 

You smile into the kiss when his hand moves to pull you in by your waist. Then, he feels you relax against him when fingers thread through the hair at his nape. 

Happy New Year, indeed. 

--

Obi-wan recalls telling himself he’d find it to feel bad in the morning, but it wholly slips his mind when the time comes, not when you look so utterly breathtaking sitting across from him, two cups of caf sitting in the short distance between you both. 

You look like bantha shit, put simply. Having managed to lead the way back home, you don’t remember much after kicking your heels off and falling face-first into bed. You imagine you look a sight, though, you can’t muster up the will to care, since all your attention is skewered by the tight ache behind your eyes, narrowly beating out the man in your kitchen. 

Squinting over the brim of your cup as you raise the caf to your lips, the heat that runs down your throat ironically soothes the burn left by the Alderaanian alcohol of the night before. 

“Stop smiling at me,” you grumble, feigning a scowl at the man slumped so comfortably in his chair, “‘S too bright.”He chuckles at that, head tilting as he regards you, bathed in the warm light bleeding into the room. 

His mind buzzes, recalling the feel of your lips pressed against his, but seeing as you haven’t shoved him out so far, he takes it as a good sign. 

Your sharp gaze follows him as he tries to gauge your thoughts. Obi-wan is nervous, which isn’t something that can be said often. The man has been trained as the galaxy’s peacekeeper, yet meets his match at the hands of a pretty mechanic. 

“I hope you had a good time,” Obi-wan says softly. It sounds as if he’s opening to a goodbye, and your heart twinges with something akin to disappointment. Apparently, it’s all too easy to forget the man you kissed last night is still a Jedi with very real Jedi duties.

You offer a light smile, “I did.” Fingers curling just that much tighter around the weight of your cup, pausing before you continue, mulling over your words, “--we should do it again.”

Obi-wan’s eyebrows raise in amusement, a cheeky grin stretching across his lips. His hand finds his beard, sweeping over as a force of habit. “It, being celebrating New Year’s or--”

He doesn’t get far with his question as you cross over to him and then you’re doing it again. 

--

Months pass. Obi-wan finds himself frequenting the underworld so much that most of his time on-planet is spent by your side, when he’s not occupied with his Jedi duties.

This time is no different. You’ve closed up shop for the day, the sign outside dim as he approaches. He’s been gone for longer than he’d like, sent on a diplomatic mission on behalf of the Republic. When Obi-wan knocks on your door, it’s clear he’s run-down.

His shoulders are slumped when he crosses the threshold, into your arms. You feel him breathe deeply as his fingers gather the fabric at your waist, anchoring himself to you.

Wordlessly, he allows you to steer him, coming to rest at the foot of your bed. His hand never leaves yours. 

The air surrounding you is thick with concern as you sit beside him, unsure. You take the moment to give Obi-wan a once over, allowing yourself the sliver of what you had been missing since he had left. 

“Your hair’s gotten longer,” you speak, raising his palm to dust a warm kiss against his knuckles, “look how it hangs in your eyes.”

Obi-wan smiles, leaning more of his weight against your side. “Couldn’t find the time to get it trimmed,” he mumbles, words laced heavy with fatigue.

You click your tongue as you tuck the auburn hair behind his ear. “Don’t need to,” you hum, eyes scanning over the thick expanse of hair gathered at his collar, “it suits you.”

It really does. The way the curls cascade down the back of his head, coming to rest atop his shoulders, the same way as the day you met him, makes it difficult to imagine anything else in place of his long hair. 

He’s scolded you before for prodding him for a holo of himself with the padawan braid. 

“Do you want me to braid your hair?” You ask into the comfortable silence, voice gentle in case he’s fallen asleep against your shoulder. A Jedi skill, he tells you, to be able to rest wherever and whenever. 

For a moment, you even believe he is—that is, until he lifts off of you with a nod. Your hand leaves his as you move behind him with excitement.

You kneel behind him as he comes to rest against your front. Your hands drape atop his shoulders, smoothing over the fabric there.“You can sleep,” you lean down, murmuring close enough he can feel your lips ghosting his cheek in a grin. 

Obi-wan chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. “Not sleeping,” he corrects, “—meditating.”

As your fingers thread through his hair with practiced ease, you bite back a bemused snort. “Well, I’d hate to keep you from that, Jedi Master.”

Obi-wan sits obediently still as you deftly weave through the compliant strands. The pair of you sit in silence, quiet enough to hear your heartbeat even out with Obi-wan’s steady breathing. Stars, he has really nice hair. The envy is short lived, as you come to end the braid at his neck, admiring your handiwork. 

His usual untampered locks now sit neatly in a braid running down the back of his head, a stark contrast to usual. 

You don’t need to ask to know he’s long past being awake. Once more, craning over his shoulder, your lips brush against his face, bearded cheek tickling your skin. 

“Rise and shine,” you laugh as his eyes flutter open to meet yours. Bleary-eyed, he offers no protest when you pull at his shoulders, shedding him of his outer robes so that he falls back on the bed wrapped in your covers. 

Obi-wan goes out like a light. How could he not? If he hadn’t been so exhausted already the feeling of your hands against his scalp would’ve done the trick anyhow. 

When he sleeps, you let yourself admire him. With his hair finally out of his face, you get to admire him in his entirety. If you had tried at any other time, he’d chide you for staring, catching you before you had even started. 

Eyes shut, Obi-wan looks serene. The usually furrowed brows have relaxed now, making the man look years younger, or how he would look if he would stop working himself to the bone. For the Republic, he says.

Even now, in the relative safety (or whatever comes close in the underworld) of your home, he looks battle-ready. The realisation comes heavy as gravity—knowing this would always be Obi-wan’s normal. 

Yet, warmth runs through your chest at the fact that even so weary, Obi-wan chose to come to you. Neither had seen it coming-- the mechanic he’d met after crashing into their shop would become a source of comfort in such turmoil. 

