#and b) cyclops with the issues

[innocentartery]

on second thought the concept of mutants/the x-men is so rich and intriguing to me when viewed its own right rather than as a fundamentally flawed racism allegory created by two white men

[butchdomesticwhore]

why is it so hard to recognize that all this info about bills and such is something you can acquire via googling and making phone calls to people who work in these departments and--yes!--asking them questions on what your best next step is? how does making this about systemic oppression help you or anyone else complete practical, adult tasks? when you point at a paper bill from a medical institution and declare it fundamentally classist, does the bill magically crumple into the dust, the issue dealt with and over because you aptly named the systemic issue at play? no!

do you get angry at mechanics when they tell you they have an idea regarding how your car could be fixed, also? how does that help you? what have you learned from deciding to be angry as opposed to using the information dealt to you? perhaps you should not be told by cashiers either about when the sales happen or how items are put on clearance lest their Insider Knowledge tell you something you don't know and--gasp--come from a place of privilege.

the point of my info and OP's is practical use. "if you have this problem, [x] might solve it." privilege or no, how the info is acquired doesn't matter as much as whether or not it's accurate and helps people. and despite your daftness, i very much hope any of this info helps YOU. or if not you, then someone you know. or someone completely random, i don't give a damn.

Ok so my kid had an ear infection, right? As kids often do.

The doctor scraped out a bit of earwax to have a better look inside.

I was sent a bill for $200 PER EAR for this 5 second procedure which I did not give permission for them to do.

That was key- they did not ASK me if they could do this "procedure". And, as I OWN a medical practice (it's me. The medical practice is me, sitting in my house on video calls) I knew to call them when this bill came in to be like "You did not obtain informed consent for this procedure, and it was not en emergency procedure. You had full ability to gain my consent and didn't. I'm not paying."

And the massive hospital who owned the bill said "yuh-huh you do have to pay."

And I said "I own a practice. I know these laws. I do not owe you money for this."

And they conducted an "internal review" and SURPRISE! Decided I totally owed them money and they had never done anything wrong ever.

And so I called my state's Attorney General office, and explained the situation because, as I mentioned, I know the law. The AG got in touch within a couple days to say they were taking the case and would send the massive hospital conglomerate a knock it off, guys letter.

Lo and Behold, today I have a letter where said hospital graciously has agreed to forfeit the payment.

"How not to get screwed over by companies" should be part of civics class.

Know your rights and know who to call when they're infringed on. This whole process cost me $0 and honestly less effort than I would have expected.

May this knowledge find its way to someone else who can use it.

[aroaceleovaldez]

I HAVE BEEN REMINDED OF SOMETHING i think i've made a post about it before but maybe it's just sitting in my drafts. idk, whatever, I will ramble again. Said thing that reminded me was a tiktok by madison_murrah about how the PJO TV show doesn't get the balance between mundanity and magical correct for pjo and I want to expand on that cause while a.) it totally is a problem in the show and i take issue with it, b.) it is also a problem in later books and i ALSO take issue with that too and i would like to elaborate on it

this got long so ramble of the day below the cut:

so the thing is that PJO is actually pretty unique in it's approach to hidden world modern fantasy. like, hidden world modern fantasy is a decently established genre with a ton of examples, but there's a reason why PJO stands out so much, and that's because technically it's NOT "hidden world." There is very intentionally no distinction between the mundane world and the mythological, at least in first series. They 100% overlap. And you do not necessarily need to be "special" to see the "mythological world-" some mortals are totally naturally clear-sighted, a lot of kids are clear-sighted, and it's like 50/50 for if mortals can become clear-sighted. In fact, most demigods aren't immune to the effects of the Mist, all that really matters is if you're actually thinking about being able to see through it. And there's a reason for that!

In general, this format of the "hidden world" modern fantasy serves two purposes: One, as the series is meant to introduce people to Greek mythology and explain why it is relevant and how it can be relatable in modern contexts, it intentionally juxtaposes myths against modern concepts: Medusa runs an apparently average garden statue store. Procrustes runs a mattress store. The entrance to the Underworld is in LA at a record store. Circe lives on an island paradise that's secretly dangerous. Hydras are like chain donut stores that seem to pop up on every corner. Perseus and his mother struggle in Perseus' childhood but get a happy ending. Calypso has an island paradise where the challenge for the hero of our story is being tempted to leave behind his goals. The plot of Sea of Monsters is blatantly the Odyssey, and it's about Percy trying to get to his best friend (who he shares a literal psychic link to) who is in danger of getting married to someone awful (a literal monster) to help you understand Odysseus trying to get back to Penelope and how important to each other and in sync they are. Battle of the Labyrinth is Theseus and the Labyrinth and it's Percy/Theseus trying to protect his home and his people and fellow kids (like Nico) from the dangers in the maze. These are all supposed to help us understand what is actually going on in those stories.

We also still see how Greek mythology influence shapes and influences western culture in general in their world (which is supposed to be our own and so uses real-world examples) - in government, in architecture, in pop culture - Mythomagic is clearly supposed to be your standard TCG like Magic The Gathering. And in general there is no distinction between where the mythological ends and mundane begins - Camp Half-Blood is both a magical training space for demigods and your run of the mill underfunded summer camp, complete with cheesy camp songs and t-shirts and crafts. Olympus is located on top of the Empire State Building which is operating completely as normal except for when a demigod asks to go to a non-existent floor. Your best friend with a muscular disease in his legs is secretly a satyr. Your brother with down syndrome is a cyclops. Your teacher in a wheelchair is secretly an immortal centaur. Your crappy algebra substitute is a literal fury. But also they're still your teachers. The satyr is still your best friend, the cyclops is still your brother. And that brings me to the second aspect of all of this (which i have talked about before [here] and [here]) - the other purpose it serves is that it is an extension of the overarching disability themes that form the core of the series.

The entire reason that meshing of mundanity and magical is so intertwined is entirely because it's part of the disability metaphor, specifically inspired by early 2000s parenting/teaching concepts for children with disabilities, particularly learning disabilities, as trying to reframe disabilities as "superpowers" to empower kids (and still exists in some more modern forms - like referring to disabilities as "being differently-abled") (I talk about it in my previous post on the subject but this generally fell out of favor due to many kids/students finding it belittling of their struggles) - this is why we get the description of ADHD and Dyslexia being framed as "demigod superpowers." In the series this structure is intentionally made to encourage kids to reframe how they view disabilities in general as not something negative but something interesting and fantastical that they may be more open to engage with - and PJO does this in a really nice way where a lot of the disability struggles are still acknowledged and treated sympathetically. Kids still get bullied, Percy and Annabeth struggle in school or with reading/spelling, they grapple with both internal and external ableism. The entire reason for the titan war in the first series, at least from the demigod perspective, is criticizing flawed systems meant to support disabled people that don't do their job effectively or let too many people fall through the cracks. The Mist "hiding" the "mythological world" from mortals (and even some demigods) is about how most abled people (and some undiagnosed people) don't recognize disability struggles until it affects them personally. None of these things are glossed over! It's handled with nuance and care! The series says "you can be disabled and you can be like these fantastical heroes - not in spite of your disability, but alongside it. Neither negates the other." The series was explicitly made so Rick's disabled son could see himself in a hero and learn about mythology for school. Those are the two pillars of the entire franchise: Disability and learning about mythology.

So, when you mess with that "hidden world" structure, the entire thing falls apart and it immediately doesn't feel right, because it's no longer serving either of those two purposes when it needs to be fulfilling both. Late-series Riordanverse has a tendency to compartmentalize the mythological and keep it entirely sectioned off from the mundane. Think about first series and even TKC versus later series - how many mortal characters are there? what do they do? are they just in the background or do they interact with the main cast frequently? are they more than just family or an extension to the main cast? First series we see Percy's classmates frequently, Percy talks about his mundane experiences at school, multiple mortal parent characters (and other mortal characters like Rachel) are active participants in and vital to the plot. We even see a lot of background mortal characters. In TKC, not only are all the magicians technically mortal, but also Sadie's completely mundane best friends help her out. Now think about HoO, or ToA, or even MCGA. Think about the mortal characters in those series. How important are they? Out of the important ones, how much are they in mundane situations versus being almost entirely involved in something mythological? How many aren't related to any of the main cast? How many aren't actively working for a god? The answer is basically zero! Why is that? Because Rick stopped letting the mundane exist. The entire draw of the main series is that Percy does continue to live this mundane life and that adds to his mythological life and makes the balance and meshing between them interesting, but basically all mundanity ceases to exist by HoO. Camp Jupiter is an isolated entirely magic town. Percy and Jason's schools are full of mythological beings as basically the only people they interact with. The Tri's headquarters is an entire giant building in New York City that they completely control that just so happens to ALSO be directly across the street from the local Oracle's house, because even where Rachel lives isn't allowed to be mundane anymore. Why is Olympus just at the top of the Empire State Building versus the Tri having an ENTIRE building? That feels weird and unbalanced, particularly given the difference in importance between those two! Because one is playing into that balance of the meshing of mundane and magical and the other isn't! The show continues this trend. It doesn't allow any of the mythological to exist within mundanity like it functions in the books, which creates a completely different atmosphere and doesn't allow those spaces or scenes or characters to serve their actual narrative purposes, either making it easier to understand mythology contextually or what disability metaphor or representation is occurring there.

It's part of the problem with show!Percy being too mythologically-savvy - Percy is supposed to be the mundane lens unfamiliar with mythology that the audience is learning by proxy through. That's the entire point of the series! If you have Percy already know everything because he's already too ingrained into this mythological environment from the start, and he just exists in this entirely magical world where he understands everything immediately then the literal target audience of the entire franchise (students being introduced to mythology) is left behind! That's part of why the pacing of the show feels so bad! It's rushing through every scene that's more or less the same as the books, particularly anything mythological, because the show is assuming you've already read the books and already know enough mythology to know what it is and what happens and that you don't want to see it again, so it rushes through. The show doesn't explain things that it presumes you already know - worldbuilding, character decisions, basically any mythology, etc, so it doesn't even bother with it.

Later books in the franchise do this too - as long as it's tangentially Greco-Roman mythology, or if it's anything to do with the main series like a reference in TKC or MCGA or etc, it's not going to elaborate much if at all. HoO speeds through Jason's introduction to CHB, and the only reason we get much introduction to Camp Jupiter is because it's actually new. We're no longer trying to contextualize or learn about mythology, it just all becomes set-dressing and references thrown at you rapid-fire as filler. By late HoO and into TOA and TSATS and such, we're not longer even within the realm of pretending like we're adhering to mythology at all. Why is Iris a vegan? Why is Rhea a hippie? Dunno, don't care! Literally doesn't matter! Why are the pandai panda/elephant-monsters and the troglodytes frog-monsters when that's not part of their actual history at all? Well a.) literally just word associations and b.) possibly a little bit of racism (they're supposed to be humans from India and northern Africa, and you made them monsters. cool. okay. and their plotlines totally aren't horrible within those contexts. awesome. please try thinking literally at all next time, thanks). We're not even bothering to look at mythological instances anymore for a basis, a lot of it's written like we're just going based on the first results on google (hi Menoetes and the cacodaemons - the latter of which is not even spelt correctly once in the entire book - which is weird because they do say "daemon" so they know the word. Not that the cacodaemons are mythologically accurate at all because then they would be humanoid. Instead they seem to just be inspired by the things from Doom). None of it serves the purpose of the narrative at all; we're literally just making random choices, some of them quite distasteful! In large part due to refusing to acknowledge the actual contexts of the myths and how that might translate into something similar or equivalent a modern setting to help conceptualize it - something the first series did inherently by design. And we need this! A.) So that you're less likely to make bad decisions because you are inherently thinking about the historical and cultural contexts of these things and how to compare/explain it, and b.) because the audience for later books/the other series and the show is going to be the same as the first series! Those nonsensical references may be at best cameos to people who are already familiar with them, but if your intended audience is new to mythology then making references like that is just going to leave people out of the loop! You don't shift your target audience in the middle of a franchise!

Later books in the series and the show are failing to understand what the first series was actually doing narratively and how it was approaching these subjects and its audience. When you fail to do that, it completely messes up the general worldbuilding and the core themes and intentions of the franchise as a whole. Once you lose touch with that you might as well just be writing a completely different franchise. You need to approach it from the same lens or else it will feel completely off, because otherwise you've lost all base touchstones that make the series what it is.

[my-pjo-stuff]

At this point I think we've all seen the "Luke is a heartless monster who just started a war because of daddy issues and cared for no one" take. Which.... I'll be honest is even stupider than the pedo take imo. But it did give me the idea for this. So let's all have a thought experiment together :

What if Luke was an actual heartless monster who cared for no one?

