#a rather insidious fine line

[gaywatch]

brittanyyyy how are youuu 🥺🥺 hoping you get to the best of your health soon 💕💕

Thank you for the concern, darling. <333 I'm still waiting on a call from the doctor I was referred to, but I've had one or two better* night's of sleep this week and cutting back on my schedule has helped a lot.

I'm gonna stay at minimal productivity until I start treatment (whenever that is, next few weeks to a couple months) which is a big blow to my plans for this year. But on the other hand when I can fully come back I'll be firing on all cylinders for the first time in my entire life and that seriously excites me. I'm gonna make so much stuff for y'all. Just all the things. But I gotta be able to sleep first, lol.

*Better sleep, for me, is still awful by normal standards. It means waking up every hour and a half to three hours instead of every forty-five minutes.

[searchingforserendipity25]

for @eilinelsghost. dear frankie, you are such a genuinely wonderful, talented, amazingly intelligent and kind presence on this hellsite and the world at last, and deserve all things lovely. have some balan/finrod as a humble offering among with all the rest! <33

--

“Very pretty it is, to be sure,” Bëor said, voice rasping low, painfully low in throat eve as his face creased with mirth. “But I am sure I do not know what I would do with a handful of your hair, Felagund! Strange creatures the Eldar be indeed, to so long for that exchange.” 

Finrod's eyes widened. His mouth was less dire than it had been for days, but there was something somber still about the tilt of his brows. 

Balan would feel rather like a fiend to prickle him for his entreaty, if he were not being half-cheated by its terms.

“It is a perfectly common sharing of tokens among my people.” 

“Among my people the throwing of leaves and pointing of fingers is a perfectly common exchange of tokens when one is being a daft liar, too, and I do not think you so eager for that! You fairies are dreadfully jealous of your braids, one and all.” 

Finrod was not bold enough to deny it. Perhaps he was in earnest - the notion only made Balan ache more fiercely. 

They were very careful about their gifts, the two of them, since their first exchanges had ended in mild poisoning, and Finrod finding how very much his constitution disagreed with the smoking pipes the Edain favoured. 

Finrod had been almost diffident in his offer, as he had not been for years. He looked down now at Balan now, palms pressed together in the way Balan had learned he did when he was uncertain of which question to request. 

 “It does happen rarely, and I do not say It is not a tremendous honour. I ask much from one who is dear to me; too much for a whim; and I am sorry for it.” 

Balan sighed. His bones felt too tight. His mouth was parched, but he did not wish to ask for a glass of water, and he was not certain he would be able to cross the room easily; and he was not certain Finrod would be able to withstand it easily. 

Finrod seemed not less brittle to his eyes. Singing too long left the line of his cheeks sharper, his eyes dangerous as wisps of light over bog waters. His dear lord, who had not slept in many nights to keep him from the edge of mortal harm. 

He clasped Finrod’s hand warmly. The fine, long bones stilled for a moment, and then wound between his with accustomed gentleness.

 “It is that must apologize,” Balan said. “Ask what thou wilt as a gift, and never doubt it be thine. Art not not my lord, and my dear friend? It would be a honour to have such a token, for even a meager hair would be a treasure given from thy hands. But I suspect it is not thy people’s way to be light about such thing; and I think fear moves thee in this more than a mere whim. If it is so, I would not have it not be kept silent, and take insidious root.” 

Finrod’s fingers tightened around his. He strove for lightness of tone, and failed as he rarely did when he attempted it. “Thou canst not wonder that I fear! Warm as coal was thy brow, and heard not what I said when I spoke.” 

Balan tilting his head to meet Finrod’s eyes, smiling almost despite himself at the light of love on the king’s face. He bent, and kissed the fine knuckles; and at last Finrod smiled as well. 

Only then when he knew he was heard entirely did he say, “Felagund, dear lord. I am not dying; nay, not yet, and not soon either I judge. This is but a spring cold, from the changing of the wind and the cold air. Dangerous if uncared for; but thou hast cared for me better than ever my people were loved. It shall pass. Indeed, after the songs and pastes and infusions, it is nearly gone already. I would say if it grew worse, be not afraid of that.” 

Balan was struck once again - as he often was - by how real Finrod was, for all his strangeness. This cheekbone was very like his own; the eyes that shone and saw the world in different shades, the quick mind that guessed at the unknowable and predicted past and future. They had made a friendship out of generous wonder in each other and for each other. The last thing he wished was to make Finrod doubt it. 

He found the strands of his head strange tokens to exchange, but it seemed discourteous to refuse the trade outright, when Felagund was so plainly well-meaning.

And so peculiarly covetous, too. Balan was not blind to the way Finrod stood raptly with held breath, whenever he saw him brushing back his hair after swimming, or oiling the strands and redoing the braids by the fire in the evenings. 

He could not say he disliked the attention, that he had not met Finrod’s glances a hundred times.

He could not say the offer was not to him what he knew to be to Finrod - he had seen too many elvish warriors with the braids of their betrotheds carried in medallions about their necks, or kinsmen wound in goldwire and silver, set with amber and pearls around their wrists.

 Solemnly, Finrod brought out one of his many knives. A swift stroke, and one of his impossibly bright braids fell into Balan’s palm; and his own closed around Balan’s own gift. 

Finrod studied it with such care, Bëor's spindly, bristling braid, the gray threaded with the fading fairness of his hair. 

Balan looked at his hand, a little disbelieving. More beautiful than gold was that slender braid, enthralling as the stars, thin and fine as spidersilk - Balan had stared at it as often as Finrod looked at him in admiration.

 It was not less lovely for being in his hand, and seemed all the more startling in its beauty; but Balan’s eyes were still, always, for the curling strands that framed Finrod’s temples, the fine lashes that kissed his cheeks.  

How strange it was, that all the brightness in him should be turned to him, bent like a candlewick under the weight of its own flame. All the time he had known Finrod he had seen him lonesome among his people, lordly and unwed, brushing his own hair alone; and it had wounded him from the first.

For all the differences between them, that particular loneliness was something Balan recognized so well.

His hand fit so well in Balan's, all the same. He had held him for days and day, without letting go: whenever Balan was strong enough to open his eyes, he had seen him - his golden braids fraying, unattended, as he willed Balan to live. 

In the delirium of his fever Balan had dreamed foul dreams. It had felt to him as if a great darkness had descended upon Finrod, as if great walls of stone parted them; crushed, limbs heavy, he had cried out. Reached for him, as if were being chased by a prowling thing, and growing ever more distant; and now he saw, clear as grass, a mirrored anguish in the way Finrod held Balan's cut braid as if it were half an heirloom already. 

"Thank thee," Finrod said, grave as if it were a rite.

“I am very generous,” Balan agreed, teasing as well as he could. His heart pressing painfully against his ribs. He felt feverish still, with fear and boldness now; but he had to speak, say this much at least. “But I fear I am about to be more outrageous still; for there is beauty greater still I would have, still. Among my people, embraces are also exchanged as tokens, between friends who hold each other dear.”

Finrod's breathing hitched and ceased again.

He did not say he had heard the words unspoken. He did not speak of death; or love. The gift his people gave and traded as promises unspooled itself in Balan’s hand, and nothing like an oath came with it; but Balan needed nothing of the like tonight.

If it was greedy to ask for more, it would be cruel to give less, when even his ageless face was dimned with the weariness of the vigil he had kept by Balan's side, his shoulders tight with fear. 

“So it is, among my people as well,” said Finrod, and stopped, until Balan thought he would turn his face away, and rise, and hide the dark rope of Balan’s hair away forever to be wept over in days and years to come.

But the grip between Balan’s fingers eased, then grew stronger again. Finrod bent down over the bedside; until Balan touched the living strands of his hair, entwined his fingers about it.

That was too much. The dark braid was set aside carefully; and then, swiftly, with a surge of urgency, Finrod held him. Laid his hands over his back, feeling the movement of his heart and lungs; and Balan stroked his head with its wisps of shorn hair, eased his fear as well as he could.

Tomorrow, the cedarwod casket that held Balan's pins and rings, Belen's childhood gifts of bone-whistles and Baran's prettiest pebbles would receive a new, no less beloved treasure. Tomorrow, Finrod would hide the stands of Beren's hair away in truth, somewhere secret and well-kept where tokens of love could be held without marring for many centuries.

For tonight they could give each other this gift - grasp tight, and not let go until the sun rose over the mountain.

[taldigi]

I don't know if I completely agree with Futaba not fitting the theme. I mean, most heist films have a Hacker character that is an absolute genius and can do some utterly unrealistic but cool stuff. So I felt like she fit in just fine. Especially because, as of late, Hacker characters have become younger to play into the joke of young people being better at tech than old people with the older people needing to rely on kids for their elite Hacker skills. So I never got the impression that she was off theme. I can agree that Futaba gets a bit too much focus, but I wouldn't really consider that a fault of her character. Rather, a fault of the game as a whole as it struggles to handle the larger cast in the later half (with Makoto and Futaba overshadowing Ann, Yusuke, and Ryuji + the Mona/Ryuji arc being rushed alongside Haru's intro). The romance is bad, yes, but I don't think it's prevalent enough for me to be annoyed with it (a few lines that can be easily ignored). And I wouldn't say Futaba is mean to Mona, so much as her existence manages to make Mona feel insecure, so I never held that against the character nor did I feel Ryuji would be better suited for that role (as Mona never really viewed Ryuji as someone who could be a threat). As for the boundary pushing behavior... I don't know. Maybe it's because of the way they presented it (comedic + no on seeming to actually mind) that it didn't bother me.

While I disagree, I totally get where you're coming from!

It's just odd cause... the majority of Persona feels magical instead of scifi. Even the Metaverse Navigator app feels more magical than techy- which causes Futaba stand out so severely.

Did we need a hacker to fill in the thief archetypes? Maybe. But she should have been more of a looser and the narrative (which has been shockingly mature with all of it's characters) should have addressed it more.

Persona is anime coded and all of the characters are "beautiful" but i have... met real hackers and tech geeks and trust me she.. is not it.

Heck, she eats nothing but dad's curry and instant noodles. Her room was an actual dump. She might have actual muscle problems from not moving or leaving her room or getting sunlight. Instead, it adds to her initialization by making her pale, lanky, and fragile. She's meant to be the sexy shithead little sister that anime nerds love and it shows- and.. it works. People love her. So task successed failurely.

And, while I admit- All the other characters are complicit. Futaba really stands out as someone who fucked up and was insanely unapologetic about it... which, again.. would work but this is.. supposed to be after her change of heart, right?

Being mean isn't always an active choice. Even hard-coded kind characters like Ann are guilty of being mean to Morgana! (Morgana himself is mean!) and she absolutely did not intend it. While the narrative needed them to butt heads over the next palace, Leader Boy Joker should have been given a better option to step in or AT LEAST for Makoto to say something.

The Mona disappearance arc should have- NEEDED to be better handled. If they needed more days, story should have been gleaned or compounded. The beach episode could have been smushed together more, the hawaii thing could have been better (also yeah the hawaii thing was a SUCH wasted opportunity! You should have been able to buy rare items or visit tourist attractions for stats! Wasted for a dumb "wow phantom thieves are popular!" thing. It could have been both. IT COULD HAVE BEEN BOTH-)

As for the boundry thing.. well, im just hyperaware of the insidious nature of anime tropes. Even tho I hate it (if you touched me the way ppl touch ren I would probably reflexively hit you)- much akin death and taxes, sexy girls hanging off of everyman anime protags is indefinate and immortal- and the opinions of some nobody blogger who doesn't even really like "anime" isn't going to mean much.

Thanks for the reply, tho! It's nice to discuss things!

[kewltie]

[Season 1 - complete ] (That this might've) shook the love from me

01.

"Don't freak out," Uraraka warns.

Katsuki snorts as he pushes pass her, but his steps are halted when he's greeted with the sight of a ghost.

"Kacchan!" Izuku's face lights up. He looks just as young and beautiful as the day he'd left Katsuki. Time hasn't touched him in ten years.

02.

"It's Midoriya's death anniversary," Eijirou says. "I just don't want you be alone today, bro."

Katsuki sneers. "I'm fine."

His vice of choice hasn't ever been alcohol or drugs, but lives in the memory of a green-eyed boy, stuck forever at nineteen and haunting Katsuki ever since.

03.

"Is—" Izuku swallows. "Is Kacchan okay?" The moment Katsuki had lay eyes on him, his face twisted into something awful before he’d wrenched it away and stormed out.

"He just need some time." Ochako smiles, soft and wistful. "We'd called him here when he was visiting your grave."

04.

"He'll need time to acclimate to everything, but till then he can stay with us," says Uraraka.