Thank the Maker for crashed speeders.

--

You emerge from under what feels like the hundredth speeder of the day, grease smeared across your arms and sweat dotting your skin. You should really start charging more. Your droid whirs in delight, logging another successful transaction while you wipe off traces of work on a nearby grease rag. 

The sun, or what light reaches down there has dimmed, signalling the end of another day. A heavy sigh racks your chest and you catch sight of your reflection in the deteriorating mirror across the room.

You look like a day of work—stained overalls and burnt fingertips, but one part stays the same as it had when the work started. As your eyes drift over the braids pulling your hair back, everything that you had been trying to push back by throwing yourself into hours of work bubbles to the surface.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you avert your eyes.

--

He’s probably dead. You wouldn’t necessarily call yourself a pessimist, but that’s most likely the case, and it would do you more good to accept it than what you’re doing now; tuning out the news until the briefest mention of the Grand Army of the Republic, dropping everything for the smallest sliver of news, for hope.

Obi-wan hadn’t told you about the clones. It had come as a surprise to most, word spreading that the Republic finally had its own army. You remember watching the new Chancellor Palpatine on the holonews, a pit of unease simmering in your stomach as his words rang.

A clone army. 

You don’t see that everyday—or perhaps you will now.

It’s been near a full month of radio silence. If Obi-wan and his troops are alive, the news certainly doesn’t think so. There’s been no mention of any rescue mission from the Republic, which you believe to be rather telling. A clone army—expendable. Jedi, also expendable, apparently.

The best course of action would be business as usual. He has told you that this was his duty, that his loyalty would always lie with the Republic and his role as a Jedi. You understood, but certainly hadn’t expected that loyalty to lead him to his grave.

So, naturally, you close shop for the day. Your customers will survive. The sign on the outer wall remains dim all morning and the light outside doesn’t reach you, hidden away in your bed.

Again, Coruscant is fucking cold. There’s absolutely no rhyme or reason for it and just adds another point in your list of factors to leave the damned planet. No matter how many layers you huddle under, the cold manages to find you. 

Most traces of him are gone. The spice that clings to his robes and lingers in the air long after he’s gone has dissipated and you start to wonder if he had ever been here at all. 

The last thing you expect is to hear the rapping of knuckles against your front door. 

The second the first knock comes, your heart stops, the briefest glimmer of hope wrestling its way up. Barrelling towards the door, it slides open to reveal the man previously presumed dead.

For a moment, you don’t think it’s real. Obi-wan stands in the doorway, robes singed to hell and back, a nasty cut running along his temple and looking like he’s aged ten years, yet you recognise him in a heartbeat.

He hears your breath hitch in your throat when you freeze.  His expression is cautious, considering your reaction. He had found his way back to Coruscant all the way from Felucia, yet the distance separating you seems far too large.

“You cut your hair,” you finally say. Gone are the auburn curls that once brushed his collar which is now clipped short, baring his neck. Your shoulders slack before you’re pulling him in by the shoulders, sending him lurching into your chest. 

Obi-wan laughs at that, engulfing you in his arms. His grasp winds tight around you and you stand there for what feels like hours but not enough, and all you can think is he’s here.

Obi-wan pulls back, eyes finding yours with a fond smile. “I’ll just have to learn to do your hair now.” He leans in, placing a kiss to the crown of your hair. “You don’t look very well, love.”

“—because of me?”

You huff indignantly at that, pulling out of his hold, “yes, I do have you to thank for a solid month of worrying.” 

Obi-wan pauses, eyes flickering over your shoulder. You can tell he takes it to heart.

“Hey,” you murmur, lifting a palm to his cheek, “it would just really suck if you died, y’know?” 

He sighs, “I’m sorry I worried you. I tried to find a working commlink but—” He stills once more, shaking his head in defeat. You fill the silence. 

“But you were at war, Obi-wan. Commlinks can wait, I’m just happy you made it home in one piece. That’s all that matters.”

The man exhales once more but he concedes with a nod. Knowing he must feel like absolute bantha crap, you usher him to the worn sofa. He watches you flitter around the room, rummaging through cupboards and he can’t help but notice how normal this feels. 

Eventually, you bring him a steaming cup of caf, something that seems to flow endlessly in your home and perch beside him on the armrest. The pair of you settle into a comfortable silence. As you lace your fingers between his, you can feel him formulating his thoughts.

“What are you thinking about?” You hum, tapping his wrist. Obi-wan is still, before he whips his head towards you. 

“If you asked… I’d stay.” Obi-wan blurts.

The words make you gape and you’re speechless for a good amount of time. He watches you intently, serious as ever. 

“Obi-wan,” you begin slowly, “you know I’d never ask that of you.”

“I know that,” he responds firmly, “I also know the Jedi way forbids attachment, that I’d have to let you go. Yet, on Felucia, I wasn’t fighting for the Republic. When we were surrounded by the Separatist droids, I was trying to get back to you.”

Your heart is thudding in your chest, pounding against your ribcage with such ferocity you wonder if even he can hear it. You don’t know what to say. 

He leans closer earnestly as his grip on your hand tightens. “I can’t promise things won’t always be this way, but I will always find my way back to you.”

Words have never been your strong suit, this much is certain so you close the gap between you instead, hoping that your lips on his can convey all the emotions cresting from his promise. 

When you pull away, it’s because he wipes a tear that escapes down your cheek. “I just hope I’m not the reason you’ll turn to the dark side,” you say with a soft laugh. 

Obi-wan nudges your cheek bemusedly, “it’s more likely than you think.”

Bathed in the colourful lights seeping through the blinds, you savour the peace. The morning seems a little brighter and tucked into Obi-wan’s side, Coruscant doesn’t seem so cold anymore.