Here's how I think it would go : >TLT goes the relative same, as Kronos wanted Percy to be his OG body I doubt Luke would seriously harm him there. >Shit starts going down in SOM. Because since he cares for no one and nothing he would have no intrest in getting Thalia. If I remember the plan with her only came up after she returned, so Luke just poisions the tree and lets it die to weaken CHB while getting the fleece himself. Possibly sending Al or other demigods >Which means that A)Thalia's tree is now just straight up DEAD including her and B)Kronos is back MUCH sooner since they have the fleece now. >If we still have the plot with Annabeth and Artemis in TTC then Annabeth just straight up dies, since Luke has no reason to protect her. Since there's no Thalia to take Luke at the finale someone else would need to fight him- or he'd team up with Atlas on Artemis. I'm gonna go with possibly Zoe or someone taking the sky from Artemis so Percy can go up against Luke. >Luke ends up capturing Percy to use as Kronos' body since let's be real, Percy had no chance in a 1v1 against Luke. Everytime they had one in canon Percy always lost until someone came to help him by surprise attacking Luke. >Percy ends up being forced to be Kronos' vessel as he's brought back. >The gods are overthrown, practically every character not in the TA dies and Luke wins.

AND THAT'S JUST HOW I'D THINK THE PLOT WOULD LOGICALY GO FROM THE START

Here are other situations I think would have been WILDLY different:

>Thalia going up to fight Luke in TTC would just end with her getting killed since he'd have no real reason to be so broken up over her or be in a bad mental state which gave Thalia the advantage she had. Thalia dies. >If Kronos didn't need Percy Luke wouldn't have done that last attempt to recruit him at the end of TLT and would only see Percy as a threat. Meaning he'd kill 12 y/o Percy in his sleep before taking off to get rid of that risk factor. >He never would have given Annabeth that dagger since he's purely selfish here. He'd probably have kept it for himself as a weapon. >Oh also NONE of the kids he rly cared for are getting any real care. Best he does in periodically manipulate them to keep them on his side- but even that would only happen after he already decided to go after the gods. So for the first time at camp he just does his own business. >This means Annabeth has NO real comfort after Thalia dies! >Oh also RIP Annabeth and Percy in SOM when they get on Luke's ship and Kronos doesn't need/want Percy. Because they IMMEDIATELY get jumped and killed by monsters. Yeah, no good night of rest for them, just immediate attack and kill. >Grover dies to the cyclops in the meanwhile. >If by some miracle they make it to TLO and Kronos does posess Luke like in canon everyone ALSO dies since Annabeth's "family Luke, you promised!" wouldn't have worked either.

Thanks for coming to my ted talk!

[littleeyesofpallas]

At this point I've basically long since run dry on Bleach funfacts, certainly out of any that have any real weight in the broader readings of the series. But I do have one not-so-fun fact still left up my sleeve --a real dead end nothing contribution... So buckle up, I guess? I apologize in advance if this ends up, like, I dunno, spoiling the aesthetic(?) for anyone. Feel free to just ignore this and move on if you're touchy about keeping your obsessive fandom experiences squeaky clean.

So, I noted back when I was combing thru Quincy terms, that it felt a little less than comfy that in addition to the general n*zi aesthetics Juugram's official title was in fact "Sternritter Grand Master" which felt, at the time, like an unfortunate coincidence that it would fall in line with the naming scheme of the K*K's nonsense titles like Grand Wizard/Grand Dragon, Grand Cyclops, Grand Magi and various other ridiculous sounding occultist LARPer horseshit they've cycled thru over the past century+. But I just kinda left it at that and didn't think to dig any deeper,

But then I was reminded that in the early days of the K*K one of their stated goals was to establish a white supremacist "country" inside the united states, and as they dabbled in this insurgency fantasy, they dubbed this goal of a secret, second, white nation within the confines of the USA, their "Invisible Empire"...

And although the word we hear throughout the TYBW arc is the German Wändenreich[ヴァンデンライヒ] from Wänden:“Walls” and Reich:“Empire/Realm,” the Japanese meaning underlying that term is [見えざる帝国]: “Unseen/Invisible Empire.”

In fact the white robed and hoods tradition stemmed from what were initially petty pranks(although they escalated very quickly in seriousness and danger) in which they would menace black communities and abolitionists by pretending to be the ghosts of dead confederates. In this capacity the imagery and language around them also evoked an "Army of Ghosts."

And although it was never properly addressed, there was always this vague issue of the Quincy's ages... Those with clear backgrounds like Juugram and Bazz-B seem impossibly old. And we see that As Nodt is recruited on what appears to be his deathbed --in a hospital, on life support and in fear of dying, with a bible on his bedside as if ready to be read his last rites-- and of course the Quincy genocide of 200 years prior.

And tangential to this, we see the brief, if mostly pointless, return of the three dead Fullbringers --Ginjo, Tsukishima, and Giriko-- who all seem to have retained their memories and powers across the borders of life and death. (We won't ask about how or why their fullbring items are still usable) Is it safe to speculate then that the Quincy are in fact a literal Army of Ghosts? It explains how they're able to go toe to toe with the shinigami in ways Uryuu's initial explanations of their skills would've suggested wasn't possible. (i.e. that they were describes as being regular flesh and bone humans and only their weapons are actually supernatural, and thus they are not capable of particularly extraordinary physical feats, or blessed with any superhuman durability.) And it also sort of makes more sense that rather than being a bunch of flesh and blood humans who survived losing the war, somehow spiritized themselves to get into the afterlife, and then hid for 999 years, that they could have just been humans who died first and were recruited as ghosts, having been spirited away into the shadow realm. Or Quincy that died with the full intent of reuniting as ghosts, having some kind of assurance that they would retain their memories and powers.

I like the former over the latter though, as it means the Ishida family really were the last living Quincy. But I do like the morbid idea of Yhwach commanding his army, Jamestown style, to kill themselves as the first step to them going to heaven. Only in this case the kingdom of god as they imagine it has to be fought for because the shinigami are already have a whole society there and need to be driven out first.

There is also a lot of "Knight" and "White Knight" imagery and titles evoked in the K*K's long history, and while that's absolutely vague enough to be handwaved on its own, it's definitely not not adjacent to all this....

(This has nothing to do with anything I just had already slapped the uniforms pic together and wanted to use it somewhere)

So to sort of loosely review everything going on with the Quincy....

Catholic inverted priest frocks, crosses, silver and exorcisms, holy eucharist angel wings&halo final forms, blood eucharist schrift, conversion based recruitment policies, the whole "one kingdom under god" shtick, miracle baby son of god christ figure, explicit mention of monotheism

but then also 5 pointed crosses/stars and pentagrams,

victims of a genocide with a dr.mengele nemesis, YHWACH-v-YHWH

inverted Hugo Boss uniforms, german themed attacks, skills and tools, crosses again, explicitly evoking the Schutzstaffel with Yhwach's royal guard, and nonsense blood purity eugenics b.s.... weirdly not touched upon "black sun" or swastika imagery tied to Ichigo

For some reason a few loose threads of what appear to be Loius XIV and his sun god apollo fixation, purifying light and sun and stars motifs

YHWACH having big Backbeard energy, the literal evocation of Backbeard, being a western ghost army

and now these mismatched crumbs of what appear to be deliberate K*K references: ghost army, invisible empire, grandmaster, etc...

Like... I don't think this makes them worse, or paints Kubo as some kind of crackpot racist --in case my stance on his use of n*zi imagery didn't make that clear-- but like... I don't know what to make of it honestly... It's as inconsequential to the actual message or plot as anything else, including the n*zi stuff, but it just feels weird knowing it's there? Just sorta loitering around in the background?? Also the Quincy are just such a bizarre clusterfuck of unfocused nonsense ""themes"" with like zero actual content just in general. Given everything that's in that slurry I think that might be for the better? Because any coherent message drawn from all of these influences probably couldn't have been any good...

[shintin]

Gunpowder Dreams

Chapter 6 (Heartworm)

↳ Vash the Stampede x Female Reader

They didn't know a wounded man would show no mercy when they took the best thing he ever had away from him. What did they say? Don't poke the dragon if you can't take the heat; if you do, expect the flames.

Genre: explicit smut, toxic relation, romance, angst (Mafia au).

Warnings/Tags: +18, NSFW, Alternative Universe/Modern Setting, no spoilers from manga and anime, dominate Vash the Stampede, sexual situations, dub-con, graphic violence, gore, angst, toxicity, gunplay, manhandling, cunnilingus + fellatio, creampie, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, too many smut scenes, emotional trauma, and etc.

Song Recommendation: K'naan, ft. Adam Levine - Bang Bang

Note: Blood again, but this time it tasted sweet.

Chapter Index - Next Chapter

The screams of pain bouncing around the tiled walls were getting a tad annoying. Sometimes it sucked to be both the boss and the hitman.

Vash Saverem. He was known for deriving pleasure from hurting others, but today, he had no goddamn patience for this whiny asshole. Normally, he possessed the patience of a saint; he knew how to bide his time in pursuit of what he wanted most. However, when he was trying to get some real answers, and the dude was too busy shitting his pants and crying to give him a coherent response, Vash's tolerance waned, and his frustration began to surface.

Within the Mafia circles, a proverb echoed: The biggest misfortune for Vash Saverem's enemies was that they were Vash Saverem's enemies.

Poor man.

"This knife is about to go halfway through your eyeball," he issued the warning. "I'm not even going to show you any mercy when I shove it through all the way to your empty brain."

"Fuck, man," he cried. "I already told you; I only visited the port a couple of times. I don't know anything about trades or whatever the hell you're talking about."

Vash concluded coldly, "So, you're useless, is what you're saying." He inched the blade closer to the man's eye. The victim clenched his eyelids shut as if that thin layer of skin, barely a millimeter thick, could shield him from the knife's assault.

Fucking laughable.

"No, no, no," he pleaded desperately, his voice trembling. "I know someone there that might be able to give you more information." Sweat trickled down his nose, mixing with the blood on his face. His unkempt, greasy gray hair was matted to his forehead and the back of his neck. Guess it wasn't actually gray anymore since most of it was painted crimson now. Vash had already cut off one of his ears, along with mercilessly tearing off ten fingernails, severing both Achilles heels, and placing a couple of stab wounds in specific locations that wouldn't allow the fucker to bleed out too quickly. The sheer number of broken bones sustained by the wretched man made it clear that he would never rise or walk away from this place.

"Enough with the crying, start talking," Vash snapped, scraping the knife's tip against the man's closed eyelid. He cringed away from the knife, tears spilling beneath his lashes.

"H-her name is Dominique. She's one of the operation leaders responsible for dispatching men to capture the girls. She-she's a big deal in the port, b-basically runs the whole thing there."

"Dominique, what?" Vash barked.

He sobbed. "I don't know, man!" His voice filled with anguish. "She just referred to herself as Dominique the Cyclops."

What the actual fuck?

"Describe her appearance," Vash demanded with an impatient grin, his words forced through gritted teeth.

He sniffled, his chapped lips tainted with leaking snot. "She's tall, with black hair," he managed to say. "And she wears an eyepatch over her right eye due to an ugly scar."

Vash massaged the back of his neck, groaning as the muscles relaxed. It'd been a long fucking day. Especially since his fucking heart hadn't stopped pounding, he was plagued with the unbending need to find an excuse to see you again—and this monkey face was wasting his time.

Vash's mind felt scorched as if it had been seared in a sizzling skillet. Concentration was a near-impossible feat when the taste of you still lingered on his tongue, and the sensation of you tightly wrapping around his gun remained vividly etched in his memory. You were even more exquisite naked. With the sweet melody of your smoky cries echoing in his head, he would come in his pants if he wasn't this full of rage. Indeed, you had the potential to be a good fucking medicine for his piles of anger.

Crying out loud! Focus dickhead!

"Cool, thanks, man," Vash remarked casually as if he hadn't been torturing him slowly for the past two and a half hours.

The man's breath steadied, and he lifted his head to look up at Vash through disgusting brown eyes brimming with an abundance of hope.

Vash almost laughed.

"Y-You're releasing me?" he asked, staring up at the blond man like a goddamn forsaken dog.

"Sure," Vash chirped. "Come on! Get up and go."

Gazing down at his severed heels, the man was acutely aware that attempting to stand would result in an inevitable loss of balance. "Please, man," he blubbered, "Could you lend me a hand here?"

Vash nodded slowly. "Yeah. I think I can do that," he replied, just before swiftly retracting his arm and driving the blade deep into the man's eye socket. He died instantly. The foolish hope hadn't yet vanished from his eyes. Or rather, his one eye. Huh!

