#and also the bullshit in question has been a moot point for a good five years now

[savethepinecones]

oh it is far too late for me to be stressing about this bullshit

[coldgoldlazarus]

So, let's see where everyone's at right now.

-Ironwood has put a huge metaphorical gun to the head of an entire city, and as a result has made enemies of like, 95% of the people who might still have held some scrap of hope for him to come around. After this, I don't think there's any hope for reconciliation. Whether he realizes it or not, he has changed his gamemode to Current Objective: Survive

-Qrow and Robyn are loose and incredibly pissed. I have no doubt Qrow is gunning for Jimmy's head already, and if she saw the emergency broadcast, Robyn will be even more furious. They will be out for blood.

-Winter's currently in "abused child shying away from angry dad" mode, but it's hard to say how long that'll last. If she goes along with this, it'll be out of fear rather than genuine belief in what she's doing, but with Weiss's life potentially on the line, she may finally turn on Ironwood for good. Meanwhile, Marrow is just, increasingly done with all this bullshit. Pspspspsps, etc.

-The other three Ace-Ops may also be ready to defect. Even Harriet, lost in the sauce as she is rn, was shocked by Ironwood's tablesmash; I'm holding out hope that they can get past their indoctrination and do the right thing as well.

-The other Happy Huntresses are presently indisposed keeping Ironwood's initial salvo from killing people, and unless the action goes back down to Mantle, I don't see them being especially relevant for the time being. However, that doesn't mean they're completely out for the count, and could still plausibly come in clutch later.

-RWBY+ are finally back together, and Ironwood has just definitively announced himself as their current enemy. They have to at least pretend to go along with his demands to keep Mantle from getting destroyed, but they absolutely will not just give in that easily, especially now that they have an illusionist with something to prove on their side.

-Speaking of which, Emerald is an illusionist with something to prove. She's not completely in the group right now, and there's a lot of understandable mistrust to sort out, but for the time being I think she's tied to them whether they like it or not. That may either change or be solidified, however, by whatever comes from her inevitable reunion with Cinder.

-Penny seems to be down for the count again after her thrashing by the Hound, but the virus is still worming its way in, and she's still the Winter Maiden; control over her is what this whole conflict has been about, and I have little doubt she will be active and central again soon enough, likely in a way that throws a monkey wrench into everyone's plans.

-Team FNKI are still MIA. If they didn't survive, I will be pissed. Also, Where The Fuck Is Ciel Soleil?

-Cinder is currently caught between her desire for power and her fear of Salem, and will have to choose between getting the Maiden powers from Penny, or getting the Lamp back by finally completing Neo's loyalty mission. Either way, however, it's gonna put her on a collision course with RWBY+, and who knows how that will turn out. Watts will likely be along for the ride whether he likes it or not, and Neo will definitely be getting involved.

-Ironically, the Lamp may be a moot point now, if Neo did indeed use the last question. And if she did, that could have drastically changed her course as well; she may still be gunning for Ruby, but she may be about to turn on Cinder as well. As ever, she's a wild card unto herself amidst the general chaos.

-And all the while, it's anyone's guess how long it will take for Salem to respawn. She may not be infinitely powerful, and losing Monstra was definitely a huge blow, (though given how slowly it's dissolving, and the rib structures that seem to be left behind, I wouldn't be surprised if it remains relevant in some way) but she's still Salem, and the clock is ticking.

I don't know what exactly the last few episodes are going to look like, but it's going to be insane. I can only imagine a massive five-way battle-royale in the Vault Chamber when all is said and done, but the situation is still so volatile that it could wind up going in a completely different direction. I can't wait to see it happen.

[yshai-tia]

. layercake

.LAYER ONE: THE OUTSIDE

name: y’shai tia

“at yer service, mate. aye, though ye might wanna ask again inna moon ‘er so-- lil’ more papers ‘ta push through an’ the last bit’ll change there. still can’t gods damned believe it if y’ask me.”

eye color: blue (left), green (right)

“pree’ common combo fer seekers, y’know? green from me ma, can only guess the blue from dear ol’ pops. is tha’ how it works? i ain’ a genetics sorta guy.”

hair style/color: black, lackadaisical

“oi now, leas’ it ain’ a qiqirn’s nest. take care ov’ me braids though, if yer lucky jus’ might tell ye what they mean some day.”

height: 5 fulms, 9 ilms

“look, ‘m tall fer a miqo’te, thas’ gotta count fer somethin’. ain’ about the height, mate, s’all ‘bout how ye use what yer slapped with.”

clothing style: predominately black with abhorrent amounts of leather

“what, like either ov’ those things ‘er ev’r gonna go outta style? lookin’ good an’ bein’ durable, ye can’t really go wrong there. an’ it ain’t like ‘m allergic ‘ta change, startin’ ‘ta get used ‘ta this whole buttoned ‘ta the throat business. sorta.”

best physical feature: absolutely everything, take your personal pick

“c’mon now, lookit yers truly, notta shortage ov’ ‘bests’ in sight, choosin’ jus’ one would jus’ be cruel. thick thighs, thick arse-- lil’ thick in th’ head sometimes but, aye, leas’ yer lookin’ at somethin’ nice.”

.LAYER TWO: THE INSIDE

your fears: physical restrictions, i.e. being bound, failing to protect those he loves and/or hurting them himself, powerlessness and ineptitude, particularly large coeurls

“cor, jus’ had ‘ta go from a fun question straight ‘ta this. lighten up, mate.”

your guilty pleasure: who’s guilty?

“ain’ nothin’ guilty ‘bout indulgence-- an’ i sure as shit don’ think ‘bout-- ... ah, fuck. guess there was one time... but that was long ‘go now, ain’ no point bringin’ it up.”

your biggest pet peeve: don’t get him started

“the fact that ul’dah exists, does that fuckin’ count? aye, yer right, ‘ta big ‘ta be a peeve. cor, i dunno, what ye cryin’ over spilt yak’s milk fer. i guess... aye, well, this is a personal one-like, but whiddle this fer a second; self-proclaimed sorts ov’ engineers who go off wif’out a single thought fer consequences. ... aye, aye, i hear ye, real fuckin’ bold fer someone like me ‘ta bitch ‘bout that, but, listen, a guy can change. it’s one thing ‘ta fuck ‘round with things ye don’ understand fer the sake of curiousity but ye also don’ see me gettin’ ass deep in allagan bullshit jus’ cause there might be a fancy toy there that tickles me boredom away fer a spell. shit’s got its conveniences, aye, not like i dunno the uses ova’ tomephone-- but most ov’ it is also fuckin’ dangerous, not sayin’ that it shouldn’ be explored proper, but not by some renegade blighter who fancies himself some magitek wiz so far up his own arse it makes yer local garlean look like a dozen o’ roses.

swear, ye got folks out here thinkin’ jus’ cause they can take apart a chronometer ‘er do some basic maintenance on a firearm that they’re ready fer solo-scavenging-- next ye know they’re wadin’ in aetherochemical spills an’ huffin’ ceruleum.

so that’s one fer the road there, ask me again sometime an’ i’ll enlighten ye ‘bout all the fuckin’ joys ov’ seeker racism ‘ve ‘ad the pleasure of gettin’ ‘ta know.”

your ambition for the future: much and more

“one day ‘atta time has always been me go of things, aye, gander though i ain’t without dreams, ‘specially now with tha’ stability in me life-- let me think ‘bout things that i nev’r really thought mattered ‘ta much ‘ta me ‘fore, the future an’ like.

firs’ thing that comes ‘ta mind would be me projects, bein’ able ‘ta have me own workshop has been both a blessin’ an’ a curse; blessin’ fer obvious reasons, curse cause ‘m startin’ ‘ta have one ‘ta many irons in the fire, if ye whiddle me meanin’. the biggest one though... even i gotta admit tha’ this is a generational project at bes’ outlook, but. workin’ ta’wards bein’ able ‘ta purify an’ clean the land ov’ the remnants of war-- speakin’ ov’ ceruleum spills an’ the like. with hope me husband says that we could maybe one day bring th’ elementals’ blessin’ back ‘ta tainted lands, thas’ his field of expertise at work there... jus’ bein’ able ‘ta rid the land ov’ imperial consequence is a worthwhile goal ‘ta me, i reckon.

oth’r than that.. there’s some silly things, aye, winna big marksman competition ov’ sorts, fish up a catch that no one’s ev’r seen ‘fore, get stronger... thas’ one thas’ nev’r changed, fer differ’nt reasons now mind.”