[omnifatal]

Dragon Standard: Esper Control Deck Report

A friend of mine came up with an idea for a tournament some months ago. The concept was pretty simple, it followed the premise of the Khans of Tarkir block (minus the time travel, maybe): Dragons vs Everyone Else. It combined the aforementioned Khans block standard with the famous Dragonstorm Standard from Worlds 2007. The legal sets were:

Coldsnap

Time Spiral

Planar Chaos

Future Sight

10th Edition

Lorwyn

Theros

Born of the Gods

Journey Into Nyx

M15

Khans of Tarkir

Fate Reforged

Dragons of Tarkir

There were also some "Form of" cards legal, like Form of the Dragon, but I don't think anyone played them.

Pro Tour Dragons was one of the first I watched as a player, and I remembered the Esper Dragons deck from that year fondly and thought I'd replicate it in this format, with some powerful upgrades. I also really, really just wanted to cast Dig Through Time again. And so, the following list was born. (One of these days, I’ll figure out how to get the iframe to work). 

The person running the tournament (I use that term liberally, it was just the four of us playing here) did their own breakdown of my deck afterwords and I think they had a lot of good points. The biggest takeaway I had from the tournament was that making control in such an unknown metagame is really difficult. I drew inspiration (read: copied) from the successful Esper Dragons lists from the PT DTK era. Unfortunately, we were just a set or two off of the card that really cracked this deck in half: Jace, Vryn's Prodigy. 

As a result, I had to play a "gimped" version of the deck without the powerful Planeswalker, and many of the strategy and deckbuilding articles about Esper Dragons were from the Origins era, which didn't help me out. That said, I was pretty happy with my 75 going into the tournament. I'd known from previous times I'd played with this group to expect some kind of off-the-wall combo, hence the grave hate in the board. I wasn't super impressed by Anticipate, and I honestly thought Ponder would be enough card selection, paired with fetchland-powered Dig Through Time, to find me the cards I wanted when I wanted them. It turns out that wasn't the case.

As I said, playing control in a wide open, totally unknown format is tricky. This deck probably had the strongest finisher/anti-control tool in the format in Dragonlord Ojoutai, and in theory we had actual, factual counterspell in the form of Silumgar's Scorn. Crux of Fate could clean up any wide boards and Foul-Toungue and Hero's Downfall were solid removal options for big threats, and the former also doubled as a life buffer verses aggro. In hindsight, I was woefully unprepared for the aggro matchups, and I probably should have cut most of the walkers for more removal. Cryptic command, unsurprisingly to anyone who's tried to play triple colored cards in a format without the mainstay fetch-dual interaction, was hard to cast in a three colored deck. My mana base also ended up being a little too slow to keep up with some of the aggro decks, and while the life gain and scries were helpful, I felt like my scries often went to getting rid of extra lands and ended up making me too slow to actually be able to cast my sweepers and removal. Speaking of, who let me play 27 lands with only 4 Ponder as cantrips?!

All this is to say that the deck performed fine, but not fantsatic. I ended up taking second place to a super neat Naya Megamorph deck which very obviously poked at my lack of good removal and applied a quick clock with beaters such as Tarmogoyf and standard all stars Nest Invader and Den Protector to out-value my Digs and Cruxes.

In a reversal of the DTK timeline, the dragons lost this round. Although, to be fair, I was outnumbered 3 to 1. In the future, I'm probably not going to try and make a control deck for a pseudo-block format like this without a lot more thought, I really just stole an old list and shoved Cryptics and Ponders into it and expected it to work. This might have gone better if I'd just copied it whole cloth, as I'd at least have some better card selection and ratios of removal. But oh well, live and learn, right?

[spellbccks]

«♡» ─────  I N T R O D U C I N G . . . *✧｡⋆

                      . . .  A Z A Z E L  P E T H A M E N O S  !

        the  boy  made  of  golden  smoke  . . .

«♡» ─────  STATS  !

BASICS !

name:  azazel  pethamenos

nicknames:  zazzy

age:  nineteen

gender:  demiboy

pronouns:  he/they

date of birth:  may 13th, 2000

parent(s):  bill  cipher;  adopted  by  hades  &  persephone

hometown:  the  isle  of  the  lost;  the  underworld

occupation:  student  &  prince / god  ?

PHYSICAL !

hair colour: black

eye colour:  gold  irises  w/  red  pupils

height: 167cm

tattoos:  none,  but  !  he  has  the  pethamenos  family  crest  branded  into  the  left  side  of  his  chest  !

piercings:  three  piercings  in  his  right  lobe,  four  piercings  in  his  left lobe,  double  helix  on  his  right  ear,  triple  forward  helix  on  his  left  ear,  industrial  through  his  right  ear  !

scars:  he  has  to  many  to  count,  but  noticeable  ones  are:  two  long  scars  on  either  side  of  his  spine,  a  long  scar  along  his  throat,  a  small  scar  along  his  left  cheekbone,  a  jagged  scar  through  the  brand  on  the  left  side  of  his  chest  !

faceclaim:  jeon  jeongguk

«♡» ─────  ABOUT  !

he  was  born  on  the  isle  of  the  lost  as  the  biological  son  of  everyone’s  favourite  inter - dimensional  dream  demon,  bill  cipher.

it’s  needless  to  say  that  bill  wasn’t  the  best  parent  around  . . .  in  fact,  he  wasn’t  really  much  of  a  parent  at  all.  what  bill  lacked  in  love  and  compassion,  he  devastatingly  made  up  for  in  abuse  and  torment  ---  and  azazel  had  always  been his  most  favoured  plaything.

for  the  first  few  years  of  his  life,  azazel  grew  up  under  the  grand  knowledge  that  he  wasn’t  really  anything  more  than  an  object,  a  plaything,  a  toy  for  bill  to  use,  distort,  warp  however  and  whenever  he  saw  fit.

and  yet  . . .  he  also  grew  up  being  told  that,  while  he  would  never  be  grander  than  his  father,  he  would  always  be  grander  than  everyone  else;  he  had  a  multi - verse  at  his  very  fingertips  if  he  just  knew  how  to  get  to  it.