"You were involved in Gasback's affairs," Vash declared aloud, though he was no longer capable of hearing him." As if I would spare your life," he finished with a laugh. Retrieving his knife from the eye socket, he cringed at the suction sound, threatening to disrupt his plans for upcoming meals—which was annoying cause he was feeling hungry. While he did enjoy himself a well-executed torture session, he certainly wasn't a jerkwad who got off on the sounds that accompanied it. The gurgles, slurps, and other unsettling noises produced by bodies enduring excruciating pain and the insertion of foreign objects were not a soundtrack he would ever find soothing enough to fall asleep to.

Wait a minute! There was a contradiction within him. Because he found immense pleasure in witnessing your pussy singing for him while his gun glided in and out of you. It was delicious as it was torturous for him. He imposed the punishment upon you, fully aware that it was ethically questionable. It was wrong, he knew it, but he had no fucking shame. After all, he never claimed to be a good man.

The sound of the door creaking open jolted him from his reverie, and he lethargically lifted his head from the red rivulet trickling across the pristine white tiles, its stream leading toward the drain at the room's center. His gaze fixated lazily upon the figure who had just entered.

Damn it! Not again. Not at this moment. Drenched in soiled blood and ravaged by unholy thoughts chewing the shit out of his mind, the last person he wanted to encounter was Bradd, ready to reprimand him for Devil knows what reason.

"Did he prove to be of any use?" Bradd asked, his eyes scanning the scattered droplets of blood adorning Vash's visage while his disheveled hair hung over his forehead, unlike the upright style he was so into.

Exhaling wearily, Vash averted his gaze from his counselor, using the sleeve of his navy hoodie to wipe his face. "Yeah, he provided a name. Dominique the Cyclops. Rings any bells?"

"Nope," Bradd said, popping the p. "But I'll ask around."

"Maintain a low profile." Vash's voice carried a tone of exhaustion; his eyes fixed on the stream of blood flowing from his black gloves.

"Worried about Knives finding out?"

"No. It's none of his business," Vash responded, raising his head. His eyebrows knitted together, creating a deep crease on his forehead.

With each mention of his brother's name, an inferno of annoyance engulfed him, fueled by memories of abuse and shattered trust. He was merely a child, bereft of his mother, and Kni, his sole remaining family, had spared him no mercy with his blades.

The flames of animosity flickered in his eyes, casting a fiery glow upon his features. There was a time he stupidly yearned for reconciliation, for the chance to mend what had been broken, but the intensity of his hatred held him captive.

His gaze lingered upon the scene before him, a stark reminder of the darkness that pervaded their lives. He knew the bridges between them had not only been burned but reduced to smoldering ashes. The hope of brotherhood had withered away, replaced by a vicious reality—they were forever destined to be distant figures, forever intertwined as business partners in a family tainted by treachery.

Bradd's voice barely reached him, distant and faint, as if echoing from the depths of a well. "You've made saving those girls too personal."

 Vash squeezed his eyes shot. "It is too personal."

"But if news spreads, it could potentially impact the business."

"I don't give a fuck about business!" Vash's voice erupted in a furious outburst, his words laced with venom as he forcefully expelled them. Veins throbbed on his temple, his knuckles growing pale as he clenched the knife tightly, the sharp metal biting into his palm. "It was Nick's fucking last wish, and I'll be damned if I don't make it come true," he growled, his voice unwavering.

"Take a breath, boy," Bradd's voice coaxed, tinged with a hint of resignation. " I've never had much success reining you in once you've set your mind on something. My role is simply to remind you of the consequences and express my genuine concern. Besides, since when do you handle dirty jobs yourself?" Bradd inquired cautiously, mindful of avoiding Vash's agitation and any potential stains on his clean shoes as he approached closer, hands tucked into his pockets. He leaned down to inspect the lifeless body, and his face quickly twisted with nausea—a soft fucking man. Yet, Vash found relief in Bradd's loyalty, remaining steadfast amidst the dark dominion of a world where boundaries blurred, and power was asserted through ruthless actions.

Vash's anger dissipated quicker than anticipated. Interesting. "You know what they say, right? If you want something done right, do it yourself," he replied, running the stained knife blade along his blue jeans. Each deliberate stroke aimed to purge the weapon of lingering traces of claret. At this point, he had lost count of the clothes he had to get rid of because he had started to resent the smell of that shit—a less-than-ideal habit for someone viewed as a monster.

A monster.

Tsk!

This wasn't exactly breaking news.

He was used to it.

But the fact that you referred to him in such a way was a pain in the ass, perhaps because he had grown accustomed to being addressed by that name by people whose sins towered as high as Mount Fuji. Yet, when you, as someone nearly innocent, employed that word as well, something unsettling stirred within him that was definitely not pleasant, and now, he couldn't get it out of his goddamn mind. You had become a persistent distraction—a brain worm. Metaphorically speaking, of course, not the dog-killing kind.

"You don't need to shoulder the entire workload alone. Allow Livio and me to help you with this. Your burden—"

"I was bored," Vash interrupted. "Stop digging my shits. Nothing good gonna come out of it."

"I can't agree more," Bradd said, dragging a chair to a considerable distance from the stinky corpse and taking a seat. He crossed one leg over the other and fixed his gaze upon Vash as though he were a patient under surveillance in an asylum. Well. In a way, here was like an asylum.

Once Vash had sheathed the knife, he removed the gloves and casually tossed them onto the deceased's chest. Then, reaching into his hoodie pocket, he retrieved a cigarette. Rolling the tension out of his neck, he ignited the cigar and drew a deep breath. The tobacco filled his lungs, providing an instant sense of calm.

"What are you doing here, Bradd?" Vash asked.

"Digging your shits," Bradd said and chuckled.

"Haha, quite the comedian now, are we?" Vash reclined, exhaling a plume of smoke that drifted and dissipated in the air. This shit, this acrid residue, still felt foreign, like swallowing an ashtray. It was a far cry from the flavor he truly longed for. He didn't want this permanently residing in his throat but rather savor it on Nick's tongue.

Well. It's unfulfilled dreams that keep us alive.

"No, seriously." Bradd's tone carried a sense of urgency. "What've you done to that girl?"

Upon hearing the reference to "you," Vash's eyebrows arched upward in surprise, partially interrupting the steady flow of smoke from his lips. A brief cough threatened to escape his throat, but he exerted control and suppressed it. Nevertheless, he couldn't hide the subtle gleam of delight that flickered in his eyes, a spark Bradd keenly noticed.

In an effort to divert attention, Vash lowered his head, using his forefinger to tap the cigarette, resulting in a shower of ash falling upon the fractured leg of the man beneath him. "Why are you asking?" he said, careful not to reveal any emotions or intentions.

"Rollo informed me that she likely hadn't eaten for three days since he returned with all the food untouched," Bradd recounted.

Vash pursed his lips as he found refuge in the concealment provided by his hair today. It appeared that you were not easily tamed. Each scratch he left upon you only seemed to sharpen your claws, fueling you with a desire to retaliate with even greater strength. Just like a wild mustang, you adamantly resisted being subdued. Rather than yielding to compromise, you would battle fiercely until the bitter end, refusing to be trapped within a cage, even if it meant facing the risk of perishing within its confines. You were his wild pet, reserving your fears and moans exclusively for your master. Perfect.

"Why are you sharing this with me?" Vash asked, seeming unbothered while bothered. He ran his hands through his hair, fingers pausing at the rough undercut. "Rather than wasting my time with this nonsense, focus on resolving the issue." He tilted his head and fixed a feigned disinterested gaze upon the counselor.

"I tried talking to her, but she just kept staring at the wall," Bradd disclosed, leaning forward to discern any answers from Vash's expression, only to find none.

Oops! It appeared that the opposite had occurred. He pushed you too much and broke your tiny claws. Weren't you a little mouse nested in the clutches of a ruthless cat now?

"Vash?" Bradd called out, only for him to realize that the flame of the cigarette had been burning his finger without him even noticing. He swiftly discarded it, tossing it to the floor and extinguishing it under his boot.

"You're jeopardizing everything to rescue random girls for Wolfwood while you've already taken one for yourself and are breaking her every day," Bradd pressed on. "Don't you think—"

"That's different," Vash croaked, his voice filled with conflict. "She's his daughter."

"She didn't have a say in it," Bradd calmly stated. "I don't think Wolfwood would want you to torture an innocent person."

Vash's head jerked upward in a sudden motion, his eyes widening in shock. How dare Bradd presume to understand what his beloved Nick would desire or not, as if he knew him better. As if he could fully grasp the devastating pain that tore Vash apart from within. And what harm would come if he were to inflict a glimpse of that pain on others?

A surge of anger coursed through Vash's veins, tempting him to grab Bradd by the collar and unleash a torrent of furious screams, forcing him to taste a tiny morsel of the burden he so eagerly offered to assist with, for it was a burden that was bitter as hell, sadly capable of shattering anyone but Vash himself. He didn't care if the world burned in his wake; if only it could provide even the slightest relief from this unbearable pain. However, deep down, he knew that Bradd's words held a kernel of truth. Nick had never harmed anyone and always strived to convince Vash to stay away from it as well. Yet, here he was, drowned knee-deep in the very mess Nick had wished to spare him from.

The realization made Vash's fingers tremble, but he tightly balled his hands into fists, containing the quivering inside. Did Nick despise him for the actions he had undertaken in the name of honoring his memory? It seemed likely. Look at him. He had not only caused harm in the earthly realm but somehow found a way to cause pain to someone on the other side—somewhere Nick used to call Eden.

Despite his lack of belief in heaven or any existence beyond, a flicker of hope persisted within him, for he wished for its reality because, in such a place, Nick would find unbridled happiness. A happiness that surpassed what he could ever offer. Even though he wouldn't be able to meet him there.

Thieves Don't go to heaven. The teachers had taught him.

And he was a thief. He had stolen Wolfwood's name and besmirched it with his own misdeeds.

Vash released a worn-out sigh and thought tears streaked down his cheeks, but he wasn't crying.

He was just tired.

Something was missing. Or rather, someone. His beloved. His demise. His alibi.

Emptiness consumed him like there was nothing inside of him but this broken heart, the only organ left in this hollow shell. The echoes of screams reverberated within him. He felt the thumping resonating throughout his skeleton.

He had a heart, claimed science, but he was a monster, said everybody—including you. And he knew it all too well. He knew what he'd done. He wasn't asking for sympathy. But could it be possible that you were mistaken? For if he truly were a monster, wouldn't Nick know it? Then why he used to call him his angel…

Yes. He was angry and vicious and vengeful, familiar with blind rage and bloodlust and a need for vindication. But what about the hatred that was like poison, an unrelenting punch to the gut, an injustice that had been injected directly into his bloodstream and had paralyzed him from the inside? It stifled his breath and stuffed itself into his clothes, gradually decaying him in the shadows of his own hatred.

He didn't know what he was or what he might be. However, he knew he would never want to hurt Nick. Never. Ever. Never, ever again.

He was tired—so utterly tired that he wanted to forget he wasn't allowed to wish for things anymore, and he found himself wishing for one thing that would dispel the grip of his hatred: a friend.

You a child, Tongari? Why do you need a friend? You have me. Am I not enough for you? Oh, right. I am dead, because you couldn't save me.

Rising to his feet, Vash paid no attention to Bradd's presence, his focus fully consumed by his inner turmoil, as he walked toward the door, paying no heed to anything.

"Thank you," Vash uttered, pausing in the doorway, his voice saturated with self-reproach. "I'll handle it. Don't worry." He turned his head toward Bradd, wearing a blank stare with a hint of a smile that didn't reach his eyes, instead like a vat of acid seeped into his skin. Then he disappeared in the corridor, but a subtle but palpable piece of hatred seemed to detach from him and fell silently on the floor.

*

Sadness was a strange sort of thing.

It stealthily approached, silent and motionless, taking its place beside you in the darkness, gently caressing your hair as you slumbered. It enveloped your very being, squeezing so tightly that breathing became arduous. It planted lies in your heart and nestled beside you at night, draining light from every crevice. It remained a steadfast companion, holding your hand only to forcefully pull you down when you attempted to rise.

It'd been over four days since Vash was here.

After he left your room and your screams settled down, you huddled in a corner, contemplating your very existence. Sleep eluded you during the night, and all awake, you doubted. You doubted. You doubted.

Did you?

Didn't you?

Should you?

Why wouldn't you?

Even when you felt prepared to release its grip, break free, and be brand-new, sadness stayed with you as an old friend. It stood beside you in the mirror, locking its eyes with yours, daring you to live without it. You couldn't find the words to fight yourself, to fight the words screaming that you wouldn't be free, never free, never ever free from it.  

Sometimes, it just wouldn't let go.

Just like Vash.

"How're you doing?"