.LAYER THREE: THOUGHTS

your first thoughts waking up: depends on the morning

“considerin’ the curr’nt season an’ all, most of me mornins’ start with me husband latchin’ on ‘ta me an’ not lettin’ me leave the bed at leas’ an extra bell fer the sake of warmth.

which is ‘ta say me first thoughts when wakin’ are pree’ fuckin good ones.”

what you think about the most: his husband, work, personal projects, underlying worries and responsibilities he’s not prone to publicly airing

“i ain’ exactly the ‘fee-low-sof-ick-al’ type, mate. keep it simple-like, thinkin’ ‘bout what’s in front ov’ me, the next step aft’r that.”

what you think about before bed: depends on the night

“‘pends on if ‘m too fucked out ‘ta even think ‘fore sleep takes me ‘er not. still, thoughts still mostly the same ‘gardless-- usually somethin’ long the lines of jus’ how godsdamned lucky i really am.”

you think your best quality is: once again.... take your personal pick

“well, ‘lready mentioned me ass, me thighs... if ye fancy scars me chest an’ back are pree’ damn nice too, me arms got some neat lookin’ ones lemme-- oh, y’don’t mean physical this time. cor, why didn’ ye say so.

shit, uhh... well, i ain’ the type ‘ta give up, come hell ‘er high water. shit tha’ might be a flaw but fuck it, it gets results, at leas’.”

.LAYER FOUR: WHAT’S BETTER?

single or group dates: single

“the hell issa group date? like a bunch’a folk all mated goin’ out? separate mated pairs? yer missin’ me here. only got eyes fer one, so the point is prolly moot.”

to be loved or respected: respected

“this issa easy one. trus’ me, know what is like bein’ ‘loved’ without respect, shit’s fun fer a spell, strokes the ego ‘til yer cummin’ yer own pride an’ fumes, but is all the same as a grog binge down at the Wench-- ev’ry single time ye’ll wake up feelin’ like shite an’ prayin fer death. ye can get mighty high on’a pain an’ pleasure cycle like that, aye, but ‘ventually the pain wins out.”

beauty or brains: they correlate

“me baby’s got both, so it ain’t like i gotta choose. ‘m a spoiled bastard, i know.”

dogs or cats: both

“cute buggers aren’t they, the both ov’ em. been at the mercy ov’ the teeth ov’ ‘em both too-- from coeurls ‘ta imperial trained bloodhounds. still, can’t rightly hate the animal fer instincts an’ trainin’, all jus’ tryin ‘ta survive.”

.LAYER FIVE: DO YOU?

lie: naturally. but also poorly

“ain’ ‘xactly me strongest suit, fair, but ‘ll bullshit me way ‘round somethin’ if i gotta.”

believe in yourself: of course-- sincerity is a non-factor

“fake it ‘til ye make it, mate. call it cheesy writin’ on the wall ‘er what’ver ye like, shit does the job. no one gives a shit how ye feel ‘bout yerself-- jus’ fuckin’ tell yerself that ye got this an’ go. don’ look back.”

believe in love: he’s in it

“kinda hard ‘ta refute somethin’ ‘m experiencin’, y’know.”

want someone: every second of every day

“jus’ ‘cause ye already have it don’ mean that ye stop wantin it. aye, if anythin’ jus’ want ‘em even moreso. constantly, shit never stops. it’s fuckin’ heaven, lemme tell ye.”

.LAYER SIX: EVER?

been on stage: not professionally

“nothin’ like singin’ er dancin’, less ye count bar tables as impromptu stages.”

done drugs: not always consensually. but a moko edible every now and again isn’t such a crime.

“relax, ain’ like i make a habit ov’ it. special occasion, really. don’ fancy bein’ out ov’ it ‘ta of’en.”

changed who you were to fit in: naturally

“ye gotta if ye wanna survive beyond yer own comforts, mate-- that is if yer lucky ‘ta be born inta’ such ‘ta begin with. look, is called adaptin’, an’ if ye haven’ noticed we miqo’te are pree’ fuckin’ good at it. not even mentionin’ tryna fit in at home-- when i left it was change ‘er die; changed when i started learnin’ the common eorzean tongue, changed when i started dressin’ different, when i started learnin’ how ‘ta act, walk an’ talk so as ‘ta survive, hold me own. y’see it all the godsdamn time-- lookit every miqo’te who changed their name once they started livin’ in one ov’ the big cities, aye, not all ov’ ‘em do, but ‘nuff do ‘fer us ‘ta notice.

it’s adaption. it’s survival. hide parts ov’ yerself ‘ta preserve the greater whole. ain’t sayin’ it’s a nice thing tha’ we gotta do it-- but, aye, survival rarely is ev’r nice.

... if yer lucky though, if ye live long ‘nuff, ye can start reclaimin’ them hidden parts ov’ yerself back, aye, s’process.”

.LAYER SEVEN: FAVORITES

favorite color: black

“were ye expectin’ anythin’ else? ain’t gonna say no ‘ta gold either-- ‘specially of the rosey sort. they jus’ go ta’gether so well, y’know.”

favorite animal: jaguars, of course

“biased? me? ‘course not.”

favorite food: seafood in general, rustic homecooked meals, spicy food, way too sweet cream-filled coffee, nostalgic preference for almonds, coconuts, and fruit based desserts

“ye ev’r have those lil’ balls of cod deep fried in batter? could get meself sick on those buggers. too damn good. ‘specially if ye add a generous ‘mount ov’ dragon pepper ‘ta the fish ‘fore hand. ‘course if it’s good, fresh catch then ye can’t go wrong with simplicity neither, crab meat straight from the leg with no bells an’ whistles issa snack fit fer the finest.”

favorite game: card games, puzzles, anything that can spur fun competition, whether it be from hunting, to racing, to a snowball fight, isn’t adverse to the cheap thrill of betting on a race chocobo every now and again

“anythin’ can be good, fun competition if yer willin’ an’ rarin’, nothin’ like a lil’ friendly fire under yer arse ‘ta get the legs movin’ an’ cogs whirrin’.”

.LAYER EIGHT: AGE

day your next birthday will be: 28th day of the first umbral moon

“would be pree’ wild if me nameday wasn’ on.... me nameday.”

how old will you be: 29

“ugh, c’mon, i’m tryin’ not ‘ta think ‘bout it. knock it off.”

age you lost your virginity: between the ages of 19 and 21, he does not specify

“whas’ it matter? past is the past. leave it alone.”

does age matter: to an extent

“i ain’ no damn preacher, but it’s pree’ godsdamned obvious when someone is exertin’ power ov’r another. s’reason there be words like kid an’ adult. don’ fuckin’ be that person.”

.LAYER NINE: IN A BOY OR GIRL

best personality: bullheaded, smart, witty, compassionate, strong-hearted and strong-willed, brave, stubborn, impatient, and rather tactless

“maybe toss in a damn fine arse an’ voice like’a songbird-- wait, those ain’t personality traits?”

best eye color: rose gold

“bonus points if they gotta nice, natural glow ‘ta’em.”

best hair color: a warm rose peach with a streak of pale blonde

“what? ‘m a guy who jus’ knows what he likes. an’ i like what i like, cuff me if issa crime.”

best thing to do with a partner: exist with them in the entirety of life’s capacity

“call me fuckin’ sentimental, but learnin’ ‘ta fuckin’ live, really godsdamn live, with ‘em rath’r than jus’ survive... can’t fuckin’ be beat, jus’ can’t. shit’s golden, can’t wait ‘ta do it ev’ry single day on this star ‘til me times’ up.”