"No," Katsuki asserts, hands clenching at his side. Even if this is all dream, his own delusion, he's not letting Izuku out of his sight again this time. "Deku's coming home with me."

05.

Izuku's eyes scans across the room. Numerous accolades lined the wall, but not a single touch of Katsuki can be seen. It feels impersonal. Cold. Like a tomb rather than a home.

"Do you live here alone?" he asks.

Katsuki stares at him coolly. "Would you rather I have someone?"

06.

"Kacchan?" a hesitant voice calls out.

He stops cutting the chives and looks up to see Izuku in front of him, standing there nervously in his clothes. It hangs loosely, easily swamping his figure.

"Do you have anything smaller?" he asks, ears red.

Katsuki drops his knife.

07.

Izuku lost ten years of what could have been his life in a moment of carelessness. It leaves him unmoored.

"Stop thinking and eat your damn food," Katsuki orders with a scowl.

"Y-yes!" He looks down at his bowl and there's now a slice of pork cutlet placed on top of the rice for him. Oh.

08.

He knows Kacchan, but he doesn't know this older and more subdued version of Katsuki, who can barely stand to look at him at times.

The heat from the bath makes his head swim as he sinks deeper into the water and his eyes fall shut. Maybe the next time he opens them, it’ll all be a dream.

09.

Katsuki hauls him out of the bathtub. Dazed, Izuku looks at his pinched face.

"Why didn't you respond when I called you?!" he snarls, but his words are softened up by the way he holds a naked and wet Izuku against his broad chest.

His head swims with a different kind of heat now.

10.

Head still feverish from the bath, Izuku's legs weakens and he stumbles, but Katsuki catches him in time.

"Careful," he scolds.

His hand is fully wrapped around Izuku's wrist. It feels heavy. Large. Encompassing. It been a long time since Katsuki has made him feel this small.

11.

"Dry your hair or you're going to catch a cold," Katsuki says, frowning as Izuku's wet hair drips on his clean shirt.

Izuku smiles softly. "You're different now, yet still the same," he says.

He snorts. "How so."

"You always been considerate of me, but now it's more obvious."

12.

"Can I sleep with you, Kacchan?"

Katsuki snaps his head toward his direction so fast that it almost gives him a whiplash. "What."

Izuku blushes. "I-I don't mean in the same bed." He looks down at his feet. "I just don't want to be alone tonight," he finishes quietly. "So, can I?"

13.

Katsuki stares into the bleak darkness, wondering how the fuck did he get here.

Izuku pokes his head over the edge of the bed. "Are you sure you're okay down there?" he asks, his voice laced with concern.

"I'm fine," he grits out as the hard floor digs into his aching back.

14.

Katsuki wakes up to an empty bed as a slow, insidious wave of panic starts to settle in. Any trace of Izuku from last night seems to have been scrubbed clean from the entire room. Like he wasn't even there at all. Katsuki had thought he knew despair, but not like this. Not again.

15.

The plate shatters on the floor as he's hauls into Katsuki's arms.

"S-sorry, I was making us breakfast," Izuku says.

He presses his nose into the crook of Izuku's neck and inhales like a drowning man gasping for air. "Don't ever leave my sight again," he says, low and ominous.

16.

"It's maybe a little late, but today would have been three months since we started dating." Izuku smiles sheepishly at the breakfast tray he'd laid out for them. "I wanted to prepare something nice, but I didn't have time so happy anniversary, Kacchan! Sorry, I kept you waiting."

17.

"Katsuki, they said you found him," she says with desperate urgency. "Is he with you?! Please let me see him!"

"Mom?" a familiar voice calls out from behind them.

Inko's eyes widen in recognition as her knees weaken and she slides down to the floor in tearful relief. "My Izuku."

18.

"It's like I can breathe again," Inko murmurs. "I held on for so long and finally I can let go now. He's back." She squeezes him tightly. "You never once gave up on him. Thank you, Katsuki, for believing."

He shudders in her arms and he, too, breathes easily for the first time.

19.

"How was the mother and son's reunion?" Eijirou asks.

"They were blubbering in my living room for the past hour, so I left them alone," Katsuki says dryly. "They're doing okay now."

"And you?"

The nauseating feeling from this morning hasn't gone away. "I'm fine," he lies.

20.

"You have some gray hair," Izuku murmurs, staring at Inko's weathered face. "You look different now."

"Ten years would do that to you." She smiles wistfully. "Your disappearance was tough on us all, so remember to be good to Katsuki, okay? That boy been hurting without you."

21.

"How are you?"

"Why do you keep asking me these stupid questions," he snaps.

"Bakugou, you paid me a lot of money to ask you 'stupid' questions," Dr. Nitta says coolly. "So again, I ask, how are you?"

He grits his teeth before finally saying, "Deku's back, but I can't relax."

22.

"I'm surprised you actually left Midoriya alone," Denki comments. "I’d expected you to hover around him like a helicopter parent."

"Shut up," Katsuki says blandly, and doesn't tell him about the surveillance on his phone which would show Izuku combing through his bookshelf right now.

23.

Izuku pulls out another book on quirk theory among the many that lined Katsuki's shelf. Here lies the devotion of Katsuki's search for Izuku. It's in the creases of the spine, frantic notes scribbled all over, and the many index tabs that bookmarked important notations.

His heart aches.

24.

Katsuki's heart races briefly when he steps into a near silent apartment, but then, Izuku pops out to greet him. "Welcome home!" Face flushed with joy even if his eyes are rimmed red.

Shakily, he breathes, "I'm home." The words are foreign on his tongue, but it feels no less real.

[mwolf0epsilon]

The Umbaran Pathogen - Day 19: Hypnosis

Summary: The infected troopers start to move the captives into the unfinished hive for temporary storage. Obi-wan attempts to reason with them, but comes to a disheartening conclusion on what he must do to disrupt the parasite's control.

Warning: Slight mind manipulation (the morality of using Jedi Mind Tricks is put into question)

Dogma's design should give a vague idea of what Cody looks like since they belong to the same cast

Prev / Next

[In which the events on Umbara are worsened by an unknown pathogen taking hold of both the 501st and 212th. These series of drabbles will follow a non-linear timeline based on the AI-less Whumptober prompt list for 2023.]

THIS STORY IS ALSO ON AO3

---

In many ways the infected moved as if they were one singular creature. Their coordination and timing (things which most clones already had fine-tuned due to years of training) so incredibly in sync that it felt like watching an actual hivemind at work. One single entity with several bodies that worked on a precise set of tasks, like a conveyor belt in a factory line.

In reality, Obi-wan knows that's not it. The adaptations forced upon the men were ones he recognized on species of eusocial insects, that relied heavily on different kinds of pheromones to communicate. The infected are purely going off scent and hierarchy rather than an actual mind-meld. But their boosted cooperative skills are still impressive nonetheless.

That said, he really wishes that were not the case...

Especially not when he and the remaining healthy troopers were being carted off for storage. Set aside for whenever (if at all) Tup returned. Bound and unable to do anything about it. Their attempts to bring the sick to reason going on deaf ears.

Or, if they annoyed the mutated troopers just a little too much, they would get a low growl or a threatening hiss for their troubles. Sometimes the quick snap of jaws as well, but mostly they were ignored completely. The infected's devotion to their new leader far outweighing any familiarity they might have had with their healthy vode.

The parasites controlling them keeping far too firm a grip.

Obi-wan could, in a way, understand why such a creature would evolve to be this insidious. In as hostile an environment like Umbara, survival of the fittest meant doing just about anything to make it out on top. These parasites, the Umber Blight, had become some of the most naturally cruel arthropods he ever did lay his eyes upon. But, as understanding as he may be of how evolution worked, the Jedi could not bring himself to forgive these beings's true nature.

Not when they had used the troopers, his friends, in such a horrific manner. Starting off by relying heavily on the insecurities and fears of a rookie to spread their influence, and then making all of the men who'd fallen victim become mere mockeries of their true selves.

Identity was everything to a clone. Obi-wan had learned this early on, when he was still getting acquainted with helping to lead an army. Had done everything he could to deserve to get to know the fine young souls that he would be working with regularly, and that he'd slowly become endeared to. Been as openly supportive of their expressions of self, when he'd found out just how oppressive their upbringing had been. So seeing these loyal and kind-hearted soldiers lose that part of themselves, was like having a hot knife stabbed deep into his ribcage. And then subsequently watching those who still had their minds look at their vode with such distress, was like having that blade twisted and turned until everything it touched was torn into fine ribbons.

The unnecessary cruelty made his blood boil. His thoughts racing as he tried to reign it all in.

A Jedi did not submit to rage after all. They mulled over what upset them, processed that particular pain, and released it into the Force. Cleared their thoughts of all ill will and let themselves be guided towards a better solution.

Striking in anger would not benefit anyone. Least of all the victims of this disease.

"Cody..." He tried to speak calmly. Not wanting to come off as far too firm or condescending, when everyone else was relying on him being able to get through to the Commander. "My dear friend, I understand you are bound by honor to complete your duties towards your... Hive... But I must implore you to see reason. You know this isn't right."

The mutated Commander's antennae twitched as he spoke. A sign that he was listening, but not necessarily hearing what the Jedi had to say. Just aware of the noise coming from his direction.

It was a far cry from how he usually behaved.

"Spreading this to the others won't do them any good." He continued, hoping that if he insisted, that eventually he might get through to his second in command. "That is just what the parasite wants you all to think."

9 pairs of eyes turned to regard him with blatant disinterest.

The split in the middle of Cody's bottom jaw widening as he proceeded to yawn, giving the Jedi a nice view of his mouth. From the silk glands that lazily dripped thick strands of webbing, to the elongated and split tongue with protruding spikes, down to the bizarre proboscis-like appendage his esophagus had turned into, the Commander's wide articulated maw was nothing if not intimidating to look upon.

An attempt at a facsimile set of insect jaws that just came off as disconcerting when attached to a clone's otherwise human face.

"Am I boring you?" Obi-wan asked, sounding somewhat amused as he did so. "You seem tired..."

Instead of responding, Cody simply carried on with his current affairs. Most of which revolved around wrapping each and every one of the captive uninfected troopers in strong silk. Not enough to cover them up in cocoons (Cody most definitely did not produce that much silk of his own, nor had Obi-wan seem him spit up the same yellow adhesive Tup seemed to be able to naturally produce), but definitely enough to keep them immobilized during transport.

Each trooper that he'd bound up having then been carried off by one of the other infected, who's forms were distinctly different from the one Cody had taken on.

Lighter in build with less spikes or a stinger of their own. Still very much their natural height instead of the noticeable boost the Commander had gained. Unable to fly as they did not possess a set of wings. They also only had a total of 5 eyes whereas Tup had 7 and Cody had 9. Most likely because they were meant to remain indoors at all times, rather than traverse outside where good vision would be most needed.

Each cast definitely had their own set of specialties, as he noted some of the men who'd fully transformed had stomachs that were slightly larger than the average build of a standard clone trooper. For those mutated men in particular, their gasters were also rounder and larger instead of being heart-shaped and evenly sized.

They were also mostly just watching the proceedings with mild curiosity, instead of helping the others transport the prisoners. Perhaps unsure of what to do if they were not currently tasked with doing what they were most likely 'designed' to do.

At the very least their inactivity didn't seem to upset the others. Some of which checked up on them and very gently chirped as if to give reassurance. Obi-wan at least assumed this was the case, as he watch as a transformed Crys nudged an equally transformed Reed, taking the slightly rounder trooper by the hand and guiding him along.

"I think they might be Repletes." Canivete murmured from just slightly below him. At this point, only Obi-wan, Canivete and Waxer remained attached to the web. Cody had just managed to pin down Tacet to begin wrapping them up. "In ant societies, the repletes are essentially living food storage compartments, that remain in the nest to feed other ants. They fill up their social stomachs with so much food that the gaster swells to about the size of a grape..."

"That's nasty..." Waxer grimaced. He was hanging to Obi-wan's right, one of his boots the only thing in his line of sight. "How big do you think a vod could get if they followed the same logic?"

"Given the fact ants get as big as they get? From the larger bellies and gasters alone, I'm pretty sure they could put a puffer pig to shame." Cani mused. "I doubt it's gonna be a comfortable experience..."

"Stars..."

Cody passed Tacet onto the nearest trooper, moving on to grab at Waxer to begin yet another flurry of wrapping. None of the lieutenant's words getting through to his brother either. There was no talking sense into any of them... So long as the parasites had full control, the men would be forced to obey their new leader's orders.

The power of their suggestions simply too much to work around.

"..." blinking a few times, Obi-wan hummed and furrowed his brow as he began to contemplate that thought.