so,  while  he  was  the  subject  to  years  and  years  of  torture  and  abuse  at  the  hands  of  his  very  own  father,  there  was  also  this  sort  of  . . .  god  complex  that  was  instilled  into  him;  and  it  was  that  exact  god  complex  that  would  be  his  demise  !

see,  despite  the  lack  of  magic,  azazel  started  becoming  . . .  powerful  on  the  isle.  he  was  the  epitome  of  chaos  and  destruction,  instilled  fear  just  about  everywhere  he  went,  brought  death  down  upon  people  for  so  little  as  looking  at  him  the  wrong  way;  he  was  as  close  to  a  god  as  one  could  get  on  a  place  like  that  and  he  reveled  in  it.

at  first,  the  power,  for  lack  of  a  better  word,  that  azazel  has  acquired  on  the  isle  had  been  all  fun  and  games  to  bill,  but  as  he  grew  older,  the  elder  cipher  began  to  see  his  own  son  as  a  sort  of  threat.

he  began  to  see  his  son’s  god  complex  outweigh  the  part  of  azazel  that  was  supposed  to  know  his  place,  the  part  of  him  that  was  supposed  to  know  that  he  was  just  a  plaything  for  his  father’s  amusement.

so,  in  order  to  eliminate  any  kind  of  threat  to  himself  that  he  had  accidentally  created  within  his  son,  bill promptly  killed  azazel  quite  brutally  (  as  in  . . .  he  cut  into  him  and  essentially  tore  him  to  shreds  . . .  )  at  the  young  age  of  . . .  twelve-ish  !

upon  his  death,  azazel  was  sent  to  the  underworld  ---  the  greek  underworld,  where  persephone  found  him,  soul  beaten  and  battered  and  barely  conscious,  and  instantly  took  him  in  !

the  original  plan  had  been  to  simple  nurse  him  back  to  whatever  sort  of  health  a  soul  requires  and  then  release  him  into  the  rest  of  the  underworld,  but  persephone  soon  found  herself  adoring  this  child  who  she’d  brought  back  to  health,  for  lack  of  a  better  word,  and  she  insisted  he  be  their  child,  which  hades  begrudgingly  agreed  to,  because  . . .  he’s  whipped  for  his  wife.

azazel,  knowing  only  abuse  his  entire  life,  was  reluctant  to  agree,  though  upon  realising  that  his  newfound  father  was  the  god  of  the  underworld  . . .  he  realised  he  didn’t  have  much  of  a  choice.

the  first  little  while  in  his  new  home  was  better  than  anything  he’d  ever experienced  before  ---  persephone  doted  on  him  like  there  was  no  tomorrow  and,  while  hades  was  a  tad  more  distant,  it  was  evident  that  he  too  had  a  growing  adoration  for  this  boy.

but  sweetness  only  lasts  so  long  before  it  turns  bitter  ---  long  story  short,  somehow  kronos  and  rhea  were  raised  from  tartarus  (  probably  by  hades,  since  he ‘s  power  hungry  even  now  )  and  upon  finding  out  exactly  what  azazel  is,  he  saw  an  undeniable  potential  in  him.

thus,  kronos  began  treating  azazel  similarly  to  how  bill  did,  except  his  reason  for  the  abuse  was  because  he  was  “  training  him  to  be  a  god  ”  and,  in  all  his  naivety,  azazel  believed  this  and  still  does.

hades  and  persephone  witnessed  the  abuse  being  forced  upon  their  child,  they  were  aware  of  it,  and  persephone  hated  it;  but  going  against  the  father  of  one  of  the  most  powerful  gods  alive  ?  going  against  a  titan  ?  not  even  the  gods  who  preside  over  the  underworld  would  do  that.

so,  a  new  life  of  torture  and  torment  is  what  azazel  was  forced  into,  once  again  being  used  as  a  plaything,  except  this  time  ?  he  was  told  it  was  for  his  own  good.  he  was  told  that  he  was  being  molded  into  the  god  that  he  had  all  the  potential  to  be.

so,  he  took  the  abuse  almost  happily,  even  though  his  daily  sessions  with  his  grandfather  were  the  most  dreaded  hours  of  his  life.  he  saw  them  as  normal,  as  something  that  he  needed,  something  that  he  was  almost  addicted  to.

as  he  grew  older,  as  he  neared  the  age  of  eighteen,  he  began  being  told  (  by  his  father,  this  time  )  that  he  would,  one  day,  inherit  the  throne  to  the  underworld  and  would  one  day  be  the  king  ---  the  god  ---  of  what  is  essentially  hell.

this  news  was  new  to  azazel,  but  it  influenced  him  in  ways  nothing  else  ever  had  ---  he  began  taking  everything  his  grandfather  had  told  him  to  heart;  he  had  to  discipline  himself,  to  train  himself,  to  be  the  grandest  fucking  god  anyone  has  ever  seen.

so,  all  of  the  violence  and  abuse  that  his  grandfather  forced  upon  him  ?  was  doubled  as  azazel  began  forcing  it  upon  himself  as  well.  he  would  mimic  upon  himself  all  that  his  grandfather  would  do  to  him,  though  he  did  this  mostly  in  private,  not  letting  his  mother  or  father  know  as  he  knew  they  wouldn’t  approve  of  such  self - harm.

then,  within  just  the  past  month  or  two,  he  was  given  the  opportunity  to  attend  university  in  auradon.  truly,  he  didn’t  want  to  attend,  as  he  didn’t  see  why  he  should  need  to  attend  college  when  he’s  going  to  be  a  king,  the  god  of  the  underworld.

persephone  insisted  that  it  would  be  a  good  opportunity  for  him,  but  it  was  kronos’  influence  that  convinced  him  ---  his  grandfather  told  him  that  he  should  go  to  auradon,  and  he  should  become  a  god  at  last  and  use  all  of  his  powers  to  find  a  way  to  free  the  underworld  from  the  isle.  so,  needless  to  say,  azazel  left  the  underworld  and  the  isle  to  come  to  auradon.