.LAYER TEN: FINISH THE SENTENCE

i love: “me husband.”

i feel: “pree’ chuffed, might go fer a nap.”

i hide: “poorly. mean have ye seen me, mate? ain’t easy hidin’ when yer this big. less’ maybe was in a house built with roes in mind.”

i miss: “me ma. aye, still lot’sa things that make me miss home, wouldn’ change where i am now fer the world, mind.”

i wish: “... fish. er, sorry, mind blanked there. they rhyme. been at sea fer the past few days now.”

tagged by: @ffxiv-sunderedsouls​ tagging: this is a stupidly late response so not sure how alive this particular meme is still but, here’s the deal; you wanna do this? do it and tag me THAT WAY i’ll know in the future to tag you in other things, good deal, right? right?!

[infinitycircuit]

Tomie doesn’t remember standing, but she is on her feet. She’s ringing from within, a million bells, lithophones in the lowest pit of Hell where all truth-seekers and puzzle-solvers get their answers. 

She’s going insane, she’s pretty sure. She’s exploded into nanoparticles and she’s standing in hundreds of places right now, living thousands of lives. But for the first time, she can’t tear herself away from the body of Tomie Katsukawa. She is seeing everything. She’s feeling everything. 

She is every final girl. She is every masked murderer. She is big enough to fill a room on her own and she is blazing with love, love, love.

“I can hate all fucking three of you, how’s that?”

And her fathers taught her — after Yone left her, ten years old, sobbing until she made herself sick in a funeral home where boards are joined by pain so old and so deep it aches your teeth just to stand inside — that love is when you ask for what you want. Love is when the other person gives it to you. If they can’t or they won’t, they don’t love you. 

If you don’t ask questions, you’re not in love.

If you hurt someone and don’t apologize, you don’t love them. If you don’t get angry when you’ve been hurt by them, you’re not in love. You’re just scared of being alone.

Tomie was so bad at articulating what she wanted, so bad at talking, period, that her dads worked out a system of giving her choices. Did she want to eat at the table or should they all eat together in her room? Did she want to talk about why she was crying or watch a movie? Would it be better to get a hug right now or spend some time alone?

They taught her to ask for what she wanted and believe in a love free from fear.

Maybe she’s a bad daughter. It’s taken her a couple tries to learn it.

She promises herself she will never be afraid again.

“Because you, Noguchi, guess fucking what? You apologized to me before, too, and said all that shit about not wanting to be that guy, and then just now you called me a stupid bitch again with your life on the line. You are that fucking guy, you are that guy in your blood-black marrow, and you know what that guy does? He apologizes only to take the heat off, and he waits until he thinks everybody else has forgotten, and then he sticks his cock right back in the fucking light socket because he’s too mean and too stupid to do anything else. You are fucking stupid, Alice is right about that, but you are also mean as a starving rat, and you are not ever going to do anything to benefit anyone in this room except them.”

She would point, but she doesn’t have to. Her voice, ragged from crying over Keiji, is rubbing her throat raw. Her puzzle is clutched in her hand.

The fire in her is love for Keiji, who died for her when everyone needed him more. It is love for Aurora, who lay on her bed and wiped her tears with a thumb and agreed they’d go on a practice date, like two reasonable adult women cautious of a head-over-heels fall.

Love for Mugen, who found her hiding in the shed and let her sit with her head on his shoulder while he talked. Love for Akaji, who told her she wasn’t a bitch. Love even for Lindsay Tsai, who she had consigned to the heap until they ate dinner together in front of the fireplace and he let her in on a screening of Smoked Meat: The Lindsay Tsai Tstory (Banned Cut). 

“Them.”

“A girl who talked a big game about how much she looked forward to death, who bragged about the time her sister’s spent taking mob money to chop up corpses and tried to make me guess what her job in the traveling shit-pit is, and then snapped like balsa wood when one thing upset her. When she finally went through one hard thing she couldn’t pretend to be better than, all she can do is wave a knife around and look at us with that fucking face on her face. 

“A girl whose way of loving all of us is to confuse us, to lie to us, to put us in danger, to make promises that mean nothing and then threaten to knife us if we want to get close to people who killed someone she swore to protect. You told me you treated me like shit out of love? I can return the favor, Karasu, baby. You are a moron with a costume, a serial killer journal of ideological scraps and a couple knives, exactly like every one-bit maniac who kills their entire family on the local news. XOXO.”

And it is love for Alice Kishinami.

Alice, who helped her study so she’d be able to attend the film school where the director Kiyoshi Kurosawa taught. They were both adoptees, she discovered, but Tomie’s fathers were warmer than the Kishinamis and they were happy to have Alice in their house for long study sessions, for movie nights, for dinner. Alice loved fighting games, and so did Iemon.

Alice needed someone to throw their arms around her and kiss her cheeks, mwah mwah mah, when she got into med school. Tomie could provide.

They were happy to have her. Tomie was glowing to have her. The pair of them were so young and so smart and so determined. They were poised to be so successful. They were so much the same.

Tomie was sure Alice would be at her wedding. She couldn’t not picture them together as adults.

College got in the way, and Kureha got in the way, and Emma got in the way, and emails went unreturned on both sides. But that only made her adjust the timeframe. Someday she would reconnect with Alice and it would be the thing she’d imagined: Two adults who’d clawed their way to to the top and never stopped and made their dreams come true. Alice would be at her wedding when she was a glamorous older woman with a single white streak in her curls.

When they were paired together as roommates, she was overjoyed. When she began to feel Alice’s thoughts in her head, she thought no one better. 

“And a doctor who thought it was their right to euthanize Kacchan like a fucking dog. Who is taking the spotlight away from Noguchi, just like he’s taking it away from her, fucking dueling banjos with our lives at eight in the morning.”

She still loves Alice Kishinami. It’s too bad Alice Kishinami is dead. Has been dead. Died when Tomie was doing night shoots for other people’s movies and Alice was doing rounds an ocean away.

Tomie has been grasping this whole time and coming up with fistfuls of ash from a hospital crematorium. Jamming her fingers into pits of needles.

She braces her hands against the table and leans forward.

“Because Keiji and I thought about playing this game, a million years ago. We mapped it out for a worst-case scenario back at the beach. It’s called Murder on the Orient Express. A bunch of people commit one murder, creating so much evidence that the detective can’t sort it out. They leave a body with right-handed and left-handed stab wounds. They leave footprints in all different sizes. They give different confessions, or say there's some secret other person on the train who matches all the descriptions at once. The point is to confuse the investigators so much that they give up — or, if you’re on this train, that they pick somebody who was involved but who didn’t deliver the killing blow. Everyone involved agrees to roll the dice together and accept they might die or they might get out.

“I asked Kei who he’d want to get out. He said Kacchan, but Kacchan would never kill anyone, even if Keiji asked him, so it was moot. And he wouldn’t pick anyone else as the killer, either, because if we rolled the dice, Kacchan’s number might come up. I told him I wouldn’t come back to it unless Kacchan died.

“So now I’m back on it. Because I remember the idea, and I remember it was a pretty fucking good one. And I would’ve felt okay about it if we could get, oh, five or six people involved? Everyone we cared about back then, we’d let them in on the dice roll. We wouldn’t risk their lives without telling them.”

Love, love, love, teeth and claws sharpened on love, a knife pushed to its hilt into love. A Texas chainsaw screaming love through the dust and sunset from half a mile away. A surgical saw against an ankle, rasping love, love, love with every pull back and forth. 

“I think Kishinami and Noguchi risked our lives without telling us and they thought we’d all be too stupid to match coats and footprints and bandages and victims all together, even if we found them out. They agreed to a dice roll and they didn’t tell us the prize. 

“So now I think we know it, right? The prize is, get Kishinami and-or Noguchi out of here. If we have half a mistrial, every one of us has a 20% chance of getting one of Dogsaw’s punishments in their place. If we have a full mistrial, it’s 40%.