"You doing ok, sir?" Canivete asked as she noticed the change in his demeanor.

The parasites certainly had a powerful hold of the men's minds. Of that, he had no question. But could they withstand a Force Suggestion if he were to give it to them? They seemed to rely heavily on the men's own mental faculties to understand certain social constructs and ideas. Perhaps if he used a Jedi Mind Trick on the men, it might temporarily disrupt the hold the parasites had?

"General?" Canivete insisted, the medic sounding concerned for his sake.

"I believe I may have an idea..." He told her, frowning as he thought of the consequences implementing said idea, would later bring. Mostly, he knew he would be crossing a line with the men. Especially with Cody, who he'd once discussed this specific ability with. "But it is not one I'm particularly proud of..."

"Whatever works..." The web was slightly tugged, which he assumed was from Canivete shrugging. Or attempting to.

Waxer was already being dragged off. Cody was approaching. It was now or never...

"You will stop what you're doing and listen carefully to what I say." The Jedi tried to keep his voice as clear and even as possible, watching with bitter sadness as the Commander paused in his tracks to stare up at him clearly confused. "Now you will let go of the Commander and sleep for a little while..."

At that, Cody stood up ramrod straight in the same manner he'd done when Tup had first roared. Claiming control over the newly infected and setting them against the healthy. Pitch black eyes widened in mild shock, the mutated clone's mandibles beginning to click in distress. Antennae, arms and wings twitching as control was wrestled out of the parasite's grasp.

And then Cody let out a sudden gasp and violently shook his head.

"Was that a karking Force Suggestion?!" Canivete yelped, clearly horrified at the idea of her General using something of the sort on her siblings.

"It was the only thing I could think to try..." Obi-wan sheepishly admitted sheepishly, trying not to think too hard about it as he looked back to the shaking Commander. "Cody... Are you alright?"

".̴.̶.̸.̴.̶" Cody opened and closed his mouth several times before glancing up at the two of them in question. He regarded them for a couple of seconds before glancing down at his own body. Multiple emotions surging across his face before he regained his composure and looked back up at them again. "T̷h̶a̸t̶ ̶w̷a̷s̸n̷'̷t̵.̴.̶.̷ ̶G̶r̶e̸a̴t̴.̷.̴.̷"

"Oh crap, it worked..." Canivete sounded astonished.

"It seems to have, yes..." Which meant he'd need to do it for every single one of the infected men. Which put Obi-wan ill at ease, since he didn't like to do this sort of thing to anyone he was fond of.

Least of all to the troopers who considered trust to be everything.

Needless to say, he'd need to have a serious conversation with a lot of people once this entire mess was over. And perhaps maybe arrange a visit to the Mind Healers, since he was more than certain this entire ordeal would haunt him for the foreseeable future...

[hingabee]

heehhehheh

For the WIP ask meme! ageswap oneshot WIP... thing....

"Doctor," Elim growled against Bashir's neck in frustration. "You do realise that your blatant desperation is rather... unattractive, no?"

"By Cardassian standards or yours?"

"Both!"

With a chuckle Bashir pulled Elim closer against himself, fixing the thin Starfleet issue blanket over the both of them in a way that was only mildly satisfactory.

Really, Elim's only saving grace was that neither of them had had too much of that oddly sour Terran kanar Bashir had served him over kotra. Surely neither of them would be inclined enough to start anything regrettable, although it also seemed like neither deemed sharing Bashir's bed as something that crossed the invisible lines Elim had drawn between them.

"Sorry," Bashir murmured after a few minutes of silence had passed and gently nudged Elim off his thigh. "Leg's about to fall asleep."

Elim narrowed his eyes at him through the dim light. "You could just let me go, you know?"

"I'm not keeping you here against your will," Bashir said and loosened his hold on Elim for emphasis, then patted his hip. "There. Of you go! Don't force yourself to stay on my account."

It took an embarrassingly short moment for Elim to decide that, no, actually he very much enjoyed sharing a bed with a warm and comfortable mammalian body, and that said body should definitely belong to none other than the insidious Dr. Bashir himself. 

"I'm fine," he said avoidantly, digging his claws into the waist of Bashir's uniform undershirt. "But I still think you'd do well to behave yourself a bit better."

"I am behaving."

Baring his teeth, Elim pulled his hand from the blanket to point an accusing finger at Bashir's chin. "You're not even bothering to try to hide what you're up to!"

"Should I?" Bashir regarded him curiously, his legs rubbing against themselves and Elim's side as if he were trying to warm himself up. "Hide it, I mean?"

"If you had even just a speck of dignity left, you would. However—" Elim caught himself, very much aware of how much he had missed the casual and lighthearted intimacy between them. "I suppose that since you are only human, I shall be a bit more lenient with you going forward."

Bashir seemed to consider this as Elim wedged his knee between his thighs. "Not all human, though."

"Well, yes. You /do/ have to take responsibility for the Cardassian parts."

"And how do you propose I do that, my dear Elim?"

Not at all tired of their game yet, but simply too impatient to wait any longer, Elim nosed back at Bashir's collar and neck, and hissed encouragingly when Bashir responded in kind by running his long-fingered hands down Elim's spine, picking at the fabric of his thermal undershirt here and there. 

"You smell wonderful, Elim," Bashir said heatedly and pressed his nose and lip against the side of Elim's face. It was almost akin to outright humiliation, the way those eager words affected both of them. 

At this point holding up the validity of their previously unspoken agreement to not get too involved with each other fell flat enough for both of them to simply step over it and ignore it. 

"Are you just going to openly flaunt all your freakish inhuman abilities to me, now that you no longer have to hide them, sir?"

"You know I never really bothered with you in the first place," Bashir whispered nonchalantly, and Elim found it maddening to be acknowledged and dismissed like this at once. 

[myulalie]

spoiler alert: I won't be writing fix it fics. because I don't need to ;)

More seriously this is full of spoilers from live-reacting to the movie, beware.

That opening in Japan was so cool? Like I was into it. Loved the suspicious silver bullet too, just saying...

Animal Shelter owner Scott is confirmed AND single by thirty I wrote the movie before the movie (just kidding, the fic I'm thinking of has a different premise but I'll rec it because self-promo is hot : The Cure with Sterek endgame too!). Also Scott got a buzzcut like his buddy Stiles!

"We call him the Alpha" just no, it doesn't sound as cool as you think it does, it's so corny.

I love how they re-enacted the interactions at the clinic for Scott and Allison, it's sweet. JR Bourne my love, I could feel your distress, but I have to say the bardo concept thing sounds weird (like, phonetically).

Lydia's reintroduction scene was glorious and how beautiful can this woman be??? She ages like fine wine.

Baby Hale in da place, such a fun scene! I mean what did Derek expect, keeping the Jeep at Hale Auto... Daddy Hale is a good look on him and suggesting they call Stiles... they're married, called it.

No seriously they keep mentioning Stiles and somehow don't even show flashback of him? Would love to be the tiny mouse in the copyright talk for this movie haha.

Malia and Parrish are a thing??? Where did that come from? I like that they lean into her non-commital communication styles and I did connect with their relationship (or lack thereof) immediately, especially when it becomes awkward with Scott later on (#thecure by the way).

I did suspect Chris has something to do with the release of the Nogitsune, that was badass.

Eli is such a Stiles rip off it's almost annoying, I like his back story with Derek's beta-shift more.

Allison is hot too wow, damn ladies. Melissa ROCKS obviously and Finstock still got it.

The partial memory recovery twist for Allison to turn her evil is the oldest trick in the book but I like the way they pulled it off. She's off hunting Derek and they're hopeless, some things never change.

Jackson is a delight and he's still with Ethan 15 years later, LGBTQ+ for the win. I am here for it.

Eli and Derek parallels with Sterek again, here goes the whump for Derek...

Sheriff Stilinski has the one and only braincell in this movie.

Peter is here baby, and I loved his entrance. I say: Melissa, Peter and Chris OT3.

"Go get her" no Melissa, no. Not the right line, not the right time.

I kind of feel bad for Scott's girlfriends (Kira, Malia) who came after Allison like what about his feelings for them??? I understand Allison was his first love and holds a special place in his heart but the others feel really swept under the rug.

Alpha roar check. It felt like a to do list at first but considering Eli's back story I kind of like it as a trigger for his own beta-shift.

For a moment I wondered between Kate and Harris summoning the Nogitsune but I'm kinda glad it wasn't Kate. Idk it feels more insidious with Harris.

Also I do like how the other Kitsunes are all brand new and not rip offs, it's more interesting, and I was interested in Liam for once haha, cuties the two of them.

Derek has better things to do than saving the world, he's too busy parenting... oh well, that was wistful thinking.

Finstock is so proud to say Greenberg and honestly so am I. I wish it was only Eli on the field though, Scott playing makes no sense and doesn't serve any purpose.

Did I just see Tyler Posey's ass when he scrambles up in the Nogitsune's illusion world??? I wonder if it was on purpose... also they messed up with his shirt it went from bloody to clean just to make the next blood loss more obvious...

I did like his attemps to reason with Allison and her big ass smile when he tells her he's still in love with her, but isn't it "burning the exact/same blend of wolfsbane powder into the wound to heal it" rather than just "burning it out"???

Peter going down on the ground to sniff blood that is right in front of him... you were a better werewolf than that before Peter... but banging Allison's head on the railing then Chris switching side makes up for it.

The aesthetics for the illusion in the colored rooms was GREAT and Lydia kinda broke my heart, but I'm glad we had this scene (also Jackson. you have a tail. with venom. use it???).

I will not adress Derek's untimely demise because why would he abandon his son, like Peter could have taken his place to hold the Nogitsune down? (also that twist with the werewolf bite was nice, I liked it, it made sense). plus Allison came back from the dead so he will too. In my fics. It's not a fix it it's canon compliant ;).

Why the fuck are they kissing when Derek just disappeared into thin air seriously. Poor Eli, really get someone else to take custody of you than Scott.

I feel for the Sheriff, seeing Eli like that must remind him of Stiles when they lost Claudia...

The little nudge at the end with Eichen House and there always be new teenage werewolves was so on the nose I loved it.

conclusion: I found it extremely fun, well paced with good aesthetics.

Made me want to watch the series (which I've been pushing off for fear of being disapppointed) actually.

So yeah unpopular opinion, but I had such a great time watching Teen Wolf The Movie I wish it was in theaters because it would have been great on the big screen!

[goodtimesyana]

continuing to think about why i find polyamory so insidious outside of the historical revisionism. like okay great dakota chiefs had multiple wives and that wasn't about sexual and romantic gratification or chauvinism it was a practical arrangement. and for mohawk the chiefs had to be married to demonstrate that they were capable of nurturing relationships. marriage is a sacred thing right. and polyamorists are generally incurious, and at the core of that model of relating is deficiency. they'll say, well, one person can't possibly meet all of your needs, so let's have multiple relationships with people, all of whom fail to meet needs that others do, and that's fine and that's human- but it almost always comes down to sexual needs. emotional needs and intellectual needs are easy to meet by having friendship and family and community, but sexuality is about connection, it's about the consideration of another's personhood. it's not just a thing that feels good, it's not like a handshake. i resent the neoliberal sex-positive outlook on sex as a physical act rather than an emotional one. i dislike the "queer" outlook that sexual novelty is integral to one's identity. i don't know why the polyamorist reaction to an unmet need is to urgently seek to have the need met with another person, rather than to investigate the need itself. is it a need at all? in seeking to meet this need, am i pursuing the most loving outcome for everyone involved here? can i meet this need myself? i don't think sexual needs are inseparable from emotional needs. if they are i think there's something wrong with you. at its core i just have the sense that contemporary polyamory is about evading connection and responsibility to each other. it's pure hedonism, it's all about sexual novelty.

in the world we used to live in, people were responsible to each other. we took care to preserve the things that we had and to mend them and to alter them, we were more cognizant of the craftsmanship of our clothing and our artwork, because we usually knew the craftsmen, and we loved them. there was not so much paranoia about connecting with and depending upon our neighbors. nobody was really looking at leaving relationships that "no longer serve" them as a viable option, and now we are, and maybe it's better that way sometimes- but i can't bring myself to see that idea as absolutely true or good. we have a responsibility to serve ourselves, and each other. that's a way that makes human beings distinct from other animals, is a sense of responsibility. if you've grown in a way your partner hasn't you don't have to look at it as outgrowing a relationship, that's only an issue if you see a relationship as an absolute arrangement. i think people should be committed and intentional, but we shouldn't be fixed in our expectations, they can change, they can expand and contract like breath, and that's something natural. it's like saying i'm gonna be with you and all of the people who live in your body with you until the end of the line if you'll let me. and if you don't wanna let me and you wanna shove me away and hurt me i'll love you anyways and i'll always be willing to look again. i'm not gonna punish you.

and it's a lonely way of looking at the world, because people are usually firmly in one camp or the other- either relationships are vessels for pleasure or they're solemn commitments. and the truth is that they're the center of the world, and they're living things, and they need a lot of care and a lot of patience, and we also have to relinquish control. that doesn't mean relinquishing hope or giving up on them when they become difficult, it just means that you can't become attached to specific outcomes, because you'll always be surprised by what you find. i want a life with you but i'm not attached to where we live or who we become. i just wanna be close to you. when i think about the future i wanna feel safe and warm and i want there to be quiet and comfort and curiosity. i don't wanna have to deal with your mistresses and have you thinking your infidelity is spiritually liberating.