Your eyes blinked rapidly, and a gasp escaped your lips as you squinted at his stature. There he stood, in a snug purple shirt, paired with his usual dark pants and meticulously spiked blond hair. Today, however, he had decided to forgo his usual accessories—no holster, no arm garter, or any visible indication of weaponry. Perhaps he believed he wouldn't need them facing a broken person like you.

Sadly, he was right.

Vash whisked into the room like he treaded air for a living. No one accompanied him. "You look lovely," he complimented.

Sitting on your bed, wearing an old, plane shirt and pants of Gods know who, you had leaned against the headboard; your exhaustion and the toll of sleepless nights evident in the dark circles that marred the delicate skin under your eyes. Your hair, disheveled and untamed, cascaded in disarray, its strands haphazardly draping across your face, mirroring the neglect you had endured. Wrapped loosely around your waist, a blanket served as a feeble shield against the chill that permeated the room. Vulnerable. Miserable. Far from anything that could be described as lovely. Fuck you!

"Hey," he said pleasantly. You could tell he was trying to insert warmth into his presence, but it felt like sticking your hand into a fireplace that hadn't been used in centuries.

Closing the gulf, he moved closer, his woodsy cologne enveloping your senses as he intruded upon your space. You wanted to tell him to get the fuck out of your no-no square, but you couldn't imagine that going over well. You had learned your lesson. Yet, try as you might, you couldn't stop your limbs from stiffening and your shoulders from hiking up an inch. Your fingers twitched with the need to curl into fists, but you refrained from doing it, too.

Contrary to your expectations, he maintained a noticeable distance as he settled into a seat beside you, leaning against the headboard. His body heat would do more for you than the blanket ever could, but his shoulders were too far. Sadly. And it caused something in your joints to ache with an acute yearning, a desperate craving you'd never permit yourself to indulge. Traitor stupid body.

He glanced at you, and you rolled it into a little ball in defense. "Is it too cold in here? I can tell them to adjust the temperature if you want."

You turned to meet his eyes with anger and regret it immediately. There were less than 4 feet between you, and you couldn't move because, in his presence, your body only knew how to freeze. Every muscle and every movement became tense as if encased in ice. Each vertebra in your spine felt like a frozen block. You held your breath, your eyes widening, locked, and caught in the intensity of his gaze. You couldn't tear your eyes away. You didn't know how to retreat.

Oh. Gods.

His eyes.

The blue moons in his eyes were shimmering with an emotion you couldn't put your finger on. Only when he averted his gaze did you realize he looked sad. Melancholic. And you wanted to know why, as if somehow his suffering might offer peace to yours. Yet, the words remained trapped within your throat, unwilling to escape for fear of the consequences that may follow.

In a cautious, subdued tone, he uttered, "You don't want to talk to me." You fought to catch your breath. "It's understandable," he added, his voice tinged with resignation. "It's fair," he continued. "I wouldn't stand myself if I could." He dropped his voice. Dropped his eyes.

You turned your head, drawing the blanket tightly around your shoulders until you were cocooned in the tremors that wouldn't stop terrorizing your body. His presence reignited the trauma you had endured, unleashing a torrent of distressing memories. You couldn't make yourself still. It felt like shards of ice were cutting through your skin, horror clotting your veins. Clutching the blanket with a tight grip, you feared it might unravel.

Just as you were about to stand up with the intention of seeking solace in the bathroom, his voice reached your ears, causing you to pause.

"Don't go," he whispered, eyes on you. "Please," he said. "Sit here. Stay with me. You don't even have to say anything."

Some crazed, confused part of your mind entertained the thought of sitting beside him, itching to be close to him. It was as if a connection had been forged between you, born out of shared pain and despair, and the further you distanced yourself from him, the more this bond felt strained, provoking a deeper ache within you.

You must be insane. Still, you remained rooted in your position, perched at the edge of the bed. However, you chose to turn your back on him.

This time, you wouldn't let him—

His hand was suddenly on your back.

You flinched.

But as his touch seared through the layers of fabric, a scorching heat consumed your skin, causing you to inhale frantically as if your lungs had temporarily failed. You were caught in colliding currents of confusion, so desperate, so desperate, so desperate to be close. So desperate to be far away. You didn't know how to move away from him. For fuck's sake. You didn't want to move away from him. You didn't want him to know you were afraid of him.

He whispered your name, his voice hoarse yet so soft. His arms were stronger than all the bones in your body. He pulled your swaddled figure close to his chest, and you shattered into countless fragments of raw emotion, each piece piercing your heart. And amidst the shards of pain, a transformation occurred. The fragments melted into drops of warm honey, their soothing touch caressing the scars etched upon your soul, scars that he himself had bestowed upon you.

The only barrier between you was the blanket, and he tugged you closer, tighter, stronger until you could hear him whispering soothing notes of a melody near your ear. Familiar one. You had heard them echoing through time. However, like trying to grasp the sun through water, the memory associated with them remained out of reach.

Then, he touched your hair.

Your lips tightened, your eyes closing on their own. You were too tired, too weak to resist. You walked into this house with your fire lit, and within a mere two months, the proverbial fingers had pinched the flame, leaving only a trail of smoke behind.

His hands, encased in gloves, tenderly glided through your hair, his soft touch reminiscent of a child playfully engaging with a cherished doll. Each stroke of his fingertips traced delicate routes, leaving a lingering warmth in their wake. Your lips trembled, your heart heavy as you struggled to comprehend the enigma. Why was he doing this to you?

He carefully gathered your hair, and you nearly choked when he began braiding it. How the fuck! He skillfully wove the strands together with each precise movement, creating an intricately crafted braid. Leaning over, he reached for a wristband from the nightstand and gently secured the end of the braid with it. The sheer disbelief of the situation tempted you to twist around like a dog chasing its tail, wanting to witness this surreal scene with your own eyes. However, you resisted the urge, choosing to remain still.

Bastard of a man.

There was no denying that he could be a great father one day, but given the tumultuous life he led, luckily, he would never live that much, and even though the thought scared you, there was a part of you that wanted to have the privilege of seeing his miserable end.

Or at least, you believed you desired it.

The beats humming deep within his chest and the steel of his scent around your body severed ties to tension in your limbs. His warmth dissolved the icicle barriers that had kept you suspended, causing you to thaw from the inside out. As your eyes fluttered rapidly, they eventually succumbed to the moment's weight, closing shut and allowing silent tears to stream down your face. Why weren't you screaming? Why were you letting him have his way with you? You didn't know.

"It's okay," he whispered. "You'll be okay."

Unspoken between you was the understanding that truth, an unforgiving and possessive mistress, never granted respite. Being "okay" was an elusive concept, forever out of reach. His actions to you left an indelible mark, ensuring that you would never fully recover.

You felt a swelling in your throat as you mustered the strength to mutter, "You ruined my life."

With agony all around, you sobbed, and he didn't do anything to calm you. He just remained ominously silent. He didn't say a single thing as you hurled awful, horrible insults at him and accused him of being too coldhearted to understand what it was like to grieve. You didn't even realize he'd turned you toward himself and had pulled you into his arms until you were nestled against his chest, and … you didn't object. You didn't fight it at all. You clung to him because you needed this warmth. Because it was painfully familiar. Because you'd missed feeling strong arms around you. And he just held you. He smoothed back your hair and ran a gentle hand down your back, and you heard his heart beat a strange, crazy beat that sounded far too fast to be human. His arms were wrapped entirely around you—a refuge and trap.

It took every broken filament in your being to untangle yourself from his embrace. It was painful, but you did it because you knew it was necessary, that it was for your own well-being. Each step you took felt like invisible forks pierced your heart, causing you to stumble in your retreat. The blanket snagged your foot, nearly causing you to lose your balance, but just before you fell, Vash reached out to you.

"Love—"

"Don't call me that!" Your breaths were shallow and difficult to swallow, your fingers trembling uncontrollably. "Just don't." Your eyes were trained on the door. His hand extended towards your arm as he rose to his feet, but you pulled away and walked resolutely in the opposite direction.

His unwavering gaze fixated upon you. Unblinking. His eyes traced a path from your face, down your neck, and along your arms, until they halted at your waist. You instinctively followed his stare, only to discover that your movements had lifted your shirt, revealing your stomach. And you suddenly understood why he was staring. The memory of his kisses trailing along your scars, his hands exploring your waist, your bare legs, the insides of your thighs, his gun sliding in your—

You found yourself clenching your fists tightly, willing the physical pain to distract from the memories carved in your mind. You didn't want to remember. You didn't want to think about those things anymore.

"I'm not going to hurt you—"

"Stop lying to me." Your voice was even, flat; your limbs numb, amputated. "If you're here to take it out on me, just do it already. Don't sugarcoat your torture. Don't play games. Just do it and then walk the fuck out."

Through clenched teeth, he responded, "I'm not here for that."

"Then why are you here?" you asked carefully, slowly.

"Can you sit—"

"If you're not here to torture me, then just go. I have nothing to talk to you." The wounds were still fresh. No need to rub salt into them.

You heard his hard exhalation of breath. He laughed a bitter laugh. "Practically, I'm the only one visiting you, and you want to shut me out?"

You closed your eyes and took a deliberate breath. With a composed tone, you responded, "Yes."

He advanced a few steps in your direction, causing fear to surge through you. In a panic, you screamed, "Don't come any closer! Don't touch me!"

A few seconds of silence joined the conversation. Then, breaking the stillness, he uttered wickedly, "Maybe I want to touch you."

Feelings of disbelief tore through your heart like hole punches, leaving behind a painful void. Temptation whispered in your ear, deceiving you to embrace recklessness, to give in to the aching desperation for something you knew you could never have. In an act of self-preservation, you turned your back on him, hoping to shield yourself from your swirling emotions and let lies spill out of your lips. "I don't want you to."

He made a harsh sound. "I disgust you that much?"

Caught off guard by his audacity, you swiftly spun around, almost forgetting your composed demeanor. His dark ocean eyes didn't leave you, his face hardened, and his jaw clenched. His fingers flexed by his sides. As you looked at him, his gaze pierced through you like two buckets of rainwater—deep, fresh, and clear, brimming with hurt.

"You... you traumatized me!" The words escaped your lips, laden with pain.

He tilted his head, his voice sharp with a hint of sarcasm. "Only because I used a gun to make you come, not to make you bleed,"  he snipped.

You snarled, determined to reject his attempt to minimize the impact of his actions. However, his expression shifted, his posture straightening as he spoke with a hint of remorse. "If I possessed the power of magic and could turn back time, I'd do many things differently," he admitted. "But I must inform you that I lack such ability."

You tightened your lips at the condescension in his tone. "I cannot erase or undo the past." Ignoring your request, he did come closer, crowding you against the wall. He inclined his head, bringing his forehead into gentle contact with yours, the tips of your noses brushing lightly. "Let me make amends," he whispered, a plea for a chance to repair the damage he had caused.

Your face was cast in a neutral mold, and your arms and legs filled with plaster. You felt nothing. You were nothing. You were empty of everything. In every sense. You would never move. You were staring at your toes. You'd stare at it forever. Lost in your thoughts, you lacked the will to fight when he gently tipped your chin upward, his finger guiding your gaze toward him.

He was…he was…

His eyes and lips blurred and faded into insignificance; you subconsciously reached out, grasping his arm for support. The outside world seemed distant instantly as if transported to another dimension beyond your reach. Gradually, your eyelids grew heavy, closing in surrender. Your mind drifted, carried away by the thoughts that mercilessly kicked you in the heart.

He was fast to catch you before hitting the floor.

*

The ceiling was fading in and out of focus.

Your head weighed heavily upon your neck, causing a haze to settle over your vision. Your heart labored, burdened with the strain of unease. A distinct taste of panic lingered somewhere beneath your tongue, evoking a sense of urgency and fear you were fighting to remember where it came from. In a bid to regain control, you made an effort to sit up, only to be confounded by the fact that you found yourself lying down.

A pair of hands rested gently on your shoulders.

"Are you okay?"

Vash peered down at you. In that instant, a rush of flashbacks flared within your eyes, causing them to blaze intensely. Fucking hell! You had fallen into his arms. For the second time. "Well, at least you're awake," he sighed. "You had me worried."

You tried to control your trembling limbs. "Get your hands off of me."

Vash erupted into a boisterous, full-bodied laugh, shook his head, and smiled at you in the way you'd only ever seen once before, looking at you like you were the sweetest thing he'd ever decided to eat.

Those dimples.

He laughed and laughed and laughed, his eyes brilliant, gleaming even in this dim light. He laughed until it was just a hard breath until it became a gentle sigh and dissolved into an amused smile. And then he grinned at you until he was grinning to himself. His eyes shifted downward, drawn to your hand, which lay limp at your side. He hesitated a bit before his fingers delicately brushed the soft, thin skin covering your knuckles.