“You wanted to roll? We can still roll. But everyone’s in on the stakes. Kakeru can see if you’re bullshitting, and if you knife him, he’ll have more help than you do. We see your injuries, whether you have any. We figure out the rest, including where Magnolia comes in. And then everyone gets to decide if we fucking roll.”

She hocks the puzzle across the table like a die, and it skitters to a halt in front of the body-horror cluster that is Alice, Ume and Jinki. Merged, merged, like Society, like Dead Ringers, like people who wished to be together and got their wish.

“We play one big A/B game.” 

And Tomie is here, looking at them, because she wished to be with Alice Kishinami again. 

She got that, too. 

Hell is where all wishes are granted.

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [651]

“What’s the matter with the two of you?” Solas looks between Ellana and her husband as the two of them lie down over their wooden table. Well. His daughter is draped over the table, hair covering her face. Her husband is sitting across from her, head tilted back towards the ceiling looking like he’s run three marathons, a triathlon, and then carried each of their several children up and down several flights of stairs. Solas knows he did not do this because Solas just finished putting those several children to bed for them.

He is a very good grandfather. He comes over after working because his good daughter asks him to and then he takes care of his grandchildren while said daughter and her husband…sit around their kitchen table looking like they’ve been thrown through several torture devices.

“Riddles,” Ellana says.

“Ah,” Solas understands immediately. “Do not feel as though you need to elaborate. In fact, I would be quite pleased if you didn’t.”

“Grim’s class is doing riddles,” Bull says, ignoring Solas entirely. Solas doesn’t know what he expected. “Each of them have to bring a riddle to class to share. It’s suggested that they each find five riddles in case one of their classmates has the same riddle they do. Ellana and I were going through the list of riddles. Would you like to read this list?”

Before Solas can answer Bull continues.

“No. Of course not. Because this is bullshit.”

Solas sits down next to his daughter and starts attempting to fix her hair. He now understands why it looks like she stuck her head in a cotton candy machines.

“Never attempt to use linguistic tricks on a lawyer,” Solas says. “Also don’t challenge a lawyer to a question of semantics.”

Ellana sits up, grabbing her phone from the middle of the table, “Father these are fucking ludicrous. They start of fine. Acceptable. Age appropriate. And then — then there’s this fucking bell curve. The kids are asleep right? I can cuss again?”

“I would argue that you were never allowed to cuss to start with, but given that one summer I left you with Sylaise it’s a moot point. I regret it to this day.”

“There’s this bell curve,” Ellana continues. She hasn’t even opened her phone, she’s just holding it and waving it around as she talks. Solas hasn’t seen his daughter in court in a while but he hopes she hasn’t brought back her bad habit of gesturing wildly as she speaks. The last time he saw her do that in person she’d nearly hit her witness. “There’s this bell curve where suddenly the riddles hit peak absurdity. A steep incline of — of falsehoods.”

“They’re technically  — “

“Don’t you start with mean the technicalities,” Ellana points at her husband. “Don’t do it.”

“Don’t get into technicalities with a lawyer,” Solas says, petting her hair in an ill fated attempt to soothe her. “Ellana, you’re going to upset yourself further.”

“No, you need to — “ Ellana puts the phone down, breathes in deep, and points at the phone. “Listen. At one point it asks — it leads the question, Father, it leads the fucking question. It asks — which hand is best for stirring sugar into tea? Hand. It says it in the question itself. Which hand.”

Bull goes to take a drink but then spits it back out and puts the cup down, wiping his wrist over his mouth as he turns to the side, pushing his chair back to put his head in his hands.

“Fuck I don’t know why I keep trying to drink anything. I just know I’m going to choke on it as I laugh with sheer dumbfounded frustration.”

“The answer is you better use a spoon,” Ellana hisses. “Father. What the fuck — that’s entrapment. They baited you into believing the instrument being used is your hand. You are using your hand to stir a spoon or some other item that would dissolve the sugar. It is in the preliminary statement. The premise is that you are choosing a hand. Your hand, someone else’s hand, a waiter’s hand, some kind of hand. And then it goes and says hey dummy better use a spoon.”

Solas grimaces.

“That’s an outlier and shouldn’t be counted for your bell curve average,” Bull croaks from the other side of the table. “I don’t know why that one was stuck right in the goddamn middle of the average brain teasers. That's the kind of crap I expect Krem to come up with. That precocious little shit.”

“And then it starts asking the vaguest possible shit,” Ellana continues. “So Bull and I start getting metaphysical on this. Metaphorical, even. And then it gives the most fucking literal answers that don’t have anything to do with the question. The question purposefully uses misleading and opaque syntax and diction in order to avoid the literal answer rather steering the listener towards a more vague and figurative answer.”

“That’s the point of word games and riddles,” Solas says, “And that is also why such word games are banned from our family. Including variations of word games such as Scrabble, Bananagrams, and other sundry pass times.”

“I feel like, spiritually speaking, I’ve been dragged behind several cars and had the shit beaten out of me,” Bull says, voice muffled by his hands. “I feel stressed out.”

“I feel like I’ve done a full jury trial,” Ellana says, “Against the DA with press coverage and gag orders on top of that. Holy moly.”

Solas gets up, collecting Bull’s half full glass to rinse it out in the sink and bring them both new glasses of water. Or wine. Or both. They could probably use both.

“Do you understand why all of the games in our house are based on probability rather than any actual thought?” He asks as he sets the glass down in the sink and rolls his sleeves up.

“Don’t start on that, Dad, Bull’s got a head for math and he’ll use it to cheat at every game of chance possible.”

“It’s not cheating. It’s just logic. I can’t just turn it off.”

“Tell that to the casinos.”

[ghostmartyr]

Fic: A Terrible Idea [9/?]

Fandom: Attack on Titan Title: A Terrible Idea Author: Immi Rating: PG-13 Summary: Ymir’s pursuit of the hot cheerleader was meant to stay strictly lustful. But it’s a high school AU with a ship tag, so you know, fuck that. Notes: This fic has a thing about three in the morning.

Segment summary: Kenny imparts life advice.

I II III IV V VI VII VIII

Maybe an actual parent would have wanted more details about what kind of party his bereft, innocent teenager was absconding away to instead of bonding with her friends and siblings in a night of passably sober revelry.

With Kenny, the conversation went something like this:

“Can I ditch homecoming to feel up a hot babe?”

“As long as no one ends up back in the house while I’m making out with my boyfriend, I physically could not care less.”

He didn’t mention the boyfriend in words during the actual conversation. He didn’t have to. The man might as well have been whistling all week long, asking them how many hours they thought they’d stay out come dance night. He’d conned Levi into being their chauffeur and everything. He got a haircut. Sometimes there really was fucking whistling.

He gave Ymir the green light to go be surrounded by people whose neckties cost more than all of her organs on the black market without so much as a suspicious question. To the untrained eye, it was negligent bullshit that Ymir was happy to exploit.

Years of living under his roof said that he already knew every single person at the Reiss party and had personally threatened at least five of them with murder. Creepy, but if it meant he wasn’t badgering her about her life choices, swell.

Too bad a certain other person couldn’t follow the example.

There was one side effect of dealing with a parental unit on this that wasn’t so great. Cowboy Dad believed, so very dearly, in cleaning up good so the rest of everyone would fuck off. He liked to call this having manners. As someone who’d had to sign paperwork to take on a more active role in not caring what teenagers did, he also thought it was his solemn duty to impart some of these manners to the spawn he could happily disown at will.

Predicted side effects of that included small talk about not pissing off the people who had invited her into their home. Since Historia had been the only one at all interested in her presence there, that wasn’t the worst promise she could think about keeping, so fine, whatever, can I go now and so on.

Unfair fucking blindsides included the suggestion (suggestion, like every other thing Kenny suggested didn’t carry promises of life getting very unpleasant if the suggestion didn’t see some follow-through) to go out and fetch some flowers to present to Historia’s parents when she showed up at the party.

“She doesn’t like her parents,” Ymir had said. That was a large part of the point.

Kenny had looked at her, unimpressed in the face of logic. “Sunshine,” he’d said, “where in the hell do you get the thought in your head that manners are for people you like?”