[chimalpopoca13]

It truly is quite insidious how ((at least in America, I’m sure other countries)) the actual ruling class honestly manufactures and profits off of turning the rest of us against each other. Not saying that “we should all be fine with each other all the time, and that unity will solve everything” because I am aware of division within communities, and that there are still hierarchies within marginalized communities, that creates incompatibility and strife with each other, and the what defines how exactly privileged someone is, is surprisingly hard to pin down, I.e white gay cis men still benefit from white male privilege, even though they do experience prejudice and marginalization on the basis of being gay. It’s a hard line to tow of comparing privilege and marginalization to one another, and attempting to do so is not something I feel qualified to do. Rather, I mean the blatant manufactured division.

For example, It’s common place for Airlines to have a rewards program(often multitiered), multiple seating options(first class/business class vs. coach), and all of these “rewards” for being higher tier. All of these things, while most likely being primarily for the sake of carving every dollar they can get from their passengers, also create this weird atmosphere of classism, that by being a gold-frequent-flier-card-holder-premier-priority boy, you are somehow above the rest of the ‘filthy dirty poors’. But like, the so called rewards? You get a seat that you can actually sit in comfortably and don’t have to press your knees against you chin because you are so cramped, cause they realized that if they make the coach and economy seats smaller, more people would genuinely have to fork over money for the larger seats. You get to check a bag for free, that used to come with the ticket. The claims that you’ll get your one free bag faster? Well that often doesn’t happen, sometimes your bag doesn’t even get out onto the luggage carousel, but instead on a completely separate one, that you had no knowledge that it was placed there. The very idea that the truly wealthy fly first class? Oh please, the actually truly wealthy? They fly private jets. Instead what it all ACTUALLY is is big corporations making the base line worse, charging more for what used to be standard, and selling a false promise. It’s all just, artifice, to help fatten their wallets and suck dry everyone else’s.

[moorishflower]

Fawney Rig Estate Sale

Fawney Rig Estate Sale, the flyer says, and Hob doesn't know who placed it, or why they chose the Inn as its final housing, but when Dream sees it, the grainy jpeg of some massive gothic monstrosity of a manse bracketed by the words FURNITURE - BOOKS - COLLECTIBLES, his expression becomes distant, and his hand spasms on the bartop. He's gotten fairly good at reading Dream's moods over the past few months, and this one, he thinks, is a doozy. This one is almost like fear.

There's two things that Dream fears, at least that he's seen fit to tell Hob: one, in the darkling hours of the morning, the both of them twined together, Hob pulling the duvet over Dream's thin shoulders and gathering him close, Dream whispering, do not go far from me, Hob Gadling, and that's its own sort of fear, one that Hob understands. He feels it, too.

The other, more insidious, he's seen only rarely. When light catches on a curve of glass just so; when someone speaks in a very specific register and tone; when the night is too quiet, and too slow, and Dream's fingers begin to scratch lines into the tabletops for want of something to occupy him. Dream has told him, in fits and starts, of a hundred years trapped within a glass sphere. He's never mentioned names, but now, in the way that he looks at this flyer, which Hob wants to rip from the wall and shred into a hundred pieces, he doesn't need to.

"How much of it was left?" he asks that night, and Dream tucks his head against Hob's chest, and says nothing. Hob touches his hair, his shoulders, the dear, thin line of his back, thumbing down the rungs of his spine in slow and gentle strokes. "Right. I've got a sledgehammer somewhere. Matty has a forge he made himself, I'm sure he's got something that can cut metal. Everything else we can have shipped out and we'll dump it into the sea."

I do not know if I can accompany you, Dream tells him, and Hob says, That's fine, love. Whatever you need to do. But there's not a chance in Hell that he's letting this opportunity slip by. It's become as much about his own peace of mind as Dream's -- he wants to see the thing that trapped his lover for a more than a century. Wants to see the glass and the iron, the struts and bolts, rendered down into molten slag. All these years and he's thought his great nemesis was his own selfishness, his own attempt to grasp the uncatchable, and yet Dream has said I would have come to you, if I were able, and Hob now realizes the truth: a few tons of scrap iron and lightning-struck sand were the only things that stood between him and Dream, for a hundred and thirty-three years. And he had never known.

It hurts. It hurts in a way that beggars the soul, and out of the centuries of his past he drags up a brigand's easy violence as he dumps petrol into the car. As he drives to Fawney Rig.

It's every bit as tasteless and huge as the picture implied it to be, and the man who opens the door to Hob is older, bent-backed, something soft and yielding about the shape of his shoulders. He takes in the sight of Hob on his doorstep, dirt-grimed burlap sack over one shoulder, the sledgehammer leaning like a loyal dog against the wall.

"Can I help you?"

"Hope so." He drops the bag. It makes a satisfying clanking noise. "Are you Paul McGuire? Put up a load of flyers for an estate sale?"

"I...yes. That's me. The sale isn't for another two weeks. I'm afraid you're rather early." There's something conciliatory about the way he talks. Some sharp and cavernous thing in him senses it, the way that owls can sense the shape of mice in tall grass. He longs for the feel of a good dagger in his hand. It's been a long time since he killed anyone, but he wants, and he recognizes that this is not good, he wants this gutless old man to put up a fight.

This man has never been bloodied nor bled another creature in his life. He'd make a fine target for a bandit, but for Hob's purposes, he's unsatisfying. He kicks the bag, instead.

"I'm not the mercenary I used to be," he says. "Better for you. There's about. Hm. A bit more than a kilo of gold bullion in that bag. It's old, but any jeweler will tell you it's pure. It's yours if you leave. Now."

"I don't. I don't understand."

"No," Hob says, unkindly. "You don't. Which is why I'm giving you this chance to leave. He said you were the one who let him out. Eventually. After a hundred and thirty-three years."

The man's face goes pale as clotted cream. He looks at the sledgehammer with new fear. He remembers this feeling, the intimacy of a knife held to the throat of one who deserves it. It's not one he anticipated dredging up, not once highway robbery went out of style, but it comes back to him as easy as riding a bicycle. Perhaps he should be worried about that.

He'll worry later. Paul McGuire is nodding slowly, looking ill, looking lost. "Is he here?" he asks, and Hob snorts.

"If he was," he says, "I wouldn't tell you."

And that, as they say, is that. Hob is left standing in the entry hall of Fawney Rig, the fading splendor of it, all its gothic twists and its vaguely occult symbolism wended through with high-quality electric lights and a security system to make the Queen weep. Paul hasn't left him a key. By the end of the night, he doesn't intend to need one anymore.

It makes as much sense to start from the ground up as anything else, and finding the stairs to the basement is easy. The hammer is a comfortable heft over his shoulder, and it's as he starts down into that long and sightless tunnel that he feels the shape take just behind him.

"Hello, love," he says, and Dream reaches out. Hob takes his hand, as easy as breathing. "You doing all right?"

"It looks different. From this direction."

"I imagine it would. You aren't alone this time, though." He squeezes the hand in his. It's like trying to squeeze a stone, cold and implacable. "And we're leaving here together."

"Hm." But the hand relaxes, in minute increments. He can feel Dream behind him, can feel the outline of his shoulders, can see the vague eyeshine cast upon the wall, but he doesn't look back. Hob's read that story before. He'll look back when the job is finished. When they leave Hell together.

"Let's finish what you started," he says, as they reach the bottom of the stairs. The ruin of the glass sphere sits in awful majesty in the center of a narrow moat; even from here, he can see the lines of yellow paint, the runes that bound Dream into an airless, feelingless void. The iron struts are lined with spikes; Hob wishes, abruptly, hotly, that he had only given Paul McGuire to the count of ten to leave. He hasn't any horse to ride him down, but he wouldn't have needed one anyways. An old man, and he with rage giving him winged feet.

"Right," he says, and let's go of Dream's hand, only long enough to heft the hammer properly. "Let's get started, darling. I'd like to be home in time to make you dinner."

He doesn't look back (he'll look back, he thinks, when he has reduced this poxy sphere to dust, when he has ground the iron into filings, when there is nothing left of this cursed mausoleum but concrete dust and burnt pages), but he feels the shape of Dream behind him. Can hear his smile.

It sounds like breaking glass. There's no music sweeter, Hob thinks, and lets the hammer fly.

[puppygirljulia]

This prompted me to write some things about being a trans at work myself, to my small group of followers here. Cw: transphobia, skip over this one if it hurts ya.

When I jobhunt it's in boymode, all of the time. I succesfully boymoded my way through this one job interview once and came out as transfem on my 3rd day at work. Overall, good vibes had. Some colleagues were overtly supportive, which was nice if sometimes a bit overbearing; but most of them said something along the lines of "I don't mind so long as you can do your job", which was dismissive but fine by me. It's a kind of acceptance, right?

I only occasionally had to correct colleagues about my pronouns and most were pretty professional about that; I never had to justify my gender to 'em. I felt comfortable to occasionally tell them about transitioning when asked; and after particularly annoying weekends or doctor appointments I aired my heart on how much it sucks sometimes to have to jump through so many hoops to get the care I need. They listened.

But later on my performance review, there were a bunch of complaints about my work performance and one of them was that I "do not separate work and life well enough in conversation." I asked for a bit more and it referred to me complaining about how transitioning sucks sometimes.

At my workplace, all of my colleagues told everyone about what's happening in their lives in the breakroom. Divorces, marriages, travel, moving out, family, kids, medical ails, etc. That was all fine to discuss. One was expected to tell things about their life outside of work. It's not fine if I talk about my issues though. No, because my issues were considered... private. Yucky. Not acceptable in polite discourse, something you should keep to yourself.

In my employer's defence, my poor separation of work and life was only one of the reasons I got fired there. The others were a lot more legit - I was somewhere between bad and just passable at the job, and I caught a very nasty cold that knocked me out for a month and a half. I was no star employee. But if I was actually good at the job, people may have tolerated more "personal stuff" from me. There's a saying in my language: "which is the drop that overspills the bucket?" That applies here.

This is not the dramatic telling of how overtly transphobic colleagues shouted tr*nny and bullied me out of the company; rather, the insidious logical consequence of cis people that say they "do not mind so long as you do your job" at work. It sounds accepting on the surface, but they're saying their acceptance of your identity is conditional on your job performance. Only when your job performance drops is when they start caring about your gender identity. It's a promise that they'll use it against you when it suits them.

I'm currently back to jobhunting and I'm boymoding all throughout, but I'll tell those stories another time. like and subscribe or whatever.

there's something about how conditional i am to cis people that genuinely gets to me sometimes. i surround myself with people like me but at work i am one of the very few (i know for sure im the only one in my department, idk about others i just know there arent many if at all) trans people and hearing my supervisor so casually just refer to me with he/him out of the blue after being very well aware that's not what i use blows my mind

[thekingofwinterblog]

It’s all for his sake - Endeavor and the Sunk Cost Fallacy

My hero academia 301 is a pretty interesting chapter, but for me, the most notable piece of it was how Endeavour reacted to the realization that Touya couldnt surpass All Might.

upon realizing that his son might not be able to do it because of inborn physical limitations, he immediatly stopped his training, which frankly was the responsible and adult thing to do. 

This stint of real parenthood did not last long however.

After taking the matter to a doctor, he is flat out told that not only cant Touya achive what endeavor wants, but it is a direct result of his incredibly selfish and irresponsible attempt to play god, by trying to breed the “perfect” hero into being.

It is how you react when you lose however, that shows who you really are, and endeavor illustrates that very, very well.

Upon being told in no uncertain terms that his attempts at Breeding an heir failed magnificently, producing a child that was not capable of resisting his own immense power, but also admonished by his doctor for even attempting it, and adviced not to try again, Endeavor instead doubled down, while focusing on the child he screwed over from the start with his attempt at genetic manipulation.