before  he  left,  though,  kronos  gave  him  an  incantation  and  instructions  for  a  ritual  ---  “  complete  this  ritual  and  recite  this  during  the  devil’s  hour,  “  he  told  the  boy,  “  do  this  and  you  will  be  a  god.  “

azazel  wasn’t  sure  what  his  grandfather  meant  by  this,  but  this  incantation,  this  ritual  was  the  first  thing  he  did  upon  coming  to  auradon  and,  instantly,  he  understood.

the  completion  of  the  ritual  channeled  olympian  divinities  and,  just  like  that,  azazel  was  granted  god - like  status  &  powers,  in  reflection  to  those  of  his  father,  hades,  in  addition  to  all  that  he  was  born  with  as  a  dream  demon.

and  now  that  he’s  in  auradon,  he’s  doing  all  that  he  can  to  try  and  find  a  way  to  free  the  underworld,  his  underworld.

«♡» ─────  PERSONALITY  &  MISC  !

he’s  the  epitome  of  chaos  !  kills  for  fun  !  alters  reality  for  fun  !  literally  the  worst  !

oh  !  he  steals  souls  !  makes  deals  w/  people  and  grants  them  a  wish  in  return  for  their  soul  !

he  . . .  throws  tantrums  . . .  a  lot  . . .  will  just  start  shrieking  . . .  they  don’t  ever  end  well,  because  he  doesn’t  know  how  to  control  his  powers,  so  uh  !  beware  !

he’s  fucking  . . .  touch - starved  as  shit  . . .  please  . . .  love  him  . . .

but  also  !  trust  issues  !  doesn’t  actually  let  people  touch  him  !  is  afraid  of  people  hurting  him  !

he’s  . . .  always  covered  in  bruises  &  wounds  &  scars  . . .  please,  don’t  ask  him  about  them  . . .  or  do  . . .  piss  him  off  . . .  go  wild  . . .

his  trademark  colour  is  gold  !

he’s  known  for  disappearing  into  a  cloud  of  sparkly,  gold  smoke  !  it’s  his  thing  !

also,  his  appearance  is  very  . . .  light.  looks  more  like  an  angel  than  the  god - in - training  of  the  underworld.

also  being  the  heir  to  the  underworld  throne  is  . . .  key  to  his  character  . . .  sniffles  . . .

don’t  . . .  call  him  azazel  . . .  ever  . . .  always  zazzy  . . .  only  zazzy  . . .

[reisabrisingr]

Honestly, I was thinking of Romans return and fuck, I couldn’t help but to write this.

Honestly, when Roman returns, I don’t want it on RAW or a random PPV.

I want it at Wrestlemania, I want it to be the main event of Wrestlemania. I don’t want anyone knowing about his return, not even Seth or Dean.

I want Seth and Dean to be in the main event of Wrestlemania. I want them to be versing one another for the vacant universal title. I don’t care who’s heel,who’s face.

I want it to be a triple threat, but whenever someone was qualifying to be the third, Seth and Dean are told to take them out. I want Seth and Dean to act like all they care about is for them to be facing one another, because this isn’t about a third, this is about them. One V One on the biggest stage of them all.

I want The New Day and The Usos hosting wrestlemania. I want them to make it fun, to make everyone laugh in between the matches by how much charisma they have with one another.

When Seth and Dean are in the ring, facing each other down, ready to put on the biggest fight of their lives. I want the new day and usos to come out.

I want the five of them being so confused by what’s going on as they’ve been told to announce there will be a third added into the match.

Jimmy comes out all confused,”well, myself and Uce have no idea what’s going on here.” Jey will lift the mic up and shrug,”I’m just as confused as you are.” Kofi will look between the four of them, trying to puzzle what’s going on,”we’ve just been told that Vince isn’t happy without the triple threat going on.” And for Xavier to lift up his mic and hold franchesca whilst looking at the crowd, “HHH and Vince are currently trying to figure out who’s going to be in the match right now. But who is it going to be?” And for the four of them to start a who chant along with Xavier on franchesca.

Whilst they’re doing it, Dean and Seth are arguing with the ref because it’s not fair. No one else was able to beat them to rightfully gain their place. The only people who deserve the main event spot is them.

And during all the chaos, all of a sudden out of no where the lights go black. The whole crowd is brought into silence, whilst on the titantrom it’s going crazy with letters. For a brief second one sentence stands out,”I can.” Then it scrumbles up the letters again ,”I will.” And then it stops. The whole place goes black again, some of the crowd were able to pick up the messages.

Then there’s a single sentence. “I did.” The whole crowd is confused.

Then all of a sudden, the whole place is lit up and surrounded by the familiar and symbolic guitar sounds. The same ones they used to be annoyed at hearing. Seth and Dean instantly freeze in the spot. Their mouths hanging open whilst they’re staring at the ramp.

Corey Graves is freaking out,”IT CANT BE, SURELY NOT?!” The New Day are shouting questions at Jimmy and Jey and they’re just shouting,”we didn’t know!! We have no idea.”

And then the spotlight is placed at the enterance of gorrila and Roman walks out with a massive smile. His hair is noticeably shorter but it’s slicked back, his logo on his vest is orange. Jimmy and Jey instantly jump on him, along with the new day.

Seth and Dean can’t help it, they know they have to fight one another. But they instantly climb out of the ring and start running up the ramp.

Roman finally gets the five other guys off of him when he spots his brothers almost half way up the ramp.

He has the biggest smile on his face, because fuck, he’s missed them. FaceTime, phone calls and texts just aren’t the same.

He starts jogging down to them, when they get to each other Seth and Dean practically throw themselves onto him.

They’re holding onto one another for dear life because fuck, they were so terrified that they’d never get to do this again.

The camera is catching each of their faces, Seth is crying because he finally has his big brother back. Someone he’s always been able to count on, someone whos never judged him. Dean is shaking, he can’t. He’s still angry as fuck at the world for doing this to his best fucking friend.