An hour later Ymir was hanging out in a flower shop, stretching the boundaries of her artistic sensibilities to figure out just how ugly a bouquet they were capable of. Kenny had stopped just short of making her pay for the damn things, so she had room to work, but there was only so much she could do. The worst combinations she had so far said, “Your daughter has let someone with zero taste into your house, but the good news is they’re desperate for you to think they’re trying.”

When what she wanted was closer to, “Fuck you for thinking I care about your approval before fucking your daughter, also fuck you in general,” preferably in freshly-picked pastels.

Ymir had never been a flower connoisseur, and turning the notch on her style of aggression back to passive definitely wasn’t her speed, but she knew passive aggressive went best with pastels. From what she knew of the Reiss family, their entire mansion would be covered with the things. Kenny would approve of her commitment to speaking her hosts’ language, but she’d have to work extra hard to keep from complementing their color theme.

Her only entertainment for the day was watching Porco freak over how to handle being at a dance in Pieck’s proximity. She had time.

She was also an efficient multitasker.

Porco’s sneakers tapped loudly against the linoleum floor. “She liked the roses last year,” he said, nowhere near the rose section. He was looking at peonies.

“She’ll like whatever you get her, and they’ll be dead in a few days. Stop angsting and pick something,” Ymir said, even less interested in his problems than usual. Pieck had sent an innocuous text earlier to remind her that she liked tulips. Hint hint. Somehow they were all still pretending that it wouldn’t melt her overly devious, mushy heart to be getting flowers from Pock at all.

Except for Porco. He really was that clueless, so cue the hours of fretting over which collection of stems would brighten Pieck’s desk best before their inevitable deaths. Accompanied by Ymir for reasons beyond a good laugh and pity, all thanks to their weird non-parent’s sense of propriety. Bringing a girl’s parents flowers wasn’t good manners, it was something out of Victorian era courtship advice bulletins. Near the end, after the two weeks of knowing each other had passed and it was time to ask the patriarch for his daughter’s hand.

Ymir thought she had a good idea of how that proposal would go. Awed by her acute flower arranging skills and misled by her tailored garb, she’d receive the father’s blessing and it would be rendered immediately moot because Historia would never forgive her for involving him in their love life.

“It doesn’t bother you that she’s using you to piss off her parents?” Porco had asked oh, maybe seven times when Ymir broke the news about how she was spending her Saturday night.

“Not anywhere near as much as it seems to bother you,” was the only answer to that, and it still took three more tries before he gave up in disgust and stopped blocking the middle of the hallway so she could go to bed.

Porco had weird ideas about family. Namely, that they were supposed to like each other. His blood parents were dead, automatically promoting them and everyone remotely like them to sainthood. His brother was so fervently adored that any first year psych student would gleefully attach a complex to it. He seemed to find it personally offensive that Historia couldn’t stand the people who hired her a personal driver.

Ymir would have loved not to care. She’d spent most of the previous night happily not caring. She’d spent most of their friendly afternoon jaunt to the neighborhood flower shop not caring. Pock had responded by making it his life mission to do enough caring for both of them. If he didn’t have the stress of not asking Pieck to dance to look forward to, he’d still be ranting her ears off.

“You don’t even want to date her!”

Way to state the obvious. That hadn’t been worth any response at all.

Ymir looked around at the colorful displays surrounding them. All perfectly designed to suit Porco’s purposes of failing to ask a girl out, none of them meant to check off a politeness box that had been summoned out of thin air to make her life more difficult.

Garish wasn’t going to play. No matter how badly the bright colors clashed, all the flowers were too healthy and friendly to get away with being used as a fuck you collage. She needed something with contrast to bring out that deliberate eye-gouging quality. Some of the lighter carnations could work. Classy and decorative in a clump, but put them next to something with some flair…

“Ymir?”

Ymir tilted her head Porco’s way and walked over to a selection of painfully sunny sunflowers. “What now?”

The follow-up didn’t follow through. His shoes squeaked and his jacket rustled while Ymir carefully mapped out her success of floral offense. Signs pointed to a talk happening.

“I—never mind,” Porco muttered.

One of those talks, then. Ymir rolled her eyes and searched out the heliotropes. Past experience dictated no gathering of custom bouquets herself, because the cashier would cry, and that would hold them up, but the second she said she was done and they fetched Pieck her tulips, Porco would be back to questioning everyone else’s life choices instead of his own.

“It’s too late to be her real date,” Ymir said, stopping to smell the roses. “You should have said something earlier if that’s what you wanted.”

Porco crossed his arms and scowled at the hydrangeas. Somehow they failed to burst into flames. Maybe because he looked closer to bursting into tears.

Ymir took magnanimous pity on her baby brother. “Just do what you always do: Wait for her to ask you to dance, and instead of mumbling and letting her drag you away, tell her you don’t want it to be a friend dance. She smiles, your heart melts, you live happily ever after, and I owe Marcel ten bucks.”

“Marcel wouldn’t bet on this,” Porco said, showing off the kind of deep misunderstanding only idolatry could foster. “He likes me.”

“That’s why he bet on you growing a pair,” Ymir said. “Don’t go letting your big brother down, now.”

Porco sulked. He had a way of doing it audibly.

They were through the purchase of Ymir’s custom monstrosity and Pieck’s much lovelier tulips before he brought it up again. A true sign of growth; last year he’d started the conversation once and then sworn her to absolute secrecy.

“You think she’d want to? If I asked?”

A flash of Historia’s wide eyes under the snack shack lights came to mind. A glimmer of a smile that matched the glitter on her cheek, all of her face lit up by Ymir.

“Sure,” Ymir said distantly, “girls like it when you show some initiative.”

----

“You keep tugging at your sleeves and I’m gonna feel insulted.”

Ymir dropped her hand from her suit jacket. “Dressing up three times a year isn’t enough to get used to formalwear. Perfect fit or not.”

Kenny didn’t bother dignifying her with a look. He was driving, and whatever Parenting 101 class he had crashed oh so many years ago had drilled not taking his eyes off the road with children present into his head better than a construction crew. He simply took the next turn, and drawled, “Funny, and here I thought it had something to do with your nerves making a fuss over this girl.”

Did no one ever stop to consider that if she wanted their thoughts about this, she’d ask for it? “Could also be that your shortcut landed us in the middle of nowhere and there’s nothing else to do but pluck threads.”

“Ymir, if you’d caught a single thread out of place, you’d be crowing about it ‘till the end of next month.” He took another turn. Second-to-last one, if Ymir was counting. “Find a better excuse or rub two brain cells together and work out how to stop lying.”

Ymir rolled her eyes and continued looking out the window. The winding road they were heading down was pure black-and-white movie horror. All they needed was some lightning. If the Reisses hadn’t already splurged on it, they ought to invest in a drawbridge and a moat. Great for parties.

Cowboy Dad had volunteered to drive her, and keeping up with his creepy way of knowing too much about everything, had told her they were taking a shortcut he knew before she had a chance to hand over the address. She’d told him she needed to be dropped off at the guest house, which was a fucking thing, so maybe his idea of how to get there could use some help, and got a shrug.

With the look he’d given her bouquet when she presented it, she’d call it a punishment, but passive wasn’t his brand of aggression either. Punishments were delivered with a highlighted anvil.

She pulled at her tie. Kenny sighed loudly.

One last turn, and they came back to civilization. Or some over-glammed approximation of it. A large stretch of road away, a gate shrouded in floodgates heralded their destination, and if it had a giant R in the middle of it, Ymir would have a great start to her bingo card for the night’s festivities. Historia had written the security code for it down on her hand the night before.

The car slowed halfway down the street, going at the speed society could agree belonged to stalkers or people who didn’t know how  to read maps.

“You got everything?” Kenny asked for the third time that hour.

‘Everything’ in this case meant Ymir, the invited one, her phone, the toy she’d brought along for another tally in her win column with Historia, and the gate crashing flowers. “Yeah,” Ymir said.