It was all for him you see. Endeavor doesnt use those words, but that is how he spins it here. it was all for Touya, all for his sake. if i stop now, then Touya was all for nothing, a mistake, im doing this for my son.

if im doing this for my son, then im not responsible for any of this.

his wife however, calls him out on it, as she understands Touya much, much more than endeavor does. or rather, she sees him fully as a human being, instead of as a thing, a weapon, a failed attempt at an heir.

Unlike Endeavor, Rei is able to see the way this all is affecting her son. She is able to see, and understand that Touya has fully accepted what Endeavor wanted him to be. a stronger, and better version of himself. however, unlike Endeavor, she only cares about him as a person.

Endeavour by comparison isnt completely uncaring about Touya. like most abusive parents, he does possess love for his offspring, but it is forever tainted by the fact that however much he might care, or not care about Touya, any familial love he has for his son is tainted by the fact that to Endeavor, he is a failed experiment, a failed heir, not his child. 

He is the golden child that Endeavor was building up as his true and only heir, who he breed, trained, and molded to for that single purpose, and now that he’s reached a point where he cant continue that legacy.

so, its time to abandon him, and start over new, despite literarily having just learned how stupid this plan was, and that it can, in fact, go completely wrong, with a quirk that will fuck over the person he brings into the world.

Of course, Endeavor doesnt use those words to frame it. there is no way to pretend to be a hero, if you phrase it like that after all. Intead, this is the words he uses.

this is a very important series of panels for a great number of reasons, some that can be debated, argued, and we will probably never know the full truth to the questions because this is a series published in 2020′s shonen jump, and there are things that probably wasnt gonna fly with Hori’s editors, if it was the case.

but lets start with what can not be debated. Endeavor’s words here.

“If we want him to give it up, then we have no choice... Touya... Cant surpass him.”

These are very telling words, and however you believe The third and fourth children of the Todoroki family was concieved, there is not denying the meaning of what he’s saying here.

The only way that my son will stop being an idiot and fall into line, is if we have another baby. that is the only Right way to move forward. it is morally right, because if we dont do this, then he’s going to destroy himself.

there are two ways to interpret this scene.

The charitable way is to read it as the fact that he used Rei’s oldest son’s mental state as a justification of guilting his wife to have a third child, to give this attempt at a superpowered breeding project another shot, despite the fact that they now know that this can lead to a child who is essentially born crippled from his own powers, and despite the fact that Rei obviously understands the effect of them continuing this insanity will have on their oldest son.

the uncharitable way to look at it, is that he used this as justification for flat out raping her, and forcing a third, and then later a fourth child on her.

I personally believe the last one, given a number of factors shown in this chapter(the way this page is framed, the fact Rei obviously didnt want a third child, given she predicted exactly how touya would react, the way her eyes would latet turn when she looks at who is presumably touya which really brings to mind how she would later react to her youngest son’s face after her mental breakdown, etc.), but i’ll frankly admitt that withouth a direct quote from Hori, its impossible to know for sure one way or another. 

either way however, this is a very good example of Endeavor both being influenced by, and using Sunk Cost Fallacy to justify bringing another potentially crippled child into the world for his own, selfish goals.

sunk cost Fallacy, is a mental reaction to when you invest more time and resources into a project, that you becomes so emotionally invested into said project that you will continue to invest into it, even if it reaches a point that it becomes clear that the resources you put into it, far, far outweighs the potential gains you can achieve.

because if you give up after having invested years, and years of effort to breed, raise, and train a kid, and then all that effort was absolutely wasted. hence he choose to keep going, despite having learned what a terrible idea this is.

He doesnt care about the fact that his next child might be even more crippled than his firstborn, he doesnt care about his son’s actual wellbeing. he cares about the fact that if he doesnt continue this insanity, then not only will he not achieve his dreams, but everything he did to get to this point was for absolutely nothing.

and endeavor cannot accept that. and so long as he can justify breeding more children into the world, and there being any chance they might inherit both quirks perfectly, he doesnt care about anything else.

and the moment he realised that this kid wasnt gonna cut it either, he did it again. it is not a coincidence, that the age gap between Endeavor’s second, third, and fourth children were all 3-4 years apart. because thats the age where you can usually tell when a quirk will manifest or not, as established earlier in the series.

While she isnt brought up directly by Endeavor as a justification, it is very telling that Endeavor decided on having a third child, only after his second child was old enough that he could tell that that there was no chance she could take the place as his heir instead.

So, he had his third child, and as time passed and it became obvious that he wasn’t gonna be able to fulfill Endeavor’s goals either, he dumped him, and instead breed a fourth child into existence.

and finally, he struck gold. he did it. he produced Shoto.

everything was finally worth it, and now, everything would be absolutely fine. the cost fallacy had reached its end, and it was now all full sails ahead.

except of course it wasnt.

His oldest son, now in middle school, had been raised from birth to believe he would surpass his father, only to be thrown away, and getting to see his father try to replace him, not once, but twice.

frankly, this scene is probably my favorite in the chapter, because it goes to show Endeavor’s mindset. Natsuo made a point that their father completely ignored his older children. and he did... from Natsuo’s perspective. however, having a more thourough picture of things, we can clearly see that this wasnt the case with Touya.

Endeavor genuinly cared for Touya, enough that once he got that child he tried to breed into existence 4 times, he genuinly wanted him to just abandon trying to be a hero. he genuinly thinks of himself as a good dad here, wanting his son to abandon the mission he set out for him before he was born. of course, with context, this heartwarming scene is incredibly sad and insidious, because we understand why Endeavor got so attached to his oldest child. because he WAS the golden child. he was the child Endeavor genuinly cared about, and invested in, and trained personally with great warmth and enthusiasm.

And not only did he abandon him as a failed project the moment he realized he wasnt gonna live up to his ridiculous standards, but he literarily created 2 more kids to try and replace him, just as his oldest son was old enough to understand what exactly his dad was doing. over the course of this chapter, we get to see Touya’s start as a 5-8 year old, his deteriorating mental state over the years, until he finally seemed to reach the breaking point with Shoto’s birth sometime in his middle school years 12-15. 

Endeavor is in this scene, just not capable of understanding why Touya so desperately wants to become a hero, when obviously he isnt physically able to do so. he isnt able to understand that he is 100% to blame for the fact that his son is having a full emotional breakdown after literaly being replaced by his siblings. 

In other words, Endeavor genuinly think’s he’s a good person. a person who has made a few mistakes along the way sure, but a person who was always justified in the end, and now that he’s having to face the fact that as dabi would later say “The past never dies” and has to face the aftermath of his inane attempt to play god for the pettiest of reasons, things simply arent going to work out.

He isnt going to have a happy family, who can now put the awful early years behind them, he put way too much effort, caused too much suffering and sacrificed too many years of his life for this not to work out as he wants.

after all, if he walks away from this project now, and lets Shoto have a normal childhood, and decide for himself, with no pressure from him, wheter or not to become a hero, then the sunk cost fallacy will have reached a negative end. it will all have been for nothing.

and we know he did eventually double down on this mentality, literarily beating into Shoto that he WAS going to become a hero, and there was not but’s or no’s about it.

there was no way that Endeavor was EVER going to let things be for nothing. His treatment of his older children could not be for nothing. His treatment of his wife could not be for nothing. His treatment of Shoto, and the way he beat him black and blue to train him, could not be for nothing.

Because if it all was for nothing, if everything he feels guilty about was for absolutely nothing, then he was in fact, a bad, bad person, who had no justification for anything he ever did.

[i-ship-therefore-i-am]

the first bit of the kissing fic I’ve been working on for ages: (read it on AO3 here.)

Wei Wuxian’s attention has chased Lan Wangji since the first day they met—relentless, unforgiving, his eyes always looking. One day Lan Wangji can’t help but look back.

Or: Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji share a moment of honesty during their time in Xuanwu cave, and how everything afterward changes (and doesn’t).

break upon your shore

“Cloud Recesses has been burned.”

Lan Wangji has finally done it, said aloud the words he has been holding back in the face of Wei Ying’s endless pestering. Days spent ignoring the litany of Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan. Days of deflecting demanding questions about what happened. Days of concern and care he doesn’t need. Shouldn’t need.

My leg is fine.

I am fine.

Everything is fine.

Leave me alone.

(Don’t.)

(Don’t go.)

(Don’t leave me alone.)

As Lan Wangji finally gives in, speaks the fate of the Cloud Recesses, he remembers why it was so important to resist in the first place. The moment the words are through his lips, said to Wei Ying of all people, everything threatens to crumble, a great reverberating fault line widening in his chest.

He switches from irritation and anger to sadness so quickly that he feels unmoored, like the flames of the fire in front of them in the dark cave—dancing wildly, ready to consume and destroy from within.

It is not as if Wei Ying didn’t already know about the Cloud Recesses, as if Wen Chao had not crowed about it as he dragged Wei Ying off to a dungeon that spit him back out covered in blood and a fatigue that no smile could completely cover. Though Wei Ying tried, of course. He always did.

So flippant and unregulated. So aggravatingly frivolous about everything, not only others’ hearts, but his own safety.

“Are your people safe?” Wei Ying asks now, voice soft and delicate as if he can tell Lan Wangji is reeling even as he keeps himself still. So very still. “Your uncle? Your brother?”

Lan Wangji does not allow himself to look away from the flames, to move so much as a muscle in reaction. Does not look at the face he knows will be earnest and beautiful, not when he is stuck as he is in this cave where there is nowhere to hide from it. “My uncle was badly wounded. My brother is missing.”

These are the facts. Cold. Hard. Unchangeable.

“Zewu-Jun is missing?” Wei Ying asks, tone voicing the pain in his own heart. His shoulder presses closer against Lan Wangji’s side.

Because Wei Ying is reckless and foolish and irritating and inescapable, and worst of all he is endlessly, violently kind.

Lan Wangji’s eyes flood with wetness.

Shameful. Where is his control? Emotional displays do not change facts. They never have.

He closes his eyes tight, both because he can feel the drag of exhaustion in his bones but also to escape the painful beauty of Wei Ying’s face in the flickering firelight. His teasing smile and laughter that is not Lan Wangji’s and is not meant for him and never will be. So easily spread to many with no true intent. But to escape also the tears he has almost let fall, the way Wei Ying’s provoking laughter has fallen away, leaving something even more maddening. No jokes at his expense, just an understanding that makes it impossible to keep his control perfect and undented the way it must always be. In front of Wei Ying more than anywhere else.

He will not be weak enough to cry. To give something for Wei Ying to make a mockery of. Or perhaps worse, to be seen. Understood. That somehow seems even more treacherous.

Wei Ying continues to speak softly, and Lan Wangji lets the chatter flow over him like a lullaby, like a comfort that it has no right to be. Lets it push away all thoughts of the Cloud Recesses and his brother and embarrassment and yearning. The endless confusing tangle Wei Ying sows in him. How he hates it and longs for it.

He just needs to rest. To reestablish his equilibrium. Then everything will stop tilting to the side, his foundations will solidify.

Only then, unexpectedly, soft cloth settles across his body. Warm hands settle on his shoulders. Ignore it, he orders himself. Sleep. Escape.

Against his will, his eyes flutter open. So undisciplined, so out of control.

Wei Ying is leaning over him, so, so near as he settles his outer robe over Lan Wangji, a soft look of something like fondness in his expression.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, face close enough that Lan Wangji can see the faint blush rise on his cheeks. So close that his breath stirs the air against his face, soothing and provoking all at once. Just as Wei Ying himself has always been.

Wei Ying’s thumbs rub absently across the curve of Lan Wangji’s shoulders, giving him a sheepish smile. “I thought you were asleep.”

Maybe he is asleep. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe he is just broken and tired and unable to resist. The fleeting, thoughtless caress of Wei Ying’s hands against his shoulders spilling everything over. Because somehow Lan Wangji forgets that this means nothing. Means nothing to Wei Ying. Only thinks how much he wants it to mean something.

His hand lifts, fingers touching softly against the warmth of Wei Ying’s cheek, chasing the burn of color there, like seeking proof. When his choice is between doing this and crying, this feels only marginally safer.

“Uh, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying says, not moving, but eyes widening. “Is there something on my—”

He stops talking as Lan Wangji’s thumb presses into the corner of that devastating, infuriating, teasing grin.

Lan Wangji briefly wonders if this is what being drunk feels like. If this is why it is forbidden, if such a state makes people just do as they please without fear of consequence. If it makes bodies incapable of being still and doing nothing which is the choice he should have made. Usually makes.  

Wei Ying has not pulled away, just blinks back at Lan Wangji for long moments before swaying even closer. His mouth opens on a gentle exhalation and Lan Wangji curls his fingers into the soft skin of Wei Ying’s neck just behind the sharp jut of his jaw. Presses in.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, wonderingly, his voice sliding down Lan Wangji’s spine, flaring heat low in his belly.