And Roman? He has the biggest smile on his face. He’s home. He’s got his boys back, as much as he wants to slap them upside the head right now and let them sort out their problems in a locked room. He’s so fucking happy. He’s missed them, he’s missed this. He’s missed us, the WWE universe.

Roman is pulled out of his thoughts by the “welcome back.” And “Yes” chants. He lets go of Seth and Dean, the camera picks up him saying,”We’ve got work to do.”

Corey is in complete and utter shock,”I can’t believe this. Renee did you know anything about this!” Renee is smiling so hard,”I can honestly say I had no idea, but I’m so happy for Roman Reigns right now.” Corey smiles whilst chuckling,”i can’t believe I can finally say this, welcome home big dog, your yard has missed you.”

When they get into the ring, the three of them lock up and Roman manages to out power Seth and Dean. He laughs and shouts at them,”THAT ALL YOUVE GOT? Come on! Do your worst, I can take it.”

The match is intense, theres broken tables and chairs are lying along the outside of the ring. The crowd have been wild, they’ve chanted so much during the match. From, the typical “let’s go, —— *clap,clap,clap*” to ,”this is awesome.” But the ones that stand out are,”Welcome back.” “You’ve still got it.” And,”Roman.”

Seth and Dean end up back in the ring, they’re leaning on one another for support. Roman is lying on the edge of the ring, trying to regain himself after Seth and Dean had teamed up to take him out.

Once Seth and Dean have locked up, Dean goes to set up for the dirty deeds, but Seth managed to stop him just before he went down.

Just as Seth is standing back up, they both feel the wind being knocked out of their stomachs as Roman had managed to spear the both of them. They land on the mat, lying flat on their backs. Romans puts an arm around both of them, too exahusted to move over and cover one of them fully.

1... 2... 3... DING DING DING.

The crowd arrupt, it’s the loudest they’ve cheered the whole night.

Jojo stands up with the biggest smile on her face,” ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this match and your NEW UNIVERSAL CHAMPION... Roman Reigns. “

The crowd goes wild, Roman pushes himself up in shock,he looks at the ref,”No..” whilst shaking his head. The ref walks back over and hands Roman the title, his title. He looks at the title in his hands, memories flodding back to the night he had last held it. “My real name is joe, and I’ve been living with Leukemia for 11 years.” “Thank you, Roman.” “Because after I’m done whopping Leukemias ass once again, I’m coming back home.” He doesn’t even realise that he’s started crying until he feels someone wrap their arms around him.

He opens his eyes and realises it’s Seth, he let’s go of the title and hugs him back. He feels a light pressure touching his arm and looks over to see Dean, trying to help them both up. “Come on Seth, works done here.”

They both stand up and just as Seth’s about to walk away, Dean grabs onto his wrist, Seth jumps thinking he’s away to be attacked. Dean shakes his head, “don’t worry.” Dean pulls Seth into joining his hug with Roman.

Once they pull away Dean hugs Seth seprately,”I’m so sorry Seth. I just, I couldn’t be with you whilst Roman was gone, you reminded me too much of what we had. I’m so sorry.” And Seth can’t believe his ears, he’s waited over two years for that apology.

Romans music starts again and they separate the walk up the ramp, as they’re walking up the ramp, the McMahon’s and HHH start walking out to the top of the ramp to congratulate Roman followed by the entire RAW and Smackdown locker room and even the refs.

Once they get to the top Roman hugs each one of the McMahons and HHH before turning around, he raises his title and puts out his fist. He doesn’t even need to ask, he feels his boys placing their fists beside his.

Romans smile is massive.

Because my god, does it feel so good to finally be back home. This, this is what his life is all about.

[wzly]

The Spirit of Hand-To-Hand Screw Tapes: How DJ Screw Seized the Means of Production

The Greater Houston area’s large expanse of highway and prairie makes a public sphere seem unfathomable. In her book of short essays, Trick Mirror, author Jia Tolentino describes Houston, writing, “There’s an irradiated spirit to everything: an impurity that can feel like absolution.” The city’s decentralized spirit and the range of antidotes people find to make sense of its chaos themselves become a sense of security. The recording technique “chopped and screwed,” developed by DJ Screw out of Houston, mimics such dissociative security as his tapes move slowly toward a conclusion you do not need to understand.

By some measures, Houston is the most diverse city in America, but it’s deeply segregated. Houston’s segregated Black neighborhoods are located on the margins of downtown, where oil companies routinely extract natural resources, source cheap labor, and expropriate wealth. Out of the South and West sides of Houston, the Hip-hop scene was born in the 90s. Many people attribute the burgeoning Houston sound to infamous Hip-hop DJ Robert Earl Javis Jr, also known as DJ Screw. Screw’s cousin noticed the way he used a screw to scratch up records he didn’t like, which led to his stage name. He began DJing at a skating rink on the South side of Houston in the late 80s. It is said that in 1989, he hit the wrong button on the turntable, and the tempo slowed. A friend gave him ten dollars to record an entire tape at that tempo, which eventually became his signature sound.

Screw played records on top of previously recorded multitrack mixes, layering three to four different records all at once. Once Screw had his bass-heavy mixes finished, he would slow the tape down and record it onto a master cassette. Using a basic pitch shift he’d then make copies onto one-hundred-minute Maxell chrome tapes, which he would buy in bulk from Sam’s Club. At first, every tape had a handwritten name on the label, like “South Side Still Holding" or "Syrup and Soda." From 8pm to 10pm each night, cars would line up down the block, bringing hundreds of fans, some from other cities, who would crowd the front yard, lining up at the back door where Screw stood to sell tapes and talk with fans. The popularity of his tapes was amazing. In a 2015 interview, Screwed Up Click rapper Lil Flip recalled watching Screw go to car shows with 10,000 to 15,000 tapes and instantly sell out. He didn’t need to sign with a record label; everyone wanted his tapes. 