You didn't breathe. You didn't speak. You didn't even move. He was cautious, waiting to see if you'd pull away—an action you knew you should take. You knew you should, but you didn't. So he took your hand, studied it, and ran his fingers along the lines of your palm, the creases at your joints, the sensitive spot between your thumb and index finger. His touch was so tender, so delicate, and gentle, and it felt so good it hurt; it actually hurt. It was too much for your heart to handle right now.

You snatched back your hand in a jerky, awkward motion, face flushing, pulse tripping.

Vash remained unfazed, showing no signs of flinching. He didn't look up. He didn't even seem surprised. He only stared at his now empty hands.

"Leave me alone," you managed to utter. You were shaking and trying to push the tears back but shrinking into nothingness. Because you were thinking this must be it. This must be your ultimate retribution, a punishment you probably deserved. "I hate you—"

"So much passion." He looked so calm, so genuinely amused. He stared at you with eyes softer than you ever expected them to be. He took a shallow breath and leaned closer, his face shrouded in shadow. Uncertainty gripped you, leaving you at a loss for what to do. All you knew was that you didn't want to be alone with him. Not now, not ever again.

"I said leave me alone," you pleaded, your voice trembling. "I don't want you here. Please, just go!"

"I can't just abandon you in this state," he protested, his voice filled with genuine concern. "You look as though you've seen a ghost!"

Vash sat near you on the bed's edge, and you immediately crossed your legs to avoid touching him. "Here," he offered, extending his hand towards the plate on the nightstand. "I brought you some donuts."

As you attempted to seize the opportunity to sit up, your face unexpectedly drew close to his. Caught off guard, you inhaled sharply, causing a stifled cough to build up in your throat. His glassy blue eyes glinted and locked with yours.

He smiled.

"Are you not hungry?" His words dripped with sweetness. His gloved hand lightly grazed your wrist, evoking a visceral reaction that made you automatically recoil, almost spraining it in your haste to create distance between you.

"No, thank you." You were so hungry you could eat this room.

He licked his bottom lip into a broader smile. "Don't mistake foolishness for bravery, love. I know you haven't eaten anything in days."

Something in your patience snapped. "I'd rather die than eat any of the food in your house," you declared firmly.

"I'm happy that you're talking back again." He tilted his neck. Fucking maze of tattoos and veins. Why were you staring at them? "Are you thirsty?"

You didn't know if it was because you couldn't think straight or because you were genuinely confused, but you were struggling to reconcile the stark contrast in Vash's personality. It perplexed you that after all the crazy shits of the past weeks, he now sat before you, offering you a glass of water. What had caused this apparent change in him?

You raised your hands and examined your fingers intently as if they were foreign to you. "I don't understand."

He cocked his brows, observing you as though you might've sustained a significant head injury.

"I simply asked whether you were thirsty. It shouldn't be difficult to understand," he stated with a pause. "Drink this," he insisted.

Taking the glass into your hand, you stared at it, then shifted your attention toward him, carefully examining his face before your eyes wandered around the room, tracing the lines of the walls and the network of pipes. You must be insane.

Vash sighed. "I'm not sure, but I think you fainted. And I think you should probably eat something, though I'm not entirely sure about that, either." He paused. "You've probably starved yourself for too long. My mistake."

"What the hell do you want?"

He evaded the question, diverting his response. "I usually eat alone," Vash said, his voice cutting through the layers of your resistance like a sharp spear. "But I've come to the conclusion you and I should be more thoroughly acquainted, considering the significant amount of time we'll be spending together."

"I told you I am not hungry."

"This is not an option, love." You looked at him and realized he was very, very serious. "You're not permitted to starve yourself to death. You don't eat enough, and I need you to be healthy. You are forbidden from engaging in self-destructive behavior or causing harm to yourself. You're too valuable to me."

"I am not your slave to order around," you retorted. He abruptly set the plate down on the nightstand, and you were taken aback by the fact that it didn't shatter upon impact. Coming closer, he cleared his throat, a gesture that scared you.

"This process can be so much easier if you simply cooperate," he said, enunciating each word precisely. A hint of amusement played on his lips as he continued, "Out of all people on this planet, you're stuck with me." He allowed a momentary pause. "Everyone you've ever known has forsaken you. Where is your sister, I wonder? You would go to great lengths to protect her, yet she hasn't even filed a missing person's report for you. You know why? Because she doesn't even know you've been kidnapped. Not only your father hasn't filled her in, but she hasn't even suspected why the fuck your phone has remained off throughout this whole ordeal. I don't know. Maybe she knows about your situation, and your father is preventing her from taking any action. I cannot say for certain, but don't try to convince me that she was incapable of going to a police station for her beloved sister. At the same time, you chose to wiggle beneath me to safeguard her ass from any hypothetical harm. Wake up and face the truth, love: Your so-called friends have also abandoned you to rot here."

A hundred hands slapped your face. There was nothing left. You'd never expected anything from your friends based on their fear of your father, but now you realized that somewhere, deep within, you had been nurturing a small glimmer of hope that Amelia would somehow find a way to help you. Somewhere, deep down, you were still clinging to possibility.

And now that was gone, too.

"And yet—" He laughed openly now. "You persist in making me the bad guy." He met your eyes. "I'm trying to help you. I'm giving you an opportunity no one would ever offer you. I'm willing to give you the power to take your revenge. You and I can make your father suffer for what he did to you, to me. So, I ask you, why do you hesitate?"

He was wrong. He was so wrong. He was more wrong than an upside-down rainbow. But everything he said was right.

Drawing in slightly, he spoke, "Let's assume I really am a monster, but don't dare to hate me so quickly," he continued. "You might enjoy this situation much more than you anticipated. Fortunately for you, I am willing to be patient." He grinned, leaning back again, and added, "Although it certainly doesn't hurt that you have a pretty face."

You were dripping shame on the sheets. An unwelcome stain. He was a liar and a horrible, horrible, horrible human being, and you didn't know if you cared because he was right, or because it was so wrong, or because you were so desperate for semblance of something in this fucked up situation.

"You and I are not as different as you would like to believe," he proclaimed, his grin so cocky it stirred an urge within you to twist it with your fist.

"You and I are not as similar as you might wish," you spat, your nails piercing into the flesh of your palm.

"You're far more stubborn than I thought you'd be, love."

"I did whatever you asked me. I didn't kill myself!" you asserted, lifting your eyes to face his unwavering stare. You were suddenly startled by the immense power his gaze held.

"You didn't do that for me. You did it for that pathetic sister of yours," he said quietly. Bitterly.

You nearly laughed out loud as you looked away. "Why are you even here? You haven't answered me yet." Your tone was like a raining venom.

"I won't answer your question if you won't look at me when I speak to you."

You turned your head but still refused to face him directly. "You murdered people and made me watch their deaths. You tortured me. You humiliated me." Swallowing hard, you continued, "The very sight of you sickens me." Inhaling sharply, your nostrils flared as you struggled to contain your emotions.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

A slow, unsettling smile crept across his face. He touched his gloved fingers to your cheek and tilted your head up, catching your chin in his grip when you flinched away. "You're absolutely delicious when you're angry."

He bit his bottom lip, and you anchored your hands to prevent yourself from falling onto the bed. You knew if it happened, he would be on top of you again, and the thought left you breathless, unsure of your desires. "Too bad my taste is poisonous for your palate." You were vibrating in disgust from head to toe.

"Who says that?" he mimicked, feigning a pout. "I happen to think you taste like honey, and I just so happen to have a sweet tooth."

"You're sick, you're so sick—"

He laughed and released your chin only to take inventory of your throat. His eyes drew a lazy trail down the length of your face. He wasn't squeezing enough to choke you, but you wouldn't forgive yourself if you allowed him to force anything upon you again.

You curled your fist and swung it back into his face; without hesitation, you drove your elbow forcefully into his nose. His head jerked back just in time, your elbow striking true but hardly enough to be gifted with a bloody nose. He let go, granting you a renewed sense of liberation, and it felt like you could finally breathe.

He chuckled, deep and low, as he withdrew. The bastard didn't look the least bit ruffled, but you chose not to dwell on that.

"There you go. That was really good, love." He couldn't contain the emotion in his fucking face. Pride. Amusement and something more profound and far beautiful than the shade of his eyes.

"Finally!" Vash clasped his hands together as if to congratulate himself. "I was wondering when you gonna strike back again. I've been waiting for the fire I know must be eating away at you. Savage little mouse, you're buried in hatred, aren't you? Anger? Frustration? Itching to do something?"

"No."

"Of course you are," he affirmed, a knowing glint in his eyes. "You're just like me."

"I hate you more than you could ever comprehend," you declared, distancing yourself from him both physically and emotionally.

He brought himself close to you as if he was drawn to you like a magnet, only capable of maintaining a significant space between you. "We'll make an exceptional team."

"We're nothing. You are nothing to me!" With each harsh syllable, you spat out the words, anger dripping from your every utterance.

With a smile gracing his lips, slowly, deliberately, he peeled off his gloves, revealing each finger with a measured slowness. Despite the simplicity of the act, it stirred something within you. They were just hands, nothing more, and yet you sensed a profound meaning behind his gesture.

It was as if he intended to convey that he was willing to set aside the hatred that had once consumed him, symbolically shedding the layers of hatred.

Entranced by the unfolding scene, you watched as his hands tenderly cupped your cheeks, causing a wave of fear to ripple through you. However, to your astonishment, his touch inexplicably brought forth an unexpected sense of tranquility instead of intensifying your apprehension. A fleeting stillness settled over you as you realized this was the first time you had physically felt the warmth and touch of his hands upon your skin.

And they weren't soft as hands of a boy. He had the rough hands of a man. The gentle touch of an illicit affair. Gone was the man with guns and bullets. These hands treasuring you couldn't have held a weapon, couldn't have spilled any blood. They were perfect and kind, never touched by death.

Your gaze wandered, fixating on the stitch on his right thumb, an unspoken testament to a past injury. Questions swirled in your mind, wondering why someone had attempted to cut his finger in such a way. A glimpse of a black tattoo peeked out from beneath his sleeve's edge.

His lips hovered dangerously close to yours, causing you to gulp and grip his wrists, trying to stop him. Suddenly, he jerked, and your fingers inadvertently brushed against the remnants of old scars on his left wrist. Horizontal and straight scratches. Not one. Not two. Too many.

He had cut his wrist.

Confusion furrowed your brow as you wrestled with the heaviness of these newfound revelations. How many untold stories remained shrouded beneath the layers of fabric that cloaked his past? Who was he? Why… Questions you would never ask.

Your eyes willingly remained locked onto his, unable to look away. The pain had sculptured him into the person he had become, and his sharp edges had not only wounded others but gifted the deepest cuts upon himself.

What a divine disaster.

"Dear, sweet, beautiful girl," he murmured, a mixture of awe and curiosity. "How did you endure it all and retain more of your humanity than I did?" His scarred thumb brushed your jawline. "You really have become a crybaby, love. You're pitying me, aren't you? Don't you think that, do you?"

You checked your pockets for spare words and sentences, but you found none, not an adverb, not a preposition, or even a dangling participle because there didn't exist a single response to such an outlandish question.

As his left hand let go of your cheek, a chill replaced the warmth, prompting a desire to protest. You were surprised how you were getting used to his touch this quickly.

He picked up one of the donuts from the plate and held it under your nose. "You hardly have eaten anything in the last four days. That can't possibly be good."

You remained silent, not opening your mouth. He let out a sigh, his gaze studying your eyes with such intensity that it momentarily disarmed you. The words you wanted to say and scream seemed to have slipped away, leaving you bare before him. "You're going to eat, and then we'll talk," he stated firmly, his turquoise eyes never abandoning yours.

"Worried that I've poisoned the food?" he said, chuckling. It wasn't the reason you didn't eat, but you watched as he took a bite of the donut, swallowing it without even chewing. Then, with a contented glimmer forming in the corners of his eyes, he turned the donut towards you, right where he had taken a bite himself. "If it didn't kill me, it won't harm you either."

When you still resisted eating, his other hand shifted from your cheek to your nape, gripping it firmly. "We're not playing house, love," he stated with a hint of frustration, pulling your hair back slightly. "If you want answers, you'll have to eat." He held the donut close to your lips again while his thumb caressed your earlobe.

Stubbornness began to feel futile, a foolish endeavor. You knew you were never destined to win against him anyway. Swallowing your pride, you reluctantly took a small bite of the donut, and as you did, you noticed a smile forming on his lips.

"How is it?" he asked, his enthusiasm unwarranted. "Is it to your liking?"

You nodded, not deceiving him. The donut honestly tasted incredible; whether due to your hunger or not, it didn't matter. Ignoring any reservations, you reached up and took the donut from his hand, taking a larger bite this time.