“Wei Ying,” he says, their same endless call and response. His voice sounds wrong though. He’s giving too much away, is too ragged to hide it. Too worn to brace for the inevitable pain and embarrassment that will follow, this thing he has fought against for so long. To lose Wei Ying at last to hatred and disgust.

Maybe Lan Wangji really is nothing without his ribbon lashing him together.

It’s a horrible, shameful thought, but he has no time to linger on it because Wei Ying’s face is dipping even closer, his lips brushing against his.

It’s almost a question, the gentle not-quite-there touch, Wei Ying’s eyes still open as he watches Lan Wangji’s face, nose softly bumping against his cheek. Nudging. Testing his boundaries. As always.

It takes everything in Lan Wangji not to surge into the touch, to not just take what he has wanted for so long even as he fought against it. He is still half-braced for the laughter, for the punch line, for Wei Ying to dance back out of reach the second he tries. Did you honestly think I could want you? Want a pillar of ice?

He does not want to believe Wei Ying could ever be that cruel. Even unknowingly.

“Do not joke,” Lan Wangji somehow manages to say, wanting to sound harsh and unbending, wanting to shove and retreat, but knowing instead how broken and pleading his words are. Wanting. His hand is not pushing away, but curling tight into the silken strands of Wei Ying’s hair.

Wei Ying studies his face, something painfully sincere there. “I won’t. I wouldn’t.”

But rather than pulling back, than ending this horrible torment that Lan Wangji only has himself to blame for, Wei Ying presses closer, lips firm and warm against his.

Lan Wangji’s entire body threatens to shudder under the sensation, emotions rioting and fighting to escape his control. He sucks in a breath through his nose and closes his eyes in a panicked attempt to find equilibrium. It has the effect of focusing all his senses down on the feel of Wei Ying’s lips, the heat of his nearness, the relentless thud of his own heart. None of this centers him. Not when the simple press of dry lips is already almost too much. No where near enough.

He has to stop himself from starting at the sensation of fingers against his cheek, Wei Ying moving closer, pressure increasing. Lan Wangji’s lips give way to him as a soft round sound tries to break free of his throat.

He lets Wei Ying kiss him like this, remaining still and open under him, heat insidiously blooming in his chest, yet too afraid to give anything back, that the moment he tries to reach for more it will be snatched away. (But, how much he also wants, wants, wants.) He can’t resist the cautious flick of his tongue against Wei Ying’s lower lip where it presses between his, wanting to taste him. Wei Ying jerks, only to meet him immediately, mouth open and eager, welcoming, somehow seeming to know what it is Lan Wangji wants when he barely knows himself.

Wei Ying presses even closer, a whiney sound at the back of his throat that seems to reverberate in Lan Wangji’s own flesh like an echo or answering note. Deep. Abiding. Unescapable. He is drowning. He is coming up for a first true gasp of air.

Everything retreats unexpectedly as Wei Ying jostles Lan Wangji’s leg—sharp, unforgiving pain shooting through his entire body, enough to cut through the heavy haze of desire.

Lan Wangji hisses, feeling sweat break out on his brow, black spots in his vision. He is reeling and lost, bouncing between opposing sensations.

Wei Ying pulls out of reach. “I’m so sorry! I can’t believe—I wasn’t thinking. Is your leg okay? Of course, it’s not okay. Let me see. Did I ruin it? Does it hurt a lot?” His hand lands on Lan Wangji’s thigh as he twists to look at it, but Lan Wangji couldn’t care less about his leg in the moment. He should. That would be the proper thing.

None of this is proper.

The pain recedes as he concentrates on the wanton heat of Wei Ying’s palm on his thigh, the flush of Wei Ying’s face, his lips shiny and full and well-kissed. By Lan Wangji. That was done by him. The satisfaction unfurling in his chest is a solid, dangerous thing.

Wei Ying still babbles and apologizes, the words echoing and building against the stone walls. Lan Wangji briefly shuts his eyes against it, centering himself, even as he wants to know what, exactly, Wei Ying is apologizing for. But also afraid to know.

Do not be of two minds, he thinks automatically, and tries to let it calm him, contain him. But it is hollow, as he has always been of two minds when it comes to Wei Ying.

“Are you sorry?” he finds himself asking.

Wei Ying looks at him, eyes wide. “Of course, I am! Your leg—”

Lan Wangji shakes his head. “Not my leg.”

Wei Ying stills, and only because they are still so close, because Lan Wangji is staring at him so brazenly, unable to look away, does he see the moment of raw feeling—something like worry and pain, and more vulnerable than he would ever think to see from Wei Ying—before his expression slips carefree and teasing again.

His body is all fluttering movement in an instant, and Lan Wangji considers that can be as much a cover as stillness. It’s a startling thought, one he files away carefully to think on more when he has the chance.

Wei Ying rubs at the back of his head, smiling widely. “Oh, uh. Yes. I can apologize for that too if you like. I thought…but I probably thought wrong! And now I’ve horribly offended you. Yet again. So maybe you can just please forget I did that and we can pretend, even though, honestly, I think I’d much rather do that again, every day if you would let me, and, boy, is that something I was not expecting, but I know that you barely tolerate me and I’d rather you didn’t hate me, so we can just chalk it up to—”

Lan Wangji grabs Wei Ying’s shoulder and cuts him off by dragging his mouth back to his. Like he’s possessed, wild. And maybe he is because this time he does not sit passive under Wei Ying’s kisses, finally giving way to what he wants, mouth taking and demanding because Lan Wangji is always listening carefully when Wei Ying speaks and Wei Ying said he wants to do this again. Every day if he would let him.

Wei Ying makes the most ridiculously wanton sound against his mouth and Lan Wangji wants to swallow it down and let it live inside of him forever.

Wei Ying slides his hands into Lan Wangji’s hair, fingers pressing into the curve of his skull, each pad of his finger a bright spot of energy shooting straight down his spine. Lan Wangji lets out a gasp, pulling his mouth away just long enough to suck in a deep breath and Wei Ying immediately protests, shuffling forward on his knees, nearly falling over in his eagerness.

Lan Wangji presses his hand to the flat of Wei Ying’s back to steady him. He guides him closer out of range of his leg that no longer hurts in the slightest and maybe that should be worrying but the thought flitters away, because Wei Ying is closer now, at last, knee pressing up against the outside of his thigh right before he crushes his mouth back to Lan Wangji’s.  

Everything is heat and pressure and the slide of Wei Ying’s tongue against his, Lan Wangji feeling as if he’s swallowed an entire wildfire, not the steady power and warmth of his core, but something writhing and sparking.

With Wei Ying nearly in his lap now, there is no part of him that is not easily within reach, and Lan Wangji’s hands are greedy, like this might be something snatched away at any moment. He methodically discovers the planes of his sides, his back. Wei Ying’s sinfully red robe is so thin under Lan Wangji’s palm, hiding none of the heat or shifting muscles of his back as he reaches and writhes and never stops moving because he is Wei Ying, even while doing this, so much Wei Ying. Lan Wangji wants his mouth on every inch of Wei Ying’s body with an intensity that winds him. He can no longer feel shame for it. Just wants, sharp and liquid.

He is dizzy with the continued assault of Wei Ying’s mouth and lips and tongue and it is somehow too much and not enough, too far and not close enough.

Lan Wangji twists his hand in the front of Wei Ying’s robe, needing him closer, needing him to still, just needing something to hold onto and Wei Ying lets out a sharp yelp of pain. Lan Wangji jerks back, releasing his grip, Wei Ying’s mouth pulling free from his with a wet sound that is going to haunt him forever.

“Ow, ow, ow,” Wei Ying says between bouts of shaky laughter. “We have perhaps not chosen the best moment for this.”

“I apologize,” Lan Wangji says, horrified to have so thoughtlessly caused him pain.

Wei Ying shakes his head, pressing a hand to the still-seeping brand on his chest. “No, no. A little pain is worth it. Believe me.”

Lan Wangji can’t help but feel the flair of annoyance in his chest, everything inside him writhing and upside down and not in its proper place. “Worth having her remember you always?”

Wei Ying’s eyes widen, another laugh spilling from his lips. “Heavens. I read that so wrong didn’t I? I mean, you werejealous. But not of Mianmian. I can’t believe that. Am I dreaming right now?”

Wei Ying looks delighted, and Lan Wangji has to look away, feeling his ears burn, not sure if being so transparent is mortifying or if he’s simply relieved for Wei Ying to finally see him, if that is better than Wei Ying’s misguided teasing and blindness.

But Wei Ying doesn’t relent long enough for Lan Wangji to clarify his own thoughts. “I actually meant a little pain was worth kissing you, by the way. This entire fucking disaster is worth getting to kiss you. Isn’t that insane to even say? But it’s how I feel right now. Even if you come to your senses the moment we get rescued. Or you actually get some sleep.” There is something bittersweet under his smile, and Lan Wangji realizes he has let himself be far too dazzled by those grins to see what might be hiding underneath. Or maybe too scared to look long enough to be able to notice.

He will set himself to the task of learning better to see it. To know each and every inflection. He’s never looking away again.

“I am always sensible,” Lan Wangji says.

Wei Ying laughs again, patting absently at his shoulder. “Yes, yes. I certainly didn’t mean to offend. No one could speak against Lan-er-gongzi’s levelheadedness.”

Lan Wangji feels Wei Ying is deliberately misunderstanding him for some reason, but he has no shame left, having already broken himself open so effectively, having now felt what it is to have Wei Ying in his arms. Willingly. Enthusiastically. There is no lying to himself. And there is no lying to Wei Ying.

Lan Wangji reaches for the back of Wei Ying’s neck, pulling him near.

Wei Ying’s hands flap a bit in surprise, but he comes willingly, everything in him seeming to go still, almost hanging from his grip, and this is another reaction Lan Wangji wants to learn more about. Some time when he is less exhausted.

Only once Wei Ying’s face is nearly touching his own, their eyes looking directly into each other, does Lan Wangji speak again. “I am always sensible,” he repeats. He has not lost his sense. He has only taken what he has always wanted. What he will always want. There will be no recanting. To think he would is offensive to him.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, his eyes blown wide. “Oh.”

Lan Wangji hums in agreement, attention caught by the sight of Wei Ying’s lips even as he feels exhaustion tugging relentlessly, his eyes heavy.

“So this isn’t just like, I don’t know, temporary insanity?”

Lan Wangji gives him a flat, unimpressed stare before leaning back against the cave wall behind him. “Long term insanity.” There can be no other way to describe the confliction he has been plagued with for so long.

Wei Ying lets out a startled laugh, and this one feels real and earned by Lan Wangji and it’s the most lovely sound he’s ever heard. “Lan Zhan!” he says, delighted and scandalized.

He feels his eyes sliding shut, his exhaustion a solid thing dragging him down. “Since I first met Wei Ying.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says again, this time soft and a bit thick. “I like you so much.”

Lan Wangji struggles to stay awake, to open his eyes, to think of something to say in response, something right, but he can only squeeze Wei Ying’s arm where he is still holding it. Never wants to let go of.

“It’s okay, Lan Zhan. Go to sleep.” There’s the soft press of what must be Wei Ying’s lips against his forehead, right where his ribbon should be, seductive warmth spreading out through his entire body from the simple touch. “Sleep now.”

“Wei Ying,” he mumbles one last time, and then drifts off.

[rubykgrant]

(not quite a "Freelancer" Caboose story, but in my larger story-line, I'm planning something that implies that a young Caboose was in a program similar to the whole Spartan situation from the actual Halo series, but it was shut-down, and he got sent to be part of the Sim Troopers... what happened to him and other kids eventually is dealt with, and Carolina discovers she had ALMOST been selected for the same program when she was young, but he father stopped that. which is... almost nice? he was at least half-way parental, but still neglectful.

Here is the bit I have written for when Caboose goes to visit the Moon, remembering his life a bit, hinting about the rather insidious child soldier program, and also realizing this place isn't his "home" anymore)

Caboose went back to the Moon for a while. Tucker, Wash, and Carolina went along for the ride, just to drop him off and make sure he was settled. Sarge almost joined them, because even though Caboose was a Blue, Sarge had a soft spot for him. Instead, he decided against making the group more crowded, giving Caboose a fierce bear-hug before leaving the rest of them to their duty of escort.