There were more efficient ways for Screw to get his music to people. He could have set up an official distribution network or moved onto the Internet. A music distributor in Houston, Southwest Wholesale, had sprung up for the sole purpose of building a market for independent artists. But Screw insisted on his hand-to-hand method, doing everything in cash with no bank account, hiring friends to manage the crowds. He could never meet the demands for his music. “Some record stores became pirates themselves, duping and selling their own Screw CDs and cassettes.” He was criticized by commercial retailers like Musicmania because of the “lost fortune” he could have made.

Using a capitalist ethic that privileges mechanical reproduction and profit, Screw’s critics deemed his refusal to expand as a failure, saying “he could never get it together.” This perspective fails to consider the value of his hand-to-hand distribution network. He was protective of his aesthetic: "It’s only a Screw tape if I screw it,” he told The Source in a 1995 interview. 

According to author Tricia Rose in her book Black Noise, powerful groups maintain and affirm institutional power by concealing or undermining subversive discourses. DJ Screw’s critics, like commercial record stores, disguised their desire to control his means of production and flow of capital by reducing his anti-establishment methods to “failures.” This serves to legitimize the capitalist ethic under which the value of a product is solely determined by its ability to be monetized. 

Screw resisted alienation from his craft. Whether by default or design, the accessibility of his tapes privileged those who were closest to him geographically –economically and politically marginalized Black communities in Houston. If commercial record distributors determine which markets are desirable based on profit potential, then DJ Screw threatened institutional control over which groups of people are deemed worthy of access. Thus, the “chopped-and-screw” material production was inherently anti-capitalist.

In Houston, spiritual matters are regulated by Southern evangelicals and extractive oil empires like Exxon and Halliburton. Within Christianity, there are clear prescriptions about who one should be: anything outside of Whiteness and Christianity are deemed corrupt. Southern evangelicalism supports the belief that wealth is a kind of divine right, and those who have it are worth more to God than everyone else.This logic conveniently lends itself to Houston’s multinational oil companies extractive measures, which benefit wealthy white populations while exploiting Black communities.  

By the late 90s, Screw had become addicted to codeine cough syrup. The drug has since become associated with rappers and racialized, even though it’s used across all demographics. Screw’s “swamp gospel” created an alternative code for spirituality that undermines Christianity’s domain over faith and piety.

Like codeine, Screw’s music slowed the story down: each word pronounced, dark tunes got darker, with a bass so thick your body could feel weightless. “Chopped-and-screwed” urges the listener to internalize the tempo and its existential qualities. The track “My Mind Went Blank” from his 1995 album All Screwed Up, Vol. II, begins its first verse with: “Every time I wake up, I give the swisha sweet a hit // Sometimes I feel I just can’t survive without that lick,” which slowly builds to the line: “And if that Buddha don’t do ya, then go dippin.’” If religion or faith can’t bring you solace, you can find your way through with a sedative. He presents the feeling of losing control, repeating scenarios where one cannot find stability: “…when you enter // The South Park chamber, you in danger,” which is ultimately resolved in the chorus that repeats, “It’s hard to think, when my mind goes blank // You just can’t think when your mind goes blank.”

In Jia Tolentino’s essay titled, “Ecstasy,” she writes, “There are feelings, like ecstasy, that provide an unbreakable link between virtue and vice. You don’t have to believe a revelation to understand that something inside it was real.” In the state of ecstasy you realize that something both within and outside you will pull you through. This captures the spirit of the “chopped–and–screwed” tempo: The bass is thick enough to hold you; the beat skips and stutters making you feel like your heart is about to stop; and the tempo drones on into absolution.

The “chopped-and-screw” style and DJ Screw’s unrelenting commitment to slowness, continues to influence mainstream Hip-hop. In his 2019 No. 1 hit, “Sicko Mode,” Houston rapper Travis Scott samples Big Hawk, a member of the Screwed Up Click. Ultimately, Screw created a local distribution system, employing his friends and privileging people geographically close to him. An authentic screw tape gives you a sense of spiritual guidance as its slow tempo gives way to a heady and dissociative security. It is undeniable that Screw was a rare triple threat: a tastemaker, a masterful technician, and someone who recognized the cultural value in sharing an unmediated Hip-hop experience.

_____

Submitted by Penny ‘20

[xynchronicity]

Wraith gets a kiss on the cheek and a box of chocolate covered rice crispy treats.

Gabi gets a scarf she made bc someone warm that bitch up.

Reaper gets... her giving him a slow once-over, winking, and then poofing away. Like hell is she sticking around after being a little shit to him... she's only half kidding. Asshole has a neat painting of a graveyard waiting for him in his quarters.

@bushelofmuses

actual footage of Sombra vvvv lol

Spoiled they are. Also, box of rice crispy squares? Nah, nah, nah...that's shredded. The treats are devoured and they are a happy smoke monster. "Thank you." Well, they didn't get the words out that accurately, but it could be assumed by the big grin that it's what they said.

A content man. A happy man. His neck won't be cold, his beanie keeps his head warm, his million blankets keep his boy warm....he's unstoppable now! First, he needs his nap... He's been asleep for five days now??? Umm....

"What do the numbers mean, Mason?"

Okay, no, he doesn't say that. He just stares because he doesn't trust her. What nonsense will she get up this time? He'll never know! He'll never figure it out and frankly, he didn't want to know.

Though, when he later finds the painting of the graveyard he's even more confused and concerned. What debt does he owe her for this? She's all about debts and stuff, right? Oh well, it's going up on the wall.

[xynchronicity]

Moira didn’t tamper with his nanites anymore than she already had previously. However, something was effecting them that much he knew. That something was souls....or rather a lack there of.

Rather than answer Angela outright, Reaper takes off one of his clawed gloves. His hand is just an uncontrollable nanite cloud which was unable to maintain a physical form for more than a second, maybe less.