He leaned back and watched you eat. The scrutiny made you uncomfortable, particularly when it came to eating, but he had made it his mission to challenge all of your boundaries. Protesting was pointless. He placed the plate with two more donuts in front of you. "I can bring more if you want. You just need to ask, but I think eating light foods is better for now. Your stomach might hurt."

As you glanced at him while picking up the second donut, a serene smile graced his face, but his blue eyes were still missing their sparkle. The baby blue color was lifeless; it was your first clue that something had broken within him, too, since your last encounter.

"Do you have any particular meal in mind?" he inquired, his eyes widening as you picked up the third donut, but then they turned wary and resigned as if this had reminded him of something he no longer had. Sorrow lined the edges of his lids, and the sight would forever haunt you.

You shook your head as a no. To be frank, you could devour an elephant at that very time.

He grabbed a napkin and gently wiped the corner of your mouth. It should have disturbed you, but if he was willing to clean up the mess he had made of you, you wanted to watch him try. It seemed like a win-win situation for both of you.

With his defenses now down, you resolved to take every chance. "Let me go," you said, the words running out of your mouth before you had a chance to choose them carefully.

"No." Except for the sadness in his tone, his voice didn't falter. He let out a weary sigh and lowered his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that. Ask me anything but not that."

Your lips filled with a touch of frustration, and you asked, "Why not?"

"Because I can't. I just..." he trailed off, clenching the napkin as he tugged at his fingers, clearly struggling to find the right words. He cleared his throat, briefly averting his gaze to the ceiling before meeting your eyes again. "Because I need you."

"You need me for your grand revenge!" you exclaimed, stopping eating.

"Don't you want it, too?" he asked, tilting his head.

"How dare you—"

He burst into laughter, the sound resonating loudly. "You're free to lie to yourself if it makes you feel better."

Your hands started shaking, and you gripped them tightly, trying to steady yourself. "You don't know anything about me."

"I have a ledger binder filled with your info. I know everything there is to know, love," he retorted. Smug asshole.

You clenched your jaw, not trusting yourself to speak. Instead, you slammed the half-eaten donut back onto the plate. Dropping your head into your hands, you tried to stay calm. Took a steadying breath.

"At the very least," you gasped, the words catching in your throat like a thorn. It was hard to believe what you were about to say. "Allow me to leave this room. I don't want to spend all my hours trapped here."

"If I let you out, what will you do for me?" His eyes were deceitful.

"Nothing."

He shook his head. Your response was not satisfactory to him. "That won't do. I may consider your proposition only if you agree to a condition."

You clutched the sheets tightly with your fist, bracing yourself for his reply. "What do you want?"

The smile grew more prominent than before. "That's a dangerous question," he said, a hint of intrigue and mischief in his tone.

"What's your condition?" you clarified, impatient. Motherfucker!

"Be my friend."

"WHAT?" Your gasp was so loud it caught in your throat before racing around the room.

"I want you to be my friend," he reiterated, his voice steady, his eyebrows taut, tense.

"I don't want to be your fuckbuddy!" You exploded. "I won't let you—"

"Screw sex," he spat. "I want you to be my friend—a genuine friendship—"

"No—" you protested, vigorously shaking your head; it left you feeling dizzy. "No. Never. You're crazy—I won't—" Your words stumbled and collided as you struggled to articulate your refusal.

"You will, actually."

"I will NOT—" you vehemently declared, but he glared at you. There was no other way to describe it. You could almost say he hated you right now. Hated you for denying yourself this opportunity.

"We have to … work … at one point or another," he stated, making an effort to moderate his voice. "Even if you were to reject my condition, I still have a reason to justify keeping you alive, love. Originally, you were kidnapped so I could end your life and deliver your deceased body to Gasback. But as you already know, a change in the plans has occurred. I require another purpose: for you to become my ally," he explained.

"You expect me not only to remain here but also to help you in your twisted schemes? Are you—"

"Yes," he replied, a smile spreading across his face. "Forgive me if I'm being direct, but you made it clear that you're a big girl and don't require me to sugarcoat stuff for you."

"You—you—" you sputtered.

"You have a debt to repay. After all, I played a part in rescuing you from that man you call a father and the other psycho I used to call my brother," he asserted and set his gaze at you. "Maybe I understand you, love. Maybe it's time for you to place your trust in me. Maybe you should come to terms with the fact that I am now your savior."

He looked at you, and for a moment, he seemed almost human. For a moment, you wanted to believe him. For a moment, you wanted to sit on the floor and cry out the ocean lodged in your throat.

"Love," he whispered, his hands tenderly grasping your shoulders. "You don't have to pretend to be nice anymore. You have the power to bring him down for all the pain he has caused to you, your mother, and—"

"I don't want to bring down anyone," you told him firmly. "I don't desire to hurt—"

"But he deserves it!" he exclaimed, pushing away from you with frustration evident in his actions. "How can you not want to retaliate? How can you not feel the urge to fight back—"

You moved aside, gradually rising to your feet, shaking with anger. You desperately hoped that your legs wouldn't collapse beneath you. You walked away from bed. From him. "You think because I am unwanted, neglected and —and discarded—" Your voice rose with each word, the raw emotions suddenly pouring out of you, unleashed from your lungs. "You think I don't have a heart? You think I don't feel? You think because I have a chance to deliver pain, that I should? You're no different than him. This suffering will never end—"

"Love—"

"No."

You didn't want this. You didn't want this life. You didn't want to be anything for anyone but yourself. You wanted to make your own choices and never wanted to choose violence. Your words were slow and steady when you spoke. "He's a despicable man, and I am sorry for what he's done to you and others. I really am, but I can't help you take his life."

He opened his mouth to speak before he stopped; he laughed out loud and shook his head. Then he smiled at you.

"What?" you asked before you could stop yourself.

"I'm not concerned about your moral dilemmas. You're just stalling for time because you're in denial due to your reluctance to face the truth," he asserted. "But rest assured, You'll get over it. I can wait a little longer."

"I'm not in denial—"

"Of course you are. You don't know it yet, love, but you are a very naughty girl," he said, clutching his heart. "Just my type of friend."

This conversation had become intolerable. Your blood pressure rose, and you struggled to suppress your growing anger. "How can you possibly expect me to be your friend after everything you have done? Are you nuts?"

The surprise on his face surprised you even more. His eyes were fighting his lips for the right to speak. "I didn't do anything against your free will—"

"YOU LEFT ME WITH NO CHOICE." You were about to grab and throw the water glass at his face.

Vash turned away from you, his profile now in view. His hands clasped together, he seemed to be deep in thought, tapping the tip of his fingers to his lips. "For that, I apologize," he uttered, tilting his head back just a little. "You must understand just how sincerely sorry I am that I—" He smiled a strange, unhappy smile. "That I treated you like that. I confess I had no idea you would shoot me for it."

"I didn't," you interrupted, your voice firm and resolute. "Just stop, I don't want your excuses—"

"I promise you," he said. "I would never have acted that way if I didn't believe you wanted me to. I am a lot of things, but not that."

And you were so shocked that, for a second, you forgot all about everything. You met his heavy gaze and managed to steady your voice. "I told you not to touch me!"

"Yes," he replied, nodding in acknowledgment. "Well. You'd be surprised how many people lie to me daily." His lips twitched. "And in response, you tried to kill me."

"That amuses you."

"Oh, yes," he said, his grin growing. "I find it fascinating." He allowed a brief pause to hang in the air before continuing. "Would you like to know why?" You stared at him. "Because all you ever said to me," he explained, "was that you didn't want to hurt anyone. You didn't want revenge."

"I don't."

"Except for me?" he questioned. He looked like a balloon that fell in love with a pushpin that got too close and ruined him forever.

There was glue all over your tongue, stuck to your teeth, your lips, the roof of your mouth. You couldn't speak, you couldn't move, you were pretty sure you just had a seizure or an aneurysm or heart failure or something equally as awful, but you couldn't explain any of this to him because you couldn't move your jaw even an inch.

"That decision was so easy for you to make," he said. "So simple. You had a gun, you wanted to escape, and you pulled the trigger—four times. That was all it took."

You shook your head.

But you were a liar. You were lying through your teeth, but you had to because he was right. Because despite repeatedly assuring yourself you had no interest in hurting people, you somehow found a way to justify it, to rationalize it when it served your desires.

Vash. Doctor Conrad. That man named Steve.

You wanted to kill every single one of them. And you would have executed them if the universe hadn't cooked your goose.

What was happening to you?

You shouldn't be alone with Vash. Not like this. Being alone with him was making your insides hurt in ways you didn't want to understand.

You leaned your back against the wall, slowly lowering yourself to the floor. With your knees drawn up to your chest, you wrapped your arms around them.

"You have every right to feel angry and frustrated about your situation. Even being angry with me for kidnapping you is valid. Life strips you of power often, but what you can control is pointing the blame in the right direction. So, you can either redirect all the effort you've been putting into acting like a brat and channel it towards something useful, or you can continue to be powerless in the situations life throws you in. The decision is yours to make, love. Because I will no longer force you into anything."

You had completely forgotten what it felt like to be chastised like a child. Your father did it often, but considering that was all he'd ever done, it felt less like being scolded and more like a normal conversation. But now? You felt nothing but small and bent out of shape like a piece of paper wadded up in Vash's boots. Pride bucked against that feeling, and you wanted nothing more than to snap something clever back and hold on to your dignity. But you would only prove him right. He'd look at you with superiority, and you'd only shrink further beneath him.

But to your surprise, he sat up and crouched down before you. Bringing himself to your level, not leaving you to roll in the deep all by yourself. Lowering his body, you noticed a bruise starting to form under his eye. Oddly enough, it just made him look sexier, and you wanted to punch him in the face for the tenth time all over again for it.

"What changed your attitude toward me?"

Seated on the floor, he positioned himself with his legs partially spread before you, resting his elbows on his knees. His head dipped, and his voice came out as a whisper, "Nick." You couldn't help but notice his hand reaching for his left wrist, where he clasped his scars with his palm. "He made me reconsider," he confessed, a fleeting smile briefly gracing his face before vanishing.

You froze. Faltered. Failed to breathe. "How—"

"So many questions," he mused, lifting his head and meeting your gaze. You found yourself searching for answers within his eyes. You didn't know what expression you must be wearing, but his smile grew bigger, and his eyes looked at you hard, too, like he might be savoring the moment, memorizing every second of it. There was a spark of instinct urging you to trust him because you wanted to make him happy. Because if he were happy, he would let you go. Because if he let you go, you would be able to be happy. Probably.

Vash shifted so the length of his leg was pressed against yours. You forced yourself to breathe as you focused on your fingers, the non-existent ants, and the wooden floor to stop yourself from blushing or flinching. The internal struggle made it difficult to discern which reaction was more prominent.

You found yourself grappling with his proposition. "If I become your friend, will you let me go once you've accomplished whatever you want?".

He leaned his hand to his temple and stared at your lips, studying you in an entirely new way. "My promises aren't worth much, love. Or have you forgotten?" he whispered. "I'm an exceptional liar."

Realization crashed into you like pounds of common sense. You shouldn't be doing this. You shouldn't be making deals with him. It was a grave mistake. The mere thought of contemplating torture sent shockwaves of alarm through your being. Dear Gods! You'd lost your mind. Your fists were balled at your sides, and you were shaking everywhere. You could hardly find the strength to speak.

In a quiet and timid voice, you mustered the courage to ask, "Will you ever release me?"

His response came with a heavy breath, and he spoke. "Yes," he affirmed. "I promise once your father dies, you will be set free. But till that day, you'll be my guest. No harm will ever come to you." There was no regret, no remorse, no sympathy in his voice. He could be talking about the weather.

"You could be lying," you stated, searching his morals.

"Yes, it's a possibility," he admitted, his demeanor shifting back to his mischievous self. "But that's not the case." As you watched, clearly taken aback, he shaped his hand into a firm fist, his fingers curling inward. Bringing his hand closer to his face, his lips grazed against his knuckles in a fleeting and unconventional act. With a playful manner, he extended his fist toward you, tapping the tip of his boot against your leg to capture your attention.

"What're you doing?" You raised an eyebrow.

"This is our friendship fist bump," he explained cheerfully, akin to when the beast had found the beauty to lock her in his dungeon. "I'm Vash Saverem, by the way," he added, introducing himself with a touch of charm.

"Excuse me?"

"My last name," he clarified. "Nice to meet you, Miss Mcfly."

Your gaze shifted from his face to the outstretched fist, but rather than reciprocating the fist bump ceremony, you clenched your own. This shit wasn't a child play. "Don't address me by my last name, or else the deal is null and void."

"Only if you stop calling me a monster, Miss Mcfly," he responded casually, relenting and lowering his fist. Unsure of what to do with his hand, he absentmindedly brushed off imaginary dust from his pants.