It seemed fine. Sort of. Caboose didn’t appear to be confused or lost regarding his surroundings, and when it was time to go, he calmly told his friends not to worry. His family didn’t come to greet him, and that seemed awkward, possibly a little rude (but each of them certainly had “complicated” family relationships. Perhaps it was best this way). Before they left, they couldn’t help but notice… on the Moon, nobody paid much attention to Caboose. Even when he did something wrong (and with Caboose, things could go REALLY wrong). It was like everybody had short attention spans, and even Caboose couldn’t keep their interest for very long.

Caboose spent a couple of days just walking around. He went to places he remembered, and they were mostly the same. The Moon had a routine, which was alright in a way, but it wasn’t a fun routine, so Caboose didn’t enjoy it very much. He sees some people he used to know; he doesn’t remember all of them, but when they call him Caboose, that’s a clear sign they’ve met him before. None of them really want to chit-chat, but they also don’t tell Caboose to come back another time or explain they want to talk later… so he just does what he always does. Caboose tells them all about everything he’s been thinking about, stuff he’s done or would like to do, and then eventually he realizes they’re ignoring him. When he stops talking and walks away, nobody notices. He remembers it had been like this before, too.

The fact was, it had been decided a long time ago the Moon city would be a peaceful place; in one sense, this was maintained by planning everything out, step-by-step, with specific jobs for everybody to do. In another sense, this was maintained by simply ignoring random problems, stepping over them like a spilled glass of water… and not bothering to clean it up. Surely, it was SOMEBODY’S job to clean it up, and eventually they would, whoever that was, and then the problem would just go away.

Caboose gets mixed-up sometimes, but he remembers what it was like growing up on the Moon. He was born before almost all the other kids, because the adults were supposed to wait, so they could all have kids at the same time. There was a plan for everything and everybody. None of the people who were going to be babysitters and teachers were ready for their jobs when Caboose was born. Nobody was really “ready” for Caboose. He wasn’t a bad kid. He just needed extra help sometimes, and everybody was busy doing what they KNEW they were supposed to do. No time for this little baby, who was a chaotic variable from the beginning.

As he got bigger, people would tell him what to do… but they didn’t always explain what, why, or how very well. He still did as he was told. Or, he tried. He really did TRY. When it seemed like he just wasn’t doing something right, they didn’t get mad at him. They sort of ignored him… in a perfectly pleasant and polite way. It wasn’t terrible exactly, but it was boring and a little lonely. When he was about ten years old, Caboose met his first sisters. Then he met even more. They were all born when they were supposed to be born, right on time. He loved his sisters very much, and they liked playing with him when they were small, but didn’t see them much; they had a schedule, when they went to the nursery, when they went to daycare, when they went to school… Caboose wasn’t part of the schedule.

After a while, Caboose is a little confused with his memories, a little mixed-up… because he went to a different school at one point, so he must have still been young, but he also started doing the training where he wore armor (it wasn’t blue, not yet, but the helmet was shaped the same, and it felt the same as the one that he wore later), so he must have been older? He knew he kept messing up because now people would yell at him, but then he must have done something right because he got special jobs to do. Everybody had a specific task, but it was different than what people did on the Moon. There were other kids there… yes, it MUST have been a school for children, because none of them were very big (except for the teachers). After a while, Caboose seemed to get better at doing what he was told. He made less mistakes. People were happy with him. These were also the hardest parts to remember… it seemed like the better he behaved, the less clear his memories were? That didn’t make sense. It was kinda blurry and out of order… then Caboose went to Blood Gulch.

Now he was blue, really Blue, and that was where he met CHURCH, who was the coolest person Caboose had ever known, and the longer Caboose knew Church the more he liked Church. Tucker was there too, which had been annoying at first, but now Caboose really likes Tucker a lot, so it was actually good that Tucker was there. Caboose got to meet Sheila, the nice giant tank-lady. That was also where Caboose met all the Red guys, like Captain Sarge and Simmons and Griff and Muffin and their robot Lopez. Tex Crabbypants showed up there too, and Caboose still misses her even though she was scary. The other scary one in Blood Gulch was a voice, and when they met Doctor Doc, the voice stayed with him for a while. Tucker had his baby in Blood Gulch, and Griff saw his sister Sister there. Blood Gulch had felt like home, and it was sad when they all had to leave…

Later, Washtub came looking for them and helped Caboose find Church, and then Church had to go away again. It was the kind of going away that lasts a long time (maybe even forever). That was the first Church that Caboose knew, and his other name was Alpha. Eventually, Caboose met Epsilon, who was also named Church too, and he was ALSO very cool, so Caboose was happy they could be friends. After that, miss Carolina wanted them to help her look for somebody else (somebody bad), and then she took Church away for a bit, but she brought him back again, so that was OK… until Epsilon had to go away by himself, the kind of going away that lasts a long time (maybe forever). Even though Church was gone again, and they were really REALLY far away from Blood Gulch, Caboose had everybody else, and somehow... they were all OK.

Caboose remembers all of that better than some of his years between being little and being older. A LOT happened in Blood Gulch, and even more happened when they left. Not a lot happens on the Moon. What does happen makes Caboose feel sort of lonely. An endless cycle of boring and lonely. It was nice to come back for a visit, but this isn’t really his home anymore. Caboose is pretty sure he once heard or read something that said “Home is where your heart is”, and he knew that meant you belong with the things you love. Caboose doesn’t understand some stuff, but there are times when he just KNOWS, and things simply make sense to him.

After a while, Caboose leaves the Moon. His “home” is kind of spread out far away right now, in lots of little bits all over the place, because everybody he loves has gone on their own trips, but Caboose isn’t worried. He’s VERY good at finding people, and he’s also good at remembering things that are important. Eventually, Caboose will see them all again, and they’ll be home, because they’ll be with Caboose.

Recently discovered the caboose was a freelancer headcanon and fell down a rabbit hole. Don’t suppose anyone has any fanfic recs that include this 👀👀 I’m not too picky

[tennessoui]

If you're up up to it, how about obikin and 42?

yes!!! Prompt 42 is Star-Crossed Lovers, but star-crossed lovers are soooooo out now. 'Crossed the stars to be lovers' is IN, baby!!

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Someone has left a letter on his bunk. Obi-Wan as a rule doesn’t get letters. Actually, as a rule, Obi-Wan has never wanted to receive a letter in his entire life. They all have datapads for a reason, and it’s because they’ve evolved past the need for flimsi and ink when there are means at their disposal to deliver messages near instantly.

So no, Obi-Wan has never wanted to see a letter sitting on his bunk. He finds the whole thing rather trying, actually, the Flimsi Friends program the Jedi Order established fifty standard years ago in an attempt to connect their Jedi with others across the branches through letters. Obi-Wan had scorned the idea as an Initiate living comfortably in the Temple on Coruscant, and his opinion hadn’t really changed once he began his tenure at the AgriCorps.

Kabre notices before anyone else. “Oh, hey! Obi-Wan’s got a letter.”

“Finally,” Aldran grins, craning his neck from where he’s collapsed on his bunk. “We only signed you up months ago.”

“Really, you shouldn’t have,” Obi-Wan says. “Really.”

“Oh, come now, little Obi,” Kabre pats him on the head. Obi-Wan is twenty-five and of a perfectly average height, but Kabre is close to three heads taller than him and of an indeterminable age. “Think of it as an opportunity to strengthen your connection to the living Force.”

“Through the Flimsi Friends program,” Obi-Wan deadpans, raising an eyebrow up at his peer.

“Getting letters from Susa is the highlight of my week,” Aldran tells the ceiling dreamily.

Obi-Wan shares a commiserating eyeroll with Kabre. “That’s because you’re in love with her.”

“Who wouldn’t be? She’s so sweet and kind and pretty and she has all these stories from her adventures in the ExploraCorps--”

“Alright, who got him talking about Susa?” Lathrum asks from the door, sighing in exasperation as he makes his way over to his own bunk. “It’ll be a standard day before he’s done.”

“Hey!” Aldran gasps, offended and already close to sulking. “Whatever. Fine. Everyone’s just jealous that Susa and I are in love because y’all are never going to find something nearly as good as we have.”

“Obi-Wan finally got a letter from the program,” Kabre announces to Lathrum. “We were just saying that he should at least try to be excited.”

“Yes, perhaps you’ll meet your own Susa,” Lathrum smirks, peeling off his dirt-covered tunic. His next words come out muffled. “Force help us if that happens.”

“No need to worry,” Obi-Wan says dryly, picking up the letter and studying it. “They appear to be a youngling.”

“A youngling wrote you?” Kabre asks, barely restrained glee in his deep baritone.

Aldran guffaws from his bunk. “Well now you have to write back!”

“Knowing your luck, it’s probably a youngling from the Jedi Temple,” Lathrum says. “Dear Obi-Wan, Today someone chose me to be their Padawan and I’m one step closer to being a Jedi Knight. How are your plants doing?”

“Yes, alright,” Obi-Wan shakes his head, smiling slightly. He had met Lathrum when he was fourteen and still bitterly disappointed about his new position at the AgriCorps, and Lathrum has never let him forget it even after all these years.

He sits down on his mattress and pulls out the letter. It’s short at least. The handwriting is atrocious but the spelling is worse.

Dear Obi-Wan,

Hi! My name is Anakin Skywalker. I am nine years old. How are you doing today? My master says I have to write this to practice my spelling. I think not everyone can learn Basic, but he says I have to and that all Jedi masters know how. I didn’t ever know there was all this stuff I have to do to be a Jedi. I’ve been here for weeks now and I still don’t have my lightsaber!

I think the temple is really weird. It’s so big and cold. I miss my friends back home. Me and Kitster would go crazy exploring this place but no one here wants to play with me. Master Jinn says not to worry and I’m not! The temple is just really big and I’m cold all the time and I miss my mom. Master Jinn found me on Tatooine and took me here to make me a Jedi which is great, but everyone here already knows each other and I don’t think they like me much. I know the Jedi Council doesn’t. They didn’t even want to train me but Master Jinn inzi--incis--said he would.

Do you want to be friends?

Would you explore the temple with me?

Write back soon please,

Anakin

“Well?” Kabre asks, when Obi-Wan finishes silently reading the letter.

Obi-Wan sighs and rubs a hand over the jagged penmanship. It’s all too obvious that this Anakin Skywalker is...painfully young, churlish and childish and achingly lonely.

Obi-Wan sighs again, harder, as he looks up at his bunkmates. “Where do we keep the blasted flimsi?”

---

Dear Anakin,

Thank you for your letter, it was very nice to read. My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi, and I’m 25 years old. I hope you are settling in at the Temple better by the time this letter finds you. I have to admit I was very surprised to hear that you are nine years old and have been allowed to train to be a Jedi. That’s unheard of. I’m sure you’ll be an excellent Jedi. There must have been a reason your master chose you. The Force wills it and it will be.

It is understandable to miss your mother and your old home. When I became a member of the AgriCorps, I spent the first few months missing the Jedi temple on Coruscant a lot. It was the only home I ever had. But we make others as we go. The Temple is big and I suppose very cold compared to a desert planet--I looked up Tatooine here and there wasn’t much information, but I could never live somewhere with two suns! I’d be burned to a crisp in a matter of hours.

The upside to the Temple being big is that there are a lot of hiding spots and footholds for climbing. Try the pillars in the entrance hall. They connect to each other. My friends and I would run around on top of them for hours, although I think that was mostly because we were too scared to get down. You should ask Knight Eerin about it, or Knight Vos. They’re usually in the Mess Hall if not the Halls of Healing.

I’m sure Master Jinn has you busy with meditation and classes, but I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Best,

Obi-Wan Kenobi

---

Dear Obi-Wan,

I was really excited to get your letter! I didn’t know it would take so long but it’s been ages! So much stuff has happened. I finally finished my remedial classes and Master says we can focus more time of katas now! I can’t wait to learn how to fight! And Master Windu smiled at me the other day when he saw me in the hall because Master told him about my grades!

I asked Knight Eerin about you and she showed me some pictures she had on her datapad of you when you lived at the Temple. You look really pretty cool! I have blond hair and blue eyes if you were wondering. My mom always said she thought I was going to be really tall. What do you look like now? What do you do at the AgriCorps? Why did you leave the Temple? Knight Eerin says you need to give her a comm call soon. She didn’t sound very happy.

I made a friend! Knight Vos’ padawan was there when I talked to him about what you told me, and she came with me to go exploring! She’s so cool. She’s been helping me with my katas too.

Apparently I won’t get my lightsaber for years! That’s so long!

Anyway I have to go and do my reading now but please write back faster this time, Obi-Wan!

--Ani

----

Obi-Wan never reacts quite as happily and dramatically as Aldrin does when he sees a letter from Anakin on his bunk in the evenings, but over the years everyone learns not to disturb Obi-Wan on those nights.