Heading up the slight hill to the cliché gate, Kenny dotted in the code smoothly, and open the spiked monstrosity went. Step one of the night accomplished. Historia hadn’t explicitly said that she wanted Ymir to avoid talking to anyone on the property until they laid eyes or other parts on each other, but Ymir could read between the lines. Her invite said to show up an hour early and head over to where the staff wasn’t preparing for the party. Until the curtain rose, Ymir was invisible and waiting in the wings.

They drove by the house, also known as an affront to taste so brightly lit that Ymir had to blink several times to confirm that it hadn’t been decked in four stories of cheap Christmas lights, and hit the side road that would lead to the guest house.

Ymir had never had much money, but she had trouble imagining a world where she’d look at her grand mansion with its sixty bathrooms and forty bedrooms, and decide that what it really needed was a smaller house next to it. Just to remind the first house how much better it was than everything around it.

Kenny rolled the car to a stop in front of the whipping house, and in a move that said she wasn’t the only one feeling the horror vibes tonight, killed the engine. He turned to her with his parent face on.

“A few ground rules before you go in there,” he said.

“Was there some reason you couldn’t do this at home, or—”

“No drinking.”

Ymir unbuckled her seatbelt to slouch more effectively in her seat. “Kuchel was just giving Marcel and Pock this lecture,” she said. “If you wanted me to hear it, we could have left five minutes later.”

“Sunshine,” Kenny said, “you’ve never partied with rich people before. All you know about these folks is that a girl you like can’t stand them, and each one’ll have a lawyer on speed dial so they don’t catch consequences when they show off for their fancy friends. That’s not company you want to lose your wits around. No drinking.”

“Great. Next up?”

“No having sex with this girl until you see a clean lab report.”

Ymir was too fucking young and too removed from the blood pressure problems Porco had to worry about a heart attack at her age, but for a second her cardiovascular system, built up by all the recent running, submitted to blind horror and slammed her chest with a sledgehammer.

“What.”

Parent of the Year, showing his usual concern for his offspring, propped his elbow against the steering wheel. Not a sign of remorse or pity in his eyes, he said, “You want to go about devirgining yourself, you do it safely. No letting your hormones go so wild you need a medical consult.”

Ymir took a second to pave over her new mental scars. “Right, I’ll just send her off for one instead,” she said. That’s what all the appealing sexual partners did these days. ‘I really want to jump your bones, won’t you pee in this cup for me?’ With a dash of ‘my dad wants confirmation that you are as much of a touch-starved virgin as everything you do says you are.’ The absolute pinnacle of game.

Kenny was the sort of guy who had probably met sympathy once in a bar and shot it. “You want your bits to fall off, or you want a fun time?”

The bad answer to that was that Ymir just wanted Historia. In a lot of ways and positions, all perfectly lewd. Only when the thought popped up, all she could think of was the marker against her cheek.

“Asking her for clerical proof of how diseased she is sounds like a real riot,” Ymir said instead.

“You can’t work your way around that, you’re too young to be having sex,” Kenny said. “Falling head over heels down a flight of stairs is how you get concussions, and I have enough of that to worry about with your brother.”

This conversation was a better case for not skipping the homecoming dance than anything the school had ever come up with, and it was unfair to the nth degree that she’d still rather be sitting outside the reject house. Unquestionably, which meant, put together with Kenny’s magic sleuthing powers, Ymir was now promised one more fun conversation with Historia in her future, putting to graphic verbal life all the things she thought about doing to her and couldn’t, because they didn’t have the right paperwork. Historia would definitely be on board with that. Things to look fucking forward to in the middle of looking forward to fucking.

Cowboy Dad was committed to his parenting course. He could write his dissertation on this feat of manipulation and emotional trauma. Jackass.

“Fine, great, anything else you want to ruin?”

Kenny unbuckled his seatbelt and opened his side of the car. “Your tie needs sorting. Out you get.”

Ymir rolled her eyes and stepped out into the night under the shadow of the guest house. Since it wasn’t drowned in lights, it was actually capable of casting a shadow. Kenny rounded the car and began his deliberately pointed adjustment of her suit, undoing all of the casual muss Ymir had fidgeted her way into. He saved the tie for last, securing it much tighter than her style called for.

“Anything goes wrong, or you need pickup early, you call. Got that?” he asked.

“Are you trying to make up for not knowing me when I was five?”

His large hands held her head. “Got it, kid?”

Way, way too committed to the parenting thing. Ymir made a show of sighing, and saluted him with the ugly bouquet of flowers he’d coerced her into buying. “Got it, cowboy.”

He pecked the top of her head. “Then you’re all set. Have fun, keep the stupid to the minimum, and don’t be afraid to use a fake name if someone’s too interested.” He set her free and clapped her on the back. “Knock ‘em dead.”

Umbilical cord officially cut for the evening, Ymir sauntered off to the doorstep, respectfully resolving to fix her tie once she was inside.

With Historia.

So much better than homecoming.

Next

[lurkingcrow]

Ok, so I had a few ideas about an AU of an AU of a crack AU thanks to @albaparthenicevelut @resistancepilots  @aifsaath and @forcearama . And then I got thinking. And then it got a little long. Ok, a lot long. But the mental image had so much potential...

 It all starts on Mandalore. In another universe Satine Kryze holds her tongue and Obi-Wan Kenobi leaves after saying his goodbyes and commits to becoming the best Jedi he can be. In this universe, she asks him to stay. So he does. Oh not immediately, there are after all conversations he must have with his master, apologies he must give, but Obi-Wan meditates long and hard and determines that this is where the force is calling him and so he leaves the order just after his 18th birthday. 

Qui-Gon is devastated at first. But Obi-Wan is no Xanatos - he is not leaving for power, or due to the failings of his master, but for love and the chance to bring about peace to a war-torn planet, and maybe Qui-Gon can live with that. He stays for their wedding, which for all its simplicity given the limited resources is no less beautiful. Qui-Gon does not cry, but his eyes are suspiciously wet and anyone with a hint of Force sensitivity can feel his love and pride half a planet away. Obi-Wan may still have his doubts about leaving, but having his former master's support means the world. Their bond never truly breaks, and frequent holocalls ensure that Qui-Gon is up to date with what his former apprentice is up to (Satine is not above snitching to him about Obi-Wan's reckless stunts in the hope that he can guilt her husband into behaving, and Qui-Gon is thankful for her efforts to keep their relationship strong. He is growing quite fond of Obi-Wan's lady love.).

But it is lonely in the temple without his padawan. And increasingly Qui-Gon is growing frustrated with the senate interference in Jedi activities. The missions he is sent on seem like futile wastes of time, and while he never thought he would say it, he is beginning to see Master Dooku's point about the systemic corruption being too entrenched to overcome. Honestly, these days he suspects he'd do more good running around the galaxy as some kind of vigilante peacekeeper than negotiating yet another inane trade deal that should have been resolved weeks earlier if it weren't for the egos involved... the force pings. Oh.  Qui-Gon Jinn is a master of the living force, of the here and now, and here and now the force is telling him that maybe that's not such a bad idea.

Truthfully there is little left for him in the Temple; Tahl, Master Dooku, Obi-Wan - so many of those close to him are gone. All that keeps him here is his duty, and as a Jedi is his ultimate duty not to the Force? It would be nice to pay Obi-Wan a visit, maybe take a side trip to Serreno to see what his old master is up to these days...

So Qui-Gon leaves, not quite knowing what his plans are but trusting in the will of the Force. He initially sets up on Mandalore, where Obi-Wan and Satine are more than happy to have him (once Qui-Gon has finished convincing his not-son that his leaving the order was not his fault. Satine does not permit emotional constipation in her palace after all.), but soon finds himself restless and sets out again, promising not to get in too much trouble. Obi-Wan sighs and Satine starts ordering the set of armour she knows he's going to need when it comes time to rescue his old master. After all, their future children should have at least one Grandparent to look up to right?

The Force takes him to Tatooine, where an investigation of Gardulla the Hutt ends up with him befriending a local mother and her toddler and confronting the reality of slavery on the Outer Rim. The Jedi aren't coming to free the slaves, but Qui-Gon's no longer just a Jedi is he? And he sees Shmi worry over Little Ani (So strong in the force! And yet so unlikely to ever be found and brought to the temple...) and decides that maybe he can't save them all, but there's no reason he can't try and help those he can. A bit of offhand gambling during the negotiations, a minor favour of two (that the Hutt doesn't realise will end up backfiring but Qui-Gon does) and Qui-Gon Jinn is up a large sum of credits and two newly freed Skywalkers.

(It should be noted that as there are a lack of facilities to provide a midichlorian count, and Shmi is still somewhat reluctant to admit to the whole "virgin birth" thing, Qui- Gon considers Anakin Skywalker to be a strong and promising child but not exactly miraculous. Cute though. Very cute. He likes to fall asleep against his shoulder and Qui-Gon gets nostalgic about all the times Obi-Wan did the same. Shmi looks on, and thinks.) 

They head to Mandalore to get the chips out (and to show Obi-Wan that his father old master is safe and well - minus a cracked rib of two) and  Qui-Gon Jinn is faced with a major dilemma. He really should be encouraging Shmi to consider sending Ani to the temple, where his talents can be trained, but… he looks to where Shmi and Satine are beaming as they watch Anakin attempt to sneak up on Obi-Wan who is assiduously pretending to ignore the toddler's giggles as he reads the latest reports on the rebuilding effort. Anakin inexplicably adores Obi-Wan, and it is to all appearances, mutual.  Qui-Gon has no desire to hurt his former Padawan again, and how could he be so hypocritical as to send little Ani off to an institution he’s not sure he believes in anymore? The question is rendered moot when Shmi bluntly tells him the only ones she trusts with Anakin are currently in the palace, and if he needs teaching Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan can do it. The idea is honestly a little uncomfortable for the pair of former Jedi, but they're coming to terms with what the Force seems to be asking of them.

 Which in Qui-Gon’s case seems to mean a lot of trips to the outer rim among the poor and downtrodden - oddly enough Shmi suddenly decides to come with him, claiming that Ani is safe as he can be on Mandalore, she’s familiar with some of the more unsavory parts of the galaxy and Qui-Gon needs someone to watch his back. He’s just glad for the company,  particularly when he does end up paying a visit to Serenno. Watching a former slave look Dooku in the eye and calmly and quietly call bullshit on his arguments surrounding the role of the trading unions is worth every moment. Honestly, while he may have a point about corruption within the Republic, Qui-Gon is getting a little creeped out by his former Master’s insistence on the need for strong leadership and a firm hand. It sounds like he’s advocating open conflict, and war isn’t good for anyone!

So he attempts to make his goodbyes, but Dooku is reluctant to let them leave, which means it’s time to implement the old “disappear and claim you had a vision” trick. And ok, so I won't go into details, but after a long and complex series of events involving a freight hauler, eight barrels of spiked Telosian Brandy, three janitor droids and a Twilek Dance Company they manage to make it off planet and into Hutt space where they can disappear for a bit.

But a Skywalker is still a Skywalker, not matter how much sense she has, and Qui-Gon Jinn is as much a trouble-magnet as the rest of his line, so thanks to yet another strange convergence of events involving an attempted kidnapping, five tonnes of explosives, a backroom bar on Ord Mantell, a missing shipment of Spice, an insurrection on a mining colony,  uncountable huttese expletives, one inspirational speech, a cache of heavy weapons and no less than eight marriage proposals, Qui-Gon Jinn finds himself the captain of a small fleet of ships and a band of untrained but passionate freedom fighters. Shmi has never laughed so much in her entire life!

Qui-Gon does what he does best and attempts to talk his way out of it, but it is to no avail; “Captain Jinn” is an inspiration to them all, his dedication is unparalleled and they will do all they can to aid him in his quest to bring justice to the galaxy!  Qui-Gon panics and calls in the cavalry. Unfortunately for him Satine thinks it’s a brilliant idea.

Because while she adores her husband, the Duchess of Mandalore has noticed that recently he seems to be going a little stir crazy. For all his denials Obi-Wan is a man of action, and things have calmed enough that he needs a distraction lest she start throwing martini glasses at him to make him stop hovering! Assisting a band of “pirates” in undermining the various interests who take advantage of the lawless nature of the Outer Rim to spread their influence and at the same time giving him the chance to spend time with Qui-Gon  seems like an excellent way to keep him occupied. Also, as Shmi points out, it’s exactly the type of thing that Mandalorians go gaga for - heroic warriors secretly taking out evildoers and doing good while dramatically declaring their own villainy, why it seems like the perfect outlet for those Mandalorians who long for the glory found in days of old!

She’s right. There are plenty of volunteers willing to follow their Duchess’ dashing husband to join his father mentor in cleaning up the Outer Rim. They start out small, intercepting a shipment of slaves, diverting a cargo of pharmaceuticals to a planet in urgent need of medicine, confiscating a hold full of illegal weaponry. But soon they grow bolder, raiding larger and larger targets, always making sure that those they hit deserve it and will only bring themselves greater trouble if they make a fuss about the loss of their ill-gotten gains. Soon their little group has carved out quite a solid support base, and while they never stop wondering why the Force seems so happy about this turn of events, the former Jedi actually begin to enjoy their work. They’re slowly making progress, and eventually they know enough momentum will build that uniting this part of the galaxy and freeing the slaves may one day be feasible. Also, it’s really really pissing off both the Senate and the Order, which means they must be doing something right.

And that is how Qui-Gon Jinn becomes a Pirate King, the Scourge of Slavers, Hassler of Hutts, Bane of the Banking Clan and Terror of the Techno Union. Dooku is grinding his teeth into dust with frustration. Especially since all his correspondence suggesting an alliance is either returned unopened or overwritten with sarcastic commentary and a suggestion to go deep throat a lightsaber.

That’s more than enough for now, I need some sleep, but there is more to this verse I’ve worked out. Tune in next time for “Naboo’s no good very rotten day aka Padme Amidala, Pirate Queen in Exile” “The clone wars start but the clones are late to the party” “Qui-Gon discovers he never actually formally quit the Jedi, and Yoda and Mace take advantage of this” “Plo Koon admire’s Qui-Gon’s taste in pets” and “Oh god, Anakin Skywalker, Mandalorian Pirate Prince, what have I done?”...

[feelslikefallingslow]

Entry 4 - Change Your Appearance

“Kept you waiting, huh?”

Well...Howdy, old friend/indiscernible reader of this post that probably thought I perished months ago given that I went AWOL for a duration slightly longer than the bloody Mesozoic era.  How have you been? I hope you’ve been just dandy and that you’ve high-fived at least three people today in a ludicrously crisp manner.

Good heavens,  it’s certainly been a while, hasn't it? 

Well, allow me to explain in a manner that will carry the same gross sentimental appeal as appearing outside of your door whilst blaring a soft-rock song from the early 2000′s on a worn-out boom box. Long story short, this year has been brutal. Like I’m talking ‘being doomed to an eternity of walking barefoot on Lego’ levels of brutality. Remember when Term 1 Chris thought that he had a lot of work to do? Oh, boy. If I could go back in time, I’d slap him silly as I shouted: “You know nothing, Jon Snow” at his face. And that would be ironic because he wouldn’t have even started Game of Thrones at that point, the miserable sod. 

But yes, I will inform you about the happenings of the year through multiple messy rants that rear their head in the middle of a completely unrelated blog post (just like I have been doing for pretty much 3 paragraphs now), don’t you even worry your virtual head about that.  

But, without further ado (disregarding the metric fuck-ton of ado that has already wriggled into this post/my life) let me tell you a story, friend. Because oh boy, do I ever have some stories for you. 