“Go to hell, Vash Saverem.”

His smile was sprinkled with dynamite. "I'm working on it, love."

Taglist: @julk4e - @lune010 - @beanibon - @emptybrain01 - @changingchances @awkwardchick87

P.S.: In this chapter, I included quotes from "Bungo Stray Dogs," "Jujutsu Kaisen," and some other books I've read.

[wellnoe]

Just found your blog and am in love with your art style, especially how you draw Jean Grey! The depth of emotions I see really move me. What comics (arcs, single issues, etc.) do you recommend that feature her? Please feel free to info dump! 😄

thank you!! i'm really bad at recommending comics, but i will try. for jean.

in general i would recommend louise simonson's run on x-factor, as well as her jean grey (2023) book (though i've only read the first two issues). i really and truly think simonson is the best jean writer to ever do it. she writes jean as someone who is very kind, very committed to heroism, and very much struggling w a lot of baggage. simonson's jean has an explosive temper and is fixated on her ability, what she can and can't do. she can be mean! and condescending! but those things feel very rooted in other parts of herself, and it makes it fun to see them come to the surface. idk i can talk about jean in x-factor esp forever, but the tldr is that i think simonson does a good job of showing off jean's most negative traits in such a way that it makes sense that they live alongside her most positive traits. this is also a really good series for like. looking at the way scott and jean can suck together, and why they are both so invested in their relationship.

also you should read the original inferno bc it is really good jean and maddy material.

i also recommend uncanny x-men 261-263? these are by claremont, and are mostly about forge, but they are really interesting in how they present a) jean's relationship to the x-men and b) jean's relationship to her body (two things i love!!) they do this by giving jean tentacles, which is a very claremont thing to do.

i think the adventures of cyclops and phoenix are good, but i'm actually going to rec the further adventures of cyclops and phoenix? the pencils are by john paul leon, so the art is incredible, and you get to see scott and jean be in love on a time-travel mission together, which i think is fun. ALSO, if you read inferno like i told you to, you get to see them completely swap positions on whether to kill sinister, which i think is really interesting? to me, this swap clarifies some of jean and scott's ethics regarding killing people period, and its fun to see them clash a bit over something like this.

and that's where i'm going to end it to avoid this getting longer!!

[alfietalksaboutcomics]

Some Thoughts On Fall Of The House Of X #1

To be frank, I’m bored, I’m on break from school, and I want to write something but I have nothing that I’m particularly inspired to write about. So to sate my hunger to write I’ve decided to give some of my thoughts on this week’s only new X-Men title, the ridiculously and ill advisedly named Fall Of The House Of X #1 by Gerry Duggan and Lucas Werneck. 

I think before I cover the issue itself I have to talk about that title for a second and why I find it to be so ill advised. The title draws instant comparisons between this book and Johnathan Hickman and Pepe Larraz’s House Of X. In fact the book positions it as the conclusion of the story started by that very book. This was frankly a icarian folly. House Of X — alongside Hickman and R. B. Silva’s Powers Of X — is one of the best X-Men stories ever told, by naming the title Fall Of The House Of X you're setting up an impossible standard to reach. 

Gerry Duggan is a talented writer, he’s great at doing character driven stuff and big superheroic bombast, but frankly I don’t know if he’s equipped to go toe to toe with Hickman so to speak. Even judging the writing of this book in isolation from any comparisons I don’t think this is Duggan at his best. 

On the art front Lucas Werneck just isn’t Pepe Larraz, I like Werneck just fine and think he’s a rising star but frankly it feels like he’s still evolving as an artist and isn’t quite suited for an event book such as this. It really is a shame that Larraz didn’t return for this book because honestly, it would elevate it quite a bit in my estimation. Back onto Werneck’s work, the pencils feel oddly rushed in some places which feels odd for a event book such as this, part of the advantage of a event book as I understand it is that artists have more time to work on the art without having to worry so much about reaching a monthly deadline. All that being said the art is by no means terrible, it’s quite good in fact. But it just doesn’t feel like the right fit for the bombast this book is clearly going for. Werneck excels at character interactions as he showed time and time again in Immortal X-Men, but I’m unconvinced of his ability to do sustained bombast beyond a striking pose. 

To ramble a bit about some individual aspects of the issue, I'm not a fan of some of the costume choices, in particular Cyclops's and Wolverine's. It's pretty frustrating to see the characters put back into their Cockrum era outfits for seemingly no reason at all? don't get me wrong I love these older costumes but I wish they were finishing off Krakoa in their Krakoan costumes.

Another aspect of the issue that I have a nitpick with is Nimrod being taken out so easily. In the issue he goes to fight the island of Krakoa itself but he's taken out by some amber spit? Isn't Nimrod supposed to be this huge extensional threat to Mutantkind? It diminishes his threat when you have him taken out by tree spit.

In terms of positives I thought Polaris's new design is really great, so there is that. Like I said earlier, Werneck really excels at breathtaking poses.

[racefortheironthrone]

So weird niche question, I understand that at this point in his life, Scott is used to how he sees the world and utilizes his powers and more comfortable for him to remain as he is since it isn’t an issue per se with him anymore. But given issues with his visor or glasses getting knocked off, has he ever tried visor contacts? Or a contactless visor that he doesn’t have to hit a button to activate?

He's definitely worn a contactless visor without a button - his Revolutions era, for example.

He did use contacts briefly, but they weren't very useful so he stopped using them.

[pandoramsbox]

Sci-Fi Saturday: Invisible Agent

Week 23:

Film(s): Invisible Agent (Dir. Edwin L. Marin, 1942, USA)

Viewing Format: DVD

Date Watched: 2021-11-19

Rationale for Inclusion: 

As I wrote in my post about Dr. Cyclops (Dir. Ernest B. Schoedsack, 1940, USA) a few weeks back, most of the purer works of science fiction in the 1940s were being produced in serial or short format, whilst features were mostly horror hybrids, and frequently linked to past Universal Horror movies or adaptations of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. As a result, this post will be the last one on sci-fi films of the 1940s, and also will finally feature one of the Universal Monster sequels.

While the sequels to Frankenstein (Dir. James Whale, 1931, USA) leaned more into fantasy and horror, the sequels to The Invisible Man (Dir. James Whale, 1933, USA) showed more cross-genre compatibility. The first sequel, The Invisible Man Returns (Dir. Joe May, 1940, USA), sticks to the horror, sci-fi roots of the original with the added thriller narrative of a wrongly convicted man trying to prove his innocence of a murder. The second sequel, The Invisible Woman (Dir. A. Edward Sutherland, 1940, USA), goes the comedy route, and narratively has little to do with the prior films apart from its title. The third sequel, Invisible Agent (Dir. Edwin L. Marin, 1942, USA), puts the invisibility serum of the original film towards the war effort in a sci-fi espionage film. Two more sequels followed, The Invisible Man's Revenge (Dir. Ford Beebe, 1944, USA) and Abbott and Costello Meet the Invisible Man (Dir. Charles Lamont, 1951, USA), which were a return to horror and comedy, respectively.

For all its cultural dominance during the 1940s, World War II rarely shows up directly in feature length sci-fi films of the era. Part of that has to do with the United States' late entry into the war, but also other mediums, like comic books and radio, being the preferred showcase of spectacular worlds and technology. The novelty of its espionage plot is why, out of all the Universal Monster sequels that also fit in the sci-fi genre, I thought Invisible Agent warranted inclusion on this survey.

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Continuity within the Invisible Man series is frequently casual, since unlike the Dracula, Frankenstein and Wolfman films, no characters exist in multiple films. Invisible Agent does narratively connect back to The Invisible Man by having protagonist Frank Griffin Jr., alias Frank Raymond, (Jon Hall) be presented as the grandson of the first film's Dr. Jack Griffin, who possesses a copy of the recipe for the invisibility serum. Never mind the fact that in The Invisible Man Jack Griffin was not married, nor shown to be a philanderer, and deliberately destroyed the only existing copy of the invisibility serum formula; the filmmakers probably figured their audience would not have seen the 1933 film, or at least not recently enough for the change in continuity to be an issue.

Retroactive continuities, or as we say today "retcons", have been fixtures of popular media since popular mass media first took shape at the end of the nineteenth century, anyway. So it is safe to presume that audiences in 1942 were apt to just accept the changes with minimal reaction or thought. Increased access to past works in the post-modern, digital age have prompted a more negative response from devoted fan communities when continuity is deviated from. As a fan spoiled by access who typically watches The Invisible Man annually, I definitely responded to the retcon in Invisible Agent by thinking that it made no sense based on what was present in the original film.

However, retconning aside, having the grandson of Dr. Jack Griffin use the invisibility serum to help the United States government and Allies, instead of giving it to the Axis Powers, or maniacally sewing anarchy as a free agent with it, was the story that the era demanded. The film unfolds as a competent sci-fi, spy thriller with gimmicky yet clever effects moments to convey invisibility that were the true hallmark of the series.

The whole narrative is itself a work of Allied propaganda, but it only goes explicitly heavy handed during a speech of Griffin's whilst trying to get information out of the incarcerated Gestapo Standartenführer Karl Heiser (J. Edward Bromberg).

Given the history of German emigrants playing Nazis in American films during the war, it may be a surprise to modern audiences to discover German emigrant Peter Lorre in yellowface playing a Japanese agent, Baron Ikito. Lorre, who worked his way from France to England to America to get away from the Nazi regime as quickly as possible, had previously played Japanese detective Mr. Moto in eight films between 1937 and 1939, so audiences were accustomed to seeing him play Japanese characters. Between his experience playing Moto, and Lorre's skill as an actor, his performance of Baron Ikito is fairly neutral for a yellowface performance, albeit problematic by its very nature. 

Invisible Agent is an interesting cultural artifact. Its narrative is built on a respectable sci-fi concept and it places middle of the pack when it comes to Universal Monster sequels.

World War II and Nazis factor more deeply in later retro and period piece science fiction works than during the actual 1940s. It is somewhat disappointing, but if anything is an incentive to look more into the print offerings of the era.

Next week we move onto the 1950s: flying saucers, aliens, and all manner of atomic terrors.

[morerandombullshit]

Gambit headcanons because I'm still in denial like, a month later he's alive and well i swear

(idk the original artist so i can't credit them but DAMN he's a whore and proud not that i'm complaining, that's a veryyyyy nice view i'm getting there )

Bisexual with all-fucking-caps, leaning slightly towards guys

He's canonically a cat dad, and he'd definitely get a bunch of cats and name them after all the other X-Men minus Magneto because he's petty like that he's also still very fucking salty about Rogue and Magneto being exes

Since Cyclops has a cat allergy (at least in my mind) and is pissy about Gambit having cats, Gambit gets this cute little orange kitten he names Sativa (she got the name because Wolverine left his blunt somewhere, she got to it and consumed all the weed), puts her in Cyclops' closet with cat supplies and some weed, making his allergies act up like fucking hell

Oh, and he also left a note saying, "Enjoy the stoner cat, mon ami, she's yours now (but I will sue if you treat her badly)" for shits and giggles if Cyclops finds her

Pure Spotify addict literally me with Spotify I listen to it whenever possible, his ears are probably ruined from blasting his music so loud, but he doesn't exactly care because hello, music at full blast is better than paying attention to the real world i have mfing issues i think but oh well

His music taste is certainly something, mostly grungy rock with a little emo shit, rap and R&B mixed in, and maybe some slow, bittersweet romantic pop in between

One of his favorite songs is I Was Made For Lovin' You by KISS, he just appreciates the classic rock vibe

Though he also appreciates Dance With The Devil by Breaking Benjamin, California Love by 2Pac, Good Days by SZA and others

Best cook in the mansion—no one can dispute it, and he knows he's a great cook and he never ceases to rub it in Cyclops' face because Cyclops can't cook for shit

He's not a lightweight when it comes to alcohol, being able to put a bottle down before feeling the effects, but he's the silly drunk, stumbling around and babbling incoherently in either English or French

His favorite drink is Jim Beam's Devil's Cut, the reason behind that being the smoothness of the minty bourbon

[keepsmagnetoaway]

X-Men: The Hidden Years 10 (September 2000)

John Byrne & Tom Palmer

Enormous continuity error detected! The entire structure of this comic is falling down around its very ears! How can Jean know about Star Wars when this comic is set in 1971 or thereabouts, before Star Wars existed? CHECKMATE, JOHN BYRNE!