The first letter Obi-Wan receives from Anakin after the boy turns eighteen includes his commlink frequency hastily crammed at the bottom of the page. If you want, Anakin has scribbled.

“Finally,” Obi-Wan jokes when the line connects and Anakin answers breathlessly. “No offense to you, dear one, and you have come quite a ways since you were a youngling, but your handwriting is still atrocious. I’d much rather talk to you like this than try to puzzle out what you’ve written.”

Anakin splutters and then stutters out in a voice slower and deeper than Obi-Wan had expected, “I didn’t know you had an accent, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan finds that he likes that voice saying his name in that way.

That’s the first sign of trouble.

----

Anakin sends a photo of his knighting ceremony. Obi-Wan wants to cry with pride. His friends tease him about it relentlessly. “You look like I did the day I married Susa,” Aldrin crows and takes a picture of Obi-Wan’s blushing, laughing face. Later, Obi-Wan reluctantly sends it to Anakin.

“I’m jealous of your friends,” Anakin confesses with an exhale of static. “They get to see you everyday.”

“Oh, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, unable to say more. Unable to admit that he’s thought the same thing about Anakin’s master at the Temple. Unable to deny it though.

They move onto safer topics, ones that make Obi-Wan’s chest feel less tight.

----

“Jedi Knights are forbidden to have romantic attachments,” Kabre tells him apropos of nothing one late evening when they’re leaning against the railings of their cabin.

Obi-Wan doesn’t even try to pretend to not know what his friend is talking about. Anakin is twenty-three now. They call each other as often as possible, whenever they have enough free time. Thinking about Anakin, somewhere out in the galaxy, makes Obi-Wan feel dangerous things. Dangerous, insidious, illogical things.

“Yes,” he agrees.

“Everything you’ve ever told me about this boy makes me think he’s in love with you,” Kabre says. “And the way you tell it makes me think you’re in love with him too.”

“Kabre, I…”

“I’m not asking you to deny it to me, Obi-Wan. You don’t need to defend yourself. You know no one cares if you’ve gone and fallen in love with your flimsi friend. It happens. And Force knows there’s no way you could be more insufferable than Aldrin and Susa.”

“He’s a Jedi Knight, Kabre,” Obi-Wan looks away, off over the fields. “I know what that means.”

----

When Anakin is twenty-four, Obi-Wan walks into his room to see a letter on his pillow. He blinks in surprise. He hasn’t gotten a letter since they petered out in favor of comm calls with Anakin.

But he’d recognize that handwriting anywhere.

He sits down to read it.

Dear Obi-Wan,

I find myself growing weary of Knighthood. I love my Padawan, I love the missions, I love the fighting. But I love something else more. I have for almost as long as I can remember.

I’ve been looking through the old letters from you. I’ve kept them all. I know Jedi should not have material attachments, but I found that I could no more throw them away than give my lightsaber to a Sith. They make up our story.

You were the first friend I ever had at the Temple. I don’t quite think you realized that then, and you may not even realize it now. But you were. I would get a letter from you and feel warm for weeks afterwards.

Actually, everything I love about the Temple and the Jedi you gave to me. My friends now, indirectly. All the hiding spots. Moving meditation.

When I got my kyber crystal, I wanted to tell you before anyone else. When my Padawan braid was cut, I gave it to my master, but wished I had something I could give to you too.

That was the day I really admitted to myself that you already have all of me.

Obi-Wan, I’m in love with you. I love you more every time we talk. Disengaging the comms at the end of the night hurts like losing my hand all over again. I love you, I love you.

And I have been a coward about it for too many years. I was afraid that you would reject me, think me too rash and young and foolish. But I know what I want. You told me in one of your letters that you believed I lived off of a single-minded desire to achieve my goals and that I would let nothing stand in the way.

I do not plan on starting now, if you will have me that is. I dream of nothing more than to feel your hands on my face, to listen to the sound of your heart beating in your chest.

I will not disrespect the ways of the Jedi by loving you quietly, when I know you are my deepest, strongest attachment. One that I will not shake, even if I lived to be as old as Master Yoda himself.

If you find that you feel the same way, I will leave the Jedi Order tomorrow and meet you on Bandomeer. If you do not, then I understand and will never speak of this again. I am something of an expert after all these years of loving you silently from afar.

Yours sincerely, yours always, yours completely,

Anakin

Obi-Wan traces the words with a shaking hand. He doesn’t know he’s crying until a tear falls onto the flimsi. Oh, Anakin. Oh, his brave, foolish Anakin.

Will he really be so selfish as to allow Anakin to leave his Knighthood for him? His padawan, his home?

But the knowledge that Anakin loves him is a heady, addictive feeling. Obi-Wan has never truly gotten the things he wants. He loves his life now, of course. But he hadn’t wanted it.

And he loves Anakin.

He loves him terribly.

He reaches for a piece of flimsi and a pen.

----

Anakin will be the first to admit he’s been in a foul mood for a few standard weeks now. He’d sent that letter to Obi-Wan--Force, why had he sent that letter to Obi-Wan, obviously the man will never want to talk to him again now--and then immediately Ahsoka and him had been called in for a mission.

It had been awful and disgusting. Anakin is covered in mud from head to toe, and his padawan doesn’t look any better. And worst of all, he had had no time at all to comm Obi-Wan. No time at all to see how the man had taken his confession. It feels like he’s been holding his breath for days.

But he’s at the Temple now. He can clean himself off and call Obi-Wan incessantly until the man answers. Anakin can’t keep living like this.

“Letter for you, Master,” Ahsoka says as he enters their quarters. She’d been sent ahead while Anakin had finished docking the ship, and now she’s sitting at the table perfectly clean.

Anakin thinks his heart stops at these words and then it starts beating as fast as it ever has before. “Where?”

“I put it on your bed,” Ahsoka peers up at him with a furrowed brow. “Are you okay, Skyguy? You look a bit--”

But Anakin’s gone, already tearing into his room. There on the bedspread is a letter. Obi-Wan’s written him a letter.

Anakin has to try opening it three times before he finally gets his fingers to cooperate. It’s very short.

Dearest One, Obi-Wan has written.

I’ll meet you here tomorrow on Bandomeer. I will be waiting.

Forever yours,

Obi-Wan

Anakin smiles and feels like he could cry or sing or dance or scream from all the joy that’s welled up in his chest at this small handful of words Obi-Wan has given him. They’re everything and more.

Mindful of the mud on his person, he puts the letter gently on his bed and walks back out to the common area. Ahsoka is right where he left her.

“Okay, now you just look scary,” she says, pointing a fork at him. “Stop smiling like that.”

Anakin lets his grin die. He won’t relish this next part, but it’s for Obi-Wan. It’s so he can be with Obi-Wan. It's necessary. “Snips,” he says, sitting down opposite her. “We need to talk.”

[communistkenobi-archive]

“Acceptable” Slavery in The Clone Wars

I think one of the most insidious aspects of tCW’s politics is the emphasis on how well the Jedi treated the clones, something that has been accepted more or less uncritically by the broader fandom.

I don’t mean to suggest that the Jedi treating the clones with respect is bad in and of itself, but rather how that treatment is framed to the audience - that the Jedi are “the good ones”, that they can be morally excused from the practice of using a slave army to fight a border war for the Republic because of their politeness. The Jedi Order may not own the clones as property directly, but the Jedi are the representatives of the Republic (which is the body that legally owns the clones as property). The Jedi were the people tasked with maintaining the Republic even before the Clone Wars began - their primary function was to maintain peace and order. So even if they don’t hold the legal documents in their own hands, they protect and serve the ones who do. They more or less function as a middle-manager between the clones and the Republic government.

I think the best way to demonstrate the larger point I’m about to make is by using the Umbara Arc as an example - we see the clones mistreated by a (supposed) Jedi General, and the conditions Krell puts the clones in are so intolerable that the only thing they can do is stop listening to his orders and rebel. The clones are so dedicated to this mutiny that they refuse to participate in any form of military administration - they lie to Krell about updates, they don’t execute any traitors, and they actively take the mission into their own hands. It is then revealed at the end that Krell is not actually a Jedi any longer, that he has turned to the dark side. And because this is the only major example we get of a “Jedi” mistreating clones in the show, the audience is encouraged to come to the conclusion that any Jedi who treats the clones badly is not a “true” Jedi.

Why this is a problem is because it makes a neat distinction between intolerable forms of slavery and acceptable ones - the Jedi participate in the latter. To own human beings as property and force them to die for a colonial government isn’t the problem; the problem is when the slaves’ commanders are personally rude to them and treat them as they are legally obligated to - ie, they treat them like they are property. You can own slaves, but just don’t like, make a big deal of reminding the slaves that they’re slaves, or otherwise they’ll get upset and commit treason.

And the entire foundation of the Republic’s military is based on this politeness contract the Jedi have with the clones. The clones control a vast portion of the Republic military, not just as front line soldiers but as officers, administrators, medical personnel, and so on (they also act as a security force for the Republic). If they all refused to do their job for even a single day, the military would instantly collapse. Not to mention the fact that the clones vastly outnumber their generals and even the senators who make up the Republic, and all the clones are armed and have access to incredibly destructive military technology. And, as we eventually see in ROTS, the clones can easily overpower the Jedi and take over the Republic government provided they work together. Why have they not mass defected, or rebelled? They have the infrastructure, the numbers, the equipment, the training, and there is very conveniently an alternative government being built by the Separatists who would welcome them in their ranks with open arms. Do they not rebel because the Jedi are nice to them? Is that the reason?

THE PROBLEM with this is that, again, the story justifies the conditions the clones live under with this continued politeness - it makes the argument that the clones by and large (with only a few exceptions) are generally fine with BEING OWNED AS PROPERTY as long as the people who own them are nice to them. It positions the institution of slavery in the universe of Star Wars as a problem of manners as opposed to a facially abhorrent practice. I think the more troubling conclusion of this is that it implies that the clones themselves are not the ultimate authority on their own lives and how they feel about the way they are treated (which is, again, as property) - the Jedi are. If the Jedi are nice to them, they’re okay with being slaves. If the Jedi are mean, then suddenly they’re not. This is a pretty dehumanising framework, because it turns the clones into unthinking and unfeeling people who only respond to the emotion of individual interactions with others. They’re largely ambivalent about being slaves, provided they are emotionally supported in the moment by their Jedi commander.

And the fandom has more or less accepted this outright (something I’m not immune to either!). The Jedi are often defended in the broader discourse on the grounds that they treat the clones with respect and are nice to them - which again, is all well and fine, but that doesn’t remove the fact that the Jedi are legally treated as equals who are in immense positions of political privilege and power in the Republic, and the clones are slaves. You couldn’t have a more stark power imbalance. It is not virtuous for the Jedi to treat a person who is owned as property “politely”, because that politeness can be revoked at any time for any reason, and it does nothing to improve the actual reality of clones living (and much more commonly, dying) under the Republic. And of course, the Jedi are eminently sympathetic figures, but only because the audience is clairvoyant about their eventual fate. In order for Order 66 to be truly horrific, the Jedi have to be as sympathetic to the audience as possible regardless of the heinous war crimes they commit.

I am not suggesting there is any circumstance under which genocide is ever justified, or that the victims of it need to be sufficiently “sympathetic” to be empathised with. What I’m saying is that the narrative of tCW works backwards from Order 66 to paint the Jedi as good and kindhearted people BECAUSE of Order 66, which necessarily includes positioning them as “good” slave owners. The broader problem is that the way the PT set up the Jedi in canon is politically incoherent, especially because the Jedi were a core part of the government that genocided their own people. And when you combine that with the Empire being a very obvious Nazi Germany allegory, this becomes extremely fucked up. There is essentially no way to have a take on the Jedi that doesn’t lead to some pretty problematic conclusions - either they were a colonial police force that commanded an army of slaves (and therefore “deserved” Order 66), or they are unimpeachably good people who just want to help everyone (and therefore are also “good” slave owners). This isn’t something the PT is a stranger to, either - Watto is an incredibly antisemitic stereotype who owned (mostly) white slaves. Like. What the fuck do you even say to that lmao.

At this point, the PT era is so politically messy that you can’t really read any coherent message from it other than a 3rd grade understanding of history - Nazis bad, genocide bad, slavery bad. Except even then, the narrative itself makes exceptions for all these things in one circumstance or another. The clones function as a narrative tool in tCW to simultaneously exonerate the Jedi because they’re “nice” to clones, and to also exemplify how corrupt the Republic is because they own a slave army in the first place. The show somehow generates a centrist take on what should be incredibly easy moral problems, such as how to answer the question “is slavery bad?”. The strongest response we get are given is “well, it depends on how you treat them.”