In the earliest stages of this year, a friend of a friend (technically a friend of an ex, but let’s not go down that rabbit hole because that is a midnight pain train that no one wants to travel on), contacted me out of the blue and said that she wanted me to be her Matric dance date. The next day she immediately reclarified the statement and said there had been some ‘miscommunication’, which was a loaded term because I had only added the words “Oh, that’s sweet of you” to the ‘conversation’. Apparently, she did have a date but she was just concerned about him flaking on her at the last second. Or something like that? Even typing it now is making me confused. I don’t even know. All I did know was that she wanted me as a backup option. An injury reserve, if you will (that was a thinly veiled reference to the hip hip trio of the same name because they’re the bomb. Go and check them out. Seriously.). But anyway, my response to all of this was a resounding “wot”, but I was keen to go if she needed me to. Mainly because any opportunity life hands you to wear a suit is an opportunity that you must take without question.

Now, you may be asking yourself: “Chris, you handsome and also regular devil, what does any of this nonsense have to do with you changing your appearance? To which I’d answer: “Hold your dang horses, you lovely human being, I’m getting to that”. To tell any great story, you need to establish the backstory so that the stakes are raised. That’s the exact reason why they made the Star Wars prequels, I’m sure. And aren’t we just eternally grateful for those? 

So flash forward to May and I start seeing this friend of a friend quite regularly just because she’s a swell gal and such. And then as I was about to leave during one of my visits, she abruptly asks if I could go to the dance after all. Now, let me just be real with you, my dude. In that moment I was pretty much cornered because I, in all honesty, didn't really want to go because at the time 2nd term was already doing me dirty, but I was literally trapped in her house. She had the gate keys and I didn’t want to be like “Umm, I can’t but also let me leave now please lmao”. That would make me an official trash person. And the whole manner in which she had asked me entailed her putting herself on the line, and I didn’t want to ruin that for her, man. So placed in that delightful bind, I accepted then and there. AND NOW WE CAN GET INTO THE ACTUALLY RELEVANT PART OF THE STORY WOOOOOOOOO. 

In the few days I had in order to prep for all the festivities, I forgot about a critical factor about myself that I’d have to change in order to not appear entirely unruly/homeless. I’d have to... cut my hair. Even typing that makes me relive the pain and anguish of it. It’s like ‘Nam flashbacks amped up to 11. As to why this was such a colossal thing for me, here’s a little history, you rapscallion. My hair and I have always had an interesting relationship. Because I love to grow it out as much as possible to the dismay of friends/family/loved ones/any bipedal creature with eyes. But alongside this, I have spent about 99.8% of this year covering it up with a beanie. Why? Ehh, crippling laziness mainly. And also because I genuinely like how I look in one. It elevates me to an ample level of hipsterdom, and it manages to keep my wild locks contained and out of my god-damned eyes because c’mon. So to have to cut my hair short enough to pass for a fuck-boy was a pretty big obstacle in my eyes. 

But I did it. Through sheer pluck, moxie, and other words that people haven' used since the 1700s, I did it. And it only looked mildly horrible to boot. What more could you ask for?    

Before:

After: 

Oh golly, look at that poor boy. It’s like watching the events of Pretty Woman transpire over the course of two images, I tell ya. The only thing that is retained in each image is the fact that I don’t know how to take pictures of myself because as soon as I turn the selfie cam on, my face just suddenly forgets how to be human. So that’s great. Oh, and also the earphones. Obviously. That's how you know it’s the real me and not some evil clone. 

But anyway, my hair is back to being even longer than it was in that first picture so I guess it’s a moot point. But I just wanted to tell you about that wild time I had to look somewhat civilized for a change. I even had to trim my measly excuse for a pre-pubescent beard. What a knee-slapper right there. 

I ended up going to the dance and actually having a pretty rad time. The only thing I don’t understand is why every matric dance under the sun has to play DJ Snake’s “Middle” at least three times over the course of the evening. Like, do they get a tax break for it? Or do they risk having a SWAT team burst into the room if they don’t? These magical mysteries, man. What’s amazing is that that song is already outdated so this post is pretty much a time capsule in of itself. Nifty. 

I’m going to conclude this grand voyage back into rant-central-station because this post hs already become an unholy derailment. And I’ve got a lot of shit to get into and tangents to wildly swing back and forth between in the coming hours. So strap yourself in for several doses of bullshit, dear reader. I’ve missed this. 

Oh, and shout-out to that kind stranger who left a comment on my Wes Anderson post. That was really cool of you to do, and I’d send you a personal message if I wasn't such a terrible replier/human. But I’ll definitely check out The Life Aquatic. Depressed Bill Murray is the best kind of Bill Murray and any film that contains that is already near and dear to my heart.

[tessatechaitea]

Justice League #15

Well, it's got to end sometime, I suppose.

Okay, maybe she's not a time traveler. But she definitely knows what's going on in the future. So she's some kind of time something or other. Probably a Time Witch.

• Superman and Batman learn from the Infinity Corporation that something is rewriting time. You know, the way that sometimes happens. Usually it only happens when an idiot believes a thing they think they remember even when the proof that they're remembering it wrong is right in front of them, like that book with the incestuous bear family and that movie with the African-American Djinni. But in the DC Universe, when something changes in the past, things are rewritten slowly enough that people with a time traveling office building can pick up some hitchhikers and try to set history right once more. Although what is right, really? If the Infinity Corporation hadn't picked up Superman and Batman, they'd be fine! It would just be slightly different versions of them in the new reality. Which might be the better reality. Or maybe the real reality! If time can be changed so easily, whose to say this change wasn't setting it back to the factory settings?

This is how philosophy can be misused by idiots. He's got the whole concept backwards. It's not "The future is malleable so the past must be too!" Because that's fucking nonsense. It's "If the past is immutable, why would you think the future was? Boom! Free will is an illusion!" It's so obvious. Once you make a choice and the present becomes the past, it can't be changed. So why would you think you ever had a real choice anyway? Fate, motherfuckers!

• Also, the guy's ability to philosophize is terrible if he's saying things like "You think somebody ten years in the future reading about you fixes your choices?" Of course that doesn't work! Because the future isn't happening simultaneously with the present, dum-dum! I mean, I suppose it could be. Without our ability to observe it, all history would just happen in the blink of an eye. Our observation slows it down. So why can't it all have happened spontaneously and immediately. That's why some beings are omniscient, like dolphins and gerbils. • During the United Nations fight, Cyborg winds up in 31st century Metropolis beside Brainiac 5. I guess they're all surprised by this happening because The Flash quickly distributed all of the bracelets which kept them from being obliterated by the Timeless. • The Green Lanterns wind up in the 26th Century where Washington, DC, has been devastated. It's probably been that way for five hundred years now. • The Flash winds up in Central City on the day he received his powers. Apparently they've all time traveled to different points in time where the Timeless have set up "temporal nukes." See? It's easy to get your heroes on the mission when you have somebody from the future saying, "This is what is happening and here is the problem and now off you go to solve it!" • Molly the Keeper explains that if these bombs go off, the fans will be super fucking pissed again. A whole new DC Universe! This time it won't be Wally and Steph and Cassie who disappear forever. This time, it'll be all the superheroes. Which would make for a really boring DC Universe. I'm not sure even I would keep reading any comic books telling stories from it.

I wish every time somebody said this in a time travel movie, they'd get punched in their stupid face.

• From this moment on, whenever anybody asks me, "Where are we?" or "Where am I?", I'm going to reply, "When might be a better question!" • Batman and Superman wind up in a time when Earth has built a bunch of scaffolding around the planet. Hopefully somebody will tell them that they have a temporal nuke to disarm. The Ranking! No change! If I wasn't being so lazy and not wanting to change the sidebar, I'd probably drop this a ranking just for being another terrible "The present is changing because of time travel shenanigans that must be corrected!" bullshit story. I mean, isn't it lucky that Molly the Keeper appeared to help everybody save the current timeline! Without her intervention, time would have just changed and nobody would have been the wiser. Readers probably would have been confused though if they picked up What's the Justice League? #15 about a bunch of people who don't remember the Justice League and never mention them at all in whatever boring tale of mundane life Bryan Hitch decided to tell. Probably a story about an artist who is trying to finish the facade of a building with a ton of tiny details on it but he has to pee really fucking badly. Does he finish before he goes? Does he go before he finishes? Does he make a huge mistake in one of several possible scenarios?!