I mean, who cares, obviously, but these are the sorts of things you start to notice when your mind wanders from the actual plot of the comic. What happens this issue? Xavier takes Jean to see Moira McTaggert for a scan after she had her weird pre-phoenix experience in space, then makes Jean lie about it to the others because none of them yet know about Moira's existence: Magneto is revealed to be alive and recuperating: Iceman's companion in the Savage Lands is revealed (if it wasn't already obvious, which it was) to be Karl Lykos, aka Sauron, whose story is revealed in another lengthy flashback: Jean, Cyclops and Candy Southern (wearing Jean's alternate costume to disguise her identity [??]) go to look for Angel on the mysterious ship he's been trapped on for weeks: Havok, Lorna and Ka-Zar are still zooming aimlessly around some other part of the Savage Land in their flying car, which they've been doing for like three weeks now, so they have to remind us about everything they've been doing, since they show up for two panels every other issue.

This is exhausting. All of those are the B-plots to this issue: the A-plot is actually quite a good one about Xavier detecting a new mutant and going to look into it with Beast, which leads them to find a kid who's somehow keeping a Sentinel in her barn, until the appearance of Xavier and Beast sets it off again.

This is quite good! The art, the interesting possibility of a new character, the classic Sentinel-fighting. I just wish they'd let good bits like this breathe rather than hemming them in with seventeen other plot strands.

[blackmambaboobs]

Requests Are Open (Read First, Please)!

Howdy! I’m in the mood to write Reader insert stuff and wanted to let you know what I will and won't write! But first, introductions! A little bit about me: I'm Rot, 20, I use they/them pronouns and have been writing since I was young! I love to write about the fandoms I hyperfixate on and share my work with others that are into the same stuff as me! Note: I will often go without writing for weird lengths of time and that includes answering requests. This is due to my Executive Dysfunction and other mental health issues, so please be patient with me! I also like to post my drawn art on here as well from time to time!

Fandoms: ⭐ FNAF: Security Breach: Monty, Chica, Roxy, Freddy, Sundrop, Moondrop ⭐ Star Wars (The Mandalorian, The Book Of Boba Fett, Clone Wars, etc'): Boba, Paz, Fennec, Din, Plo Koon, Poe, Kylo, K2SO, Grievous, Han, Darth Maul ⭐ TF2: Engineer, Sniper, Spy, Scout, Medic, Heavy, Demoman, Soldier, Pyro, Ms. Pauling, Saxton ⭐ Transformers (TFP, TFA, Gen 1, RID2015, and MTMTE): Any ⭐ Call Of Duty: Konig, Ghost, John, Soap, Alejandro, Rudy, Gaz, Keegan, Roach, Valeria, Krueger, Graves ⭐ Overwatch (1, 2): Reaper, Sombra, Soldier 76, Tracer, Genji, Hanzo, Reinhardt, Ramattra, Zenyatta, Maximilien, Cole, Doomfist, Mauga, Lifeweaver, Mercy, Moira, Sigma, Venture, D.Va, Roadhog, Junkrat, Widowmaker, Lucio, Zarya ⭐ Poppy Playtime: Catnap, Dogday, Huggy Wuggy ⭐ Pressure: Painter, Sebastian ⭐ Marvel: Ultron, Tony, Steve, Bucky, Wanda, Natasha, Bruce, Sam Wilson, Loki, Deadpool, Logan, Colossus, Venom, Eddie, Doc Ock, The Spot (Spider-Verse), Miguel (Spider-Verse), Spider Noir (Spider-Verse), Peter B. Parker (Spider-Verse), Cable ⭐ JJBA: Jotaro (Adult only), Jonathan, Avdol, Polnareff, Holy, DIO, N'Doul, Rohan, Bruno, Abbacchio Risotto, Ghiaccio, Jolyne, Ermes, Weather Report, Anasui Monsters/Creatures: ⭐ Centaurs ⭐ Elves ⭐ Demons ⭐ Angels ⭐ Orcs ⭐ Dragons ⭐ Hybrids ⭐ Nagas ⭐ Harpies ⭐ Mermaids ⭐ Vampires ⭐ Werewolves ⭐ Cyclops ⭐ Driders ⭐ Gargoyles ⭐ Ghosts ⭐ Aliens ⭐ Robots/Androids ⭐ Shadow beings ⭐ Anything tentacle related ⭐ Dullahans ⭐ Kitsunes Will Write About: ⭐ Smut ⭐ Suggestive ⭐ Angst ⭐ Fluff ⭐ SFW ⭐ Violence/Gore ⭐ Dub-Con ⭐ Anything mental/physical health conditions or illnesses related (as long as I'm familiar with the said condition or illness) ⭐ Anything death related ⭐ Different cultures or traditions (as long as I'm familiar with said cultures or traditions, I'm not trying to stereotype or offend others in any way) ⭐ Self-harm scars ⭐ Alcohol ⭐ Drugs (Only about Weed and Shrooms) ⭐ Smoking/vaping ⭐ Anything medical related (as long as I'm familiar with it) ⭐ Group sex ⭐ A/B/O (Omegaverse) ⭐ AUs Won't Write About: ⭐ Incest/Stepcest ⭐ Rape/Non-Con ⭐ Pedophilia  ⭐ Zoophilia/Beastiality ⭐ Self-harm/Suicide  ⭐ Cheating (infidelity) ⭐ Any kinks or fetishes related to scat, urine, feet, death, vore, ageplay, or CNC ⭐ Substance abuse or addictions ⭐ Orgies ⭐ Anything Proship/comship related ⭐ Anything that encourages or agrees with illegal and/or harmful activities ⭐ OCs/FCs Note: I only do gender neutral Reader (unless you specifically request AFAB, AMAB, or Intersex) and will only do four characters at a time for multiple character headcanons! If you aren't sure if what you requested is allowed or you have questions, just ask! I'll gladly let you know! If I write about a topic or subject (medical, cultures, etc') incorrectly, please be patient with me and inform me!

[plounce]

I don't know anything about X-Men but I've been playing Marvel snap recently and it's v funny to me to check the steam discussion and the top thread is someone saying cyclops was done dirty (2 b fair he's kind of a bad card 😒) and suggesting alternate powers for him that are. Completely overpowered lol

(also side note but most of the X-Men are pretty mid tbh, tho beast is extremely good and I love him)

it's so insanely and hilariously fucked up to me that BEAST is the best xmen card. this is anti-mutant bias within marvel snap. i know we're past the 2010s when marvel was trying desperately to make all their other teams more popular than the xmen bc they dont own the x-movie rights but my conspiracy brain is stroking its chin and humming suspiciously.

anyway SO FUNNY that the beast card is the best xmen card. beast is:

1. one of the xmen who has been an avenger (🤢). like when wolverine is an avenger we roll our eyes because 1. he's pretty apolitical wrt mutant politics 2. it was marvel using one of their most popular characters to prop up avengers sales (bc pre the last 15 years nobody gave a FUUUUCK about the avengers). but HANK? okay chump go join the cops with wanda and pietro

2. one of the xmen who is a war criminal BUT HE DOESN'T EVEN HAVE ANY PUSSY OR SWAG TO JUSTIFY HIM BEING A WAR CRIMINAL like yeah jean blew up that planet of broccoli people when she was dark phoenix. WHO CARE. she has PUSSY. beast... beast has zero pussy hes like if winston from overwatch sucked. hes currently doing crazy war crimes as the head of xforce (mutant cia black ops squad) and even JEAN was like "hey dude... maybe... you shouldnt have bombed the fuck out of that central american country... not a good look" HES THE CIA INCARNATE HE SUCKS!!

3. he is THEEEE most militant follower of xavierism of the main xmen like he LOOOOOVES to be a self-hating assimilationist it's so pathetic. hes one of those centrist libs who has zero spine.

4. hes like "women dont like me because im a blue furry guy" (note that he has never dated any mutant women... weird...) MEANWHILE NIGHTCRAWLER (blue furry guy) IS DROOOOOWNINGGGGGG IN PUSSY!!!!! NIGHTCRAWLER IS LIKE SCROOGE MCDUCK BUT INSTEAD OF COINS IT'S PUSSYYYYYYYYYY.

5. right before the current krakoa era he was doing so many war crimes and unethical experiments and bad shit that the anniversary special issue of uncanny xmen (#600 iirc) was all about him waking up in the middle of the night and The Watcher standing over his bed and showing him all these beautiful alternate realities of the xmen and all their potential happiness (all done by different artists - just gorgeous stuff) and then the issue ends with the watcher going "and because YOU have fucked up SO MUCH... NONE OF THESE REALITIES EXIST ANYMORE. like THE WATCHER felt he needed to say something. the guy whose WHOLE THING is NOT INTERFERING is like "i have GOT to say something to this dude because he sucks SOOOOO MUCH."

i assume this is not what you were asking for when you dropped this ask in my inbox but tbh i don't even know what you wanted from me so this is what you are getting: MY THOUGHTS.

[bewitchingbaker]

childhood memories: 5 years old.

Chris's eyes are drawn from his guitar and to Beth at his bookshelf. A small smile spreads across his face. His collection wasn't as impressive Beth and admittedly he was a little shy about the amount of vintage shojo manga (his favorite was always Fruits Basket) that was nestled between the various superhero themed comics.

Organized in alphabetical order with not a single spine out of shape. One could easily spot rarities by the plastic book covers (he'd be damned if someone lost his signed copy of Dangerous Habits). But amidst the various novels and comics, one could spot photos from his younger years.

A photo of a teenage Chris B boy posing with Jess behind a kitchen counter could be found on the third shelf. On the third shelf near Deadpool issues, one could see Chris holding an accordion and wearing a bowling-style button-up to match the older members of the band.

But at the very top of his book shelf were two action figures.

Storm, in her 90's cartoon iteration, standing right next to the black power ranger, Zack.

Both are in mint condition, of course.

He leans up from the couch once she asks about them.

"Oh those? I'm surprised I haven't told you this story," He smiles. "Those were the from the great Friday of 2000."

A nostalgic smile spreads across his face.

"My dad was a huge comic nerd, Xmen being his favorite team cause of Storm. So when he saw the trailer for the movie, that's all he would talk about. Mom was excited but she wasn't into Storm's casting at the time and Jess wanted to see Wolverine. Now mom wanted to wait until Sunday cause...well it's a day off and she had papers to grade."

A laugh.

"But ol Kenneth Luna was not patient. So he stayed up with mom to get her student's projects graded on top of doing a top-tier performance at work. So come Friday, he picked us up at like 3 on the dot for the early afternoon showing and boy was he excited. I'll be honest, I had no idea what was going on as I was like 5. I just saw bright colors from Cyclops optic blasts and Storm flying and I was excited."

The action figure soon began to levitate around before landing in his hands.

"I think I said something like 'That's mom! that's mom!' cause she was so cool and mom thought that was the funniest thing. Once the movie was over, we went to the mall for dinner. Since the movie was out, the local toy store had all their X-men toys on display so of course I wanted one."

It isn't long before Zack floats into his hand.

"The Halle Berry action figure was cool but it wasn't as cool as this one," he says holding up Storm. "There wasn't a flowing cape, the hair and the accurate look were much better. Plus, my parents wanted me and Jess to have toys that look like us. Since my dad was hyped off seeing his favorite comic brought up, he bought me Zack and Jess a bunch of Mad Magazines. Probably explains why Jess can be a little unhinged."

He laughs before sighing.

"I know we're pushing 30 but I can't let these two go, they were my first toys from such a good day. There's no way I can get rid of them, they're just too cool."

A blush fills those chubby cheeks.

"I know it sounds a little dorky..."

[ @brooklynislandgirl ]

[the-gongoozler]

Massive Percy Jackson life randomizer

I'm in the middle of creating this huge system of probability tables that would tell you EVERYTHING about your life as though you were a character in the Percy Jackson series.

I'm creating this massive project for almost no reason while I suffer from Covid and Pneumonia and I can pretty much guarantee that no one will ever use it, but I thought I'd post about it because I'm proud of it.

Current tables include:

Greek or Roman (only the Greek side is being developed rn)

Species (demigods, centaurs, cyclops, humans, nymphs, and saytrs are added but only demigods are being developed atm)

Legacy Generation (50%, 25%, or 12.5% godly blood)

Godly Parent (including big 3, Olympians, and 52 minor gods)

How strongly Lamia's curse would affect you

Whether you'd stay at camp year round (photo above)

What your aura would be (example: Nico has an aura of death)

Planned tables include:

Powers (or traits, if applicable) and their strength

Items/Weapons and your ability

Things you do at camp

Relationship with cabins/factions at camp

Your later life

And to use it, you'd sort of have to follow a "If you got A, go to B" sort of map.

The only real issue with the process is that I'm not sure how I would actually dish out the probabilities.

The most likely scenario is that I use a random number generator ex: 1-7 is [option X] 8-12 is [option Y] 13-15 is [option Z]

I'd love to use a spinning pie chart wheel, but there are no websites that offer their services at this scale for free.

And I don't know how to code.

Anyway, if you read this far, would you use this? And do you have suggestions?