“I’m fading away,” he finally spoke, solemnly. He didn’t bother replacing his glove and instead dropped it to the ground. His red eyes glanced between Angela and his hand a few times before finally settling upon the doctor.

“Death cannot exist without a source of sustenance to maintain it.” A vague statement is all he’s willing to supply her with on the ‘how’.

He couldn’t even consider himself ‘Death’ anymore. He’s changed so much from what he was conditioned to do, what he was programmed to do.

Maybe that’s for the better.

At least he thought so.

Angst - Death and Dying Starters

@xynchronicity asked: “I’ve been meaning to tell you…I don’t have much time left.” - Angie from Reaps

Angela looked up from the pot of coffee she was making, gaze zeroing in on her spectre of a guest. Was he being honest or bullshitting her or had someone lied to him?

What would kill him anyway?

That hornets' nest of Nanites in his chest could hurt him, possibly, or do a number on his mind depending on how sentient they were.

Neither of them had quite figured out what had caused them, but she had managed to shut the down to stabilize him. Had they reactivated?

Or, worse, had Moira done something? Few people made her wish to slowly maim someone. After the shit Moira had pulled...Angela wouldn't put it passed her.

Trying to keep her worries to herself for the moment, Angela started the coffee and calmly asked, "How have you come to this conclusion?"

[xynchronicity]

“I question people’s sanity in their interest with monsters.”

[xynchronicity]

Me: [Has really ‘cool’ backstory written out for Gabi and Reaps (maybe Wraith too) which is their main verses]

Also me: [Essentially makes Triple Threat their main verse because it’s used more often than not]

[xynchronicity]

So, @bushelofmuses​​ and I have been talking about The Terrors and Angie having a kid (their own or even just adopted). Regardless of if the kid is biologically theirs or not, the kid is being raised by both the best and worst parents (depending on who you ask).

However, if the kid is biologically theirs.....CHAOS. That’s a mix of two different nanites. So, I’ll explain below~!

Angela and Gabriel

Nanites are pretty normal. Very little instability in this one.

Regeneration! Passive regen from Angie’s nanites and healing from hurting someone (which luckily their parents are happy they never figure it out until they’re older). Kid just thinks they heal super fast bc of the food and what not given to them (y’know that whole “drink your milk and you’ll grow big and strong!” saying? that’s what they think is happening here).

Longer lifespan but at the cost of baby face for quite awhile. No one bullies them on it though because they’ve seen the kids parents. Bad idea. Would make Wraith cry. Pls no bully their kid.

The moment they learn they can do things similar to Gabriel (albeit on a lesser scale than Wraith and Reaps), they’re like “I’m the coolest kid on the block”. They, in fact, are not because everyone around them has superpowers or cool abilities. They’re reassured by their parents that they’re cool. They got two cool dads, a super cool mom and a cool weird parent.

Raised to be able to protect themselves with their abilities, self defense classes and weapon training.

Likely takes up a career in health because “my cool mom made this tech and im made of it and i wanna help her further improve it!”

Follows their parents footsteps and becomes part of Overwatch.

Angela and Reaps

Oh boi... The most chaotic of nanite combinations. Well, on just a nanite combination stand point. Y’all know Jack-Jack from The Incredibles, yeah? That’s what happens here. Uncontrollable nanites. Kid is physical then a cloud of nanites then a weird monstrosity it thought of then back to normal. Panic ensues.

Super regeneration??? Angie’s normal passive healing from her nanites...but Reaps super duper heals. Likely, accidentally steals people life force before their parents (or at least Reaps) teach them to control it. Which is little issue for Angie, Reaps, Gabi and Wraith...it’s others they have to worry about.

Baby face still v.v but they mature at a much faster rate than previous combo. “Mature faster” doesn’t mean “age up faster”, it means they don’t look like baby in a human body walking around for so long. Still has longer lifespan but they dont keep that baby face for as long. They’d mature similarly to a regular person but teenage puberty could either be absolutely horrible or be a godsend. Like it normally is for regular people lol but this kid would keep that outcome until sometime in 20s before being slapped with that adult filter and it remains that way until their long life ends.

They’ve known of their more Reaper like abilities from a young age. Likely, having to be put into training from super young. This kid would be the more mature one personality and emotional wise because of this. Having to take their abilities and powers more serious because of how unstable they are. Sometimes hates having Reaps as a dad because of this ‘curse’. Reaps hears the kid say this ONCE and is just heartbroken for the rest of his life (good at hiding it though).

More rebellious of the kids. Wants to just have fun to escape their life of seriousness that they were raised into.

Likely becomes a soldier simply because it just fits more into how they were raised.

Wouldn’t join Overwatch or Talon if offered. Would take several years of adult life before they decide one way or the other.

Angela and Wraith

Hmm. This could the seriously chaotic one. Nanites aren’t fighting each other or anything, they merge quite well. It’s more so the outcome of what is possible because of Wraith’s many capabilities.

Once again super regeneration. Angie’s passive regeneration, but they quickly learn that sweets also cause the same effect. Well, parents do while kid just enjoys candy and ice cream.

The true baby of the kids. Oh lordy. Baby forever (not literally). They have an ever young look to them. They can be 50 and still look like they’re a teenager. Poor kid. It has benefits of people underestimating them so like there’s that.

Growing up they learn several of Wraith’s abilities because Wraith has to teach them and wont stop until their kid knows “how to turn into animals to escape to safety”. Angie, Gabi and Reaps all know that’s not at all the real reason Wraith wish to teach them. They also find new abilities that Wraith hasn’t even figured out how to do and this silently frustrates Wraith.

Well, they grew up on sweets so clearly they’re the sweetest of the bunch, right? Correct! At least until something horrible either happens or they’re traumatized.

Has the more mundane or civil job of the kids bc barely looks like a young adult.

Doesn’t join Overwatch or Talon. Preferring to live civilly. However, if needed by their parents or friends within Overwatch, they’d